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[160]

Chapter 9:

Journal.

April 22.—We drove to Melrose, ‘fair Melrose,’ . . . . took horses and went on to Abbotsford. My feelings were hardly more changed on approaching it, from what they were when I approached it nineteen years ago, than was the place itself. We had been reading on our journey the last sad volume of Lockhart's Life, with the account of Scott's pecuniary troubles, and their tragical result. The first glimpse of Abbotsford made us feel that we knew their cause; we put our feet in its court-yard, and were sure of it. . . . .

The house is grown very large. It is somewhat fantastic in its forms and appearance, but still from several points produces a good effect. The grounds immediately adjacent to it are pretty, and the garden, with its conservatories, is such as should belong only to a large and free fortune, one much larger than Scott's was. The inscription in it struck me as beautiful and happy, though I believe it would be difficult to find the very words in the Vulgate, or elsewhere, —‘Audiebant vocem Domini ambulantis in Horto.’ But it is one of those ‘accommodations’ which are very characteristic of Scott.

We went, of course, all over the house, seeing things most of which it was painful to look upon . . . . . But there was not much else [except some pictures] to recall the cottage which I visited in 1819 so happily, and, indeed, it was not without a good deal of difficulty that I found the room in which I was lodged, now neglected and given up to mean uses, but then one of the best in the house. It is all a pity. The house was then well suited to his fortune, and is now only the monument of his ruin . . . . . In a niche [in the library] where he himself had placed a cast of Shakespeare's head, there now stands the bust of himself by Chantrey, idealized, no doubt, and with more of [161] smooth symmetry than belonged to his head at any period, but a beautiful work of art and an admirable likeness. It will be the type of his head with posterity, because the one that will best answer to the claims of his genius and his works . . . .

Already what relates to Scott himself is more curious than all he collected relating to others, however famous and distinguished. Since 1832, from fifteen hundred to eighteen hundred persons have come yearly to visit his home, and the pilgrimage will not cease while the stones he piled up remain one upon another, and the English continues a living tongue. But it is now, and must long remain, a sad and sorrowful place. . . ‘Follies of the wise’ are inscribed on all its parts, in letters posterity will not forget, even if they learn nothing by the lesson that was so bitter to him that teaches it.

April 23.—We left Scott's peculiar country, the Tweed side, this morning for Edinburgh. But the road we travelled was up the Gala-water, and was his road, the road by which he habitually went to Edinburgh. . . . . At Fushie Bridge we had a little talk with the veritable Meg Dods, of ‘St. Ronan's Well,’ a personage well worthy of her reputation. Her real name is Mistress Wilson. . . . . We arrived at Edinburgh about noon . . . .

I was desirous to see Napier, the editor of the ‘Edinburgh Review,’ in order to do what I could to have ‘Ferdinand and Isabella’ noticed in that journal, and therefore I sent my letters to him at once . . . . I received immediately an extremely civil note in reply, saying that he wished to see me; and being unwell, and unable to go out, begged me to call on him in the evening. I went, of course.

On reaching his door, I was a little disconcerted to find that he lives in what Scott so mournfully calls ‘poor 39,’ the very house in which I had passed so many pleasant hours with Scott in 1819. . . . . I was received up stairs in Mrs. Scott's drawing-rooms, fitted up for a bachelor and man of letters, but lighted as if to receive a party,—a fancy in which, I believe, Napier indulges himself every night. He is thin and pale and nervous, and I am told, what between his Law Professorship in the University, and the labor of editing the ‘Edinburgh Review’ and the ‘Encyclopaedia Britannica,’ he is kept feeble and ill nearly the whole time. He received me kindly, with empressement, and came at once to the business, as I wanted him to do; and, before I had been with him half an hour, it was fully agreed that there should be an ‘Edinburgh Review’ of ‘Ferdinand and Isabella’; that Allen should write it, if Napier can persuade him to do so,—which I do not anticipate; that otherwise a review by a [162] young Spaniard, by name Gayangos, which I know Allen will propose, shall be accepted; and, if both these fail, that then the subject shall be given to Dunlop, the author of the ‘History of Fiction,’ who, I suppose, will do it as a sort of hack work, but of whom Napier feels sure. I was glad, however, to have it settled, for the book deserves all that any of its author's friends can do for it. Napier said it had been sent to him, but that he had not looked at it, and knew nothing about it; so that the whole of his kindly promptness was owing to the letters I brought him, which, to be sure, would carry as much weight with them as any in the Three Kingdoms.1 . . . .

I asked Napier about Lockhart's Scott. He says he cannot review it, partly because Lockhart is editor of the ‘Quarterly,’ and partly because of the connections of the work on all sides in Edinburgh; but that it is full of prejudices and errors; that many persons in Scotland are much offended by it, the children and friends of the Ballantynes most justly so, etc.: much of which is no doubt true, and some is prejudice on Napier's part.

April 25.—I went to see my old friend Mrs. Grant.2 I found her in comfortable quarters, and cheerful; . . . . but from age and its infirmities she is a fixture, unable to leave her chair without help. But she was as cheerful as she used to be, when she was twenty years younger, and had her children about her, of whom John only remains . . . . I was especially struck with the fresh admiration she expressed for Scott's memory . . . . . She is certainly a remarkable person.

I dined with Napier. It is not quite agreeable to go thus to ‘poor 39,’ and find it so altered; and when I was up stairs before dinner, I really felt more awkwardly and sad than I should have thought possible . . . . But there were pleasant people there; my old friend Thos. Thomson, grown a Benedict, but full of pleasant antiquarian and literary talk; Bell, the Professor of Civil Law; and Sir William Hamilton,3 the man of all knowledge and all learning. We talked about everything; among the rest of phrenology, which they treated with little ceremony, and spoke slightingly of Combe. Animal magnetism, [163] too, I find, is beginning to make a noise here, as it does in London, but finds less favor. Brougham was much discussed; and it was plain he has great authority in the ‘Edinburgh Review’ because he writes so much and so well for it, and not because they have a great respect for him or his opinions. Napier avowed openly, that he tried very hard to get him to strike out the passage in a recent number abusing Lord Melbourne, but could not succeed, and did not seem to be aware that he ought then to have refused the article.

April 26.—We had a visit early from Lord Fullerton, who offered again to go with us about the town; but I know it so well from my former long visit, that I did not think it quite right to bore him to such an extent; and so, taking a few directions from him, we sallied forth again . . . .

We dined at Lord Fullerton's, where we met Thomson and his wife, Graham, Sir William and Lady Hamilton, Wilson, and two or three others. Lord Fullerton's wife is a beautiful woman, and so is his eldest daughter; and the dinner was pleasant. The person I was most curious about was Wilson, the successor of Dugald Stewart, and the editor of ‘Blackwood.’ He answered much to the idea given of him among the roisterers of the ‘Noctes Ambrosianae.’ He is a stout, coarse, red-faced person, with a great deal of red, bushy hair flying about his face and shoulders, taking snuff freely, and careless in his dress, talking brilliantly, sometimes petulantly, and once or twice savagely. He is a strange person. He talks of coming to the United States. . . . . Boat-building has been a passion with him, and when he lived near Bowness, he practised it a good deal.4 . . .

April 27.—We drove out this morning to see my old friend Mrs. Fletcher, around whom, in the early days of the ‘Edinburgh Review,’ Brougham, Jeffrey, and all that clique were gathered, and whose talents still command their admiration and regard. She is living with her daughter, the author of ‘Concealment,’ at the little village of Duncliffe. . . . . She received us very kindly, and talked most agreeably, so agreeably that we should have been very glad to accept more of her hospitality, if our time would have permitted. . . .

We had a visit from the Fullertons, and dined at Sir Charles Bell's, the well-known surgeon, and author of one of the Bridgewater Treatises. Lady Bell is quite a delightful person, and must once have been beautiful, for she is still fine-looking; and Sir Charles, though beginning to grow old, is fresh, perfectly preserved, and abounding in pleasant knowledge and accomplishment. Sir William [164] and Lady Hamilton were there; Mrs. McNeill, wife of the British Ambassador to Persia, whom I knew in London and Vienna; and Wilson, who is her brother, and two or three others. I think it was very like a dinner at home. Certainly it was very agreeable; but we stayed much later than we should have done in America, for it is the way here, and was so twenty years ago.

April 28.—Our friend Mrs. Alison,5 . . . . whom we have seen frequently since we have been in Edinburgh, invited us to go with her this forenoon to see Mrs. Dugald Stewart, who lives quite retired near Leith. We found her much broken, but still as lady-like and gentle as ever, and with one of those beautiful faces of old age whose beauty consists in their moral expression. Her very intelligent and excellent daughter devotes herself wholly to her.

We dined with the Rev. Mr. Ramsay6 and Mrs. Ramsay; the latter being our old Boston acquaintance, Miss Cochrane. Mr. Sinclair and Mr. Territ, the two preachers in the old church that was Dr. Alison's and Dr. Morehead's, . . . . were of the party; Miss Sinclair, the daughter of the famous Sir John, and herself an authoress,7 Mr. Forbes, brother of the late Sir William, and one or two others, were there.

Forbes is an intelligent, spirited, accomplished gentleman, upon whom much reliance is placed that the Edinburgh monument to Sir Walter Scott shall be what it ought to be; but the rest were a sort of Tory and high Orthodox clique, whose talk was corresponding to their principles.

Mr. Ramsay is a quiet, hard-working clergyman of the principal Episcopal church in Edinburgh; and his wife is a truly kind, excellent, lady-like person.

April 29.—. . . . It was our last day in Edinburgh, and we gave it to the Alisons, who had invited us for any day we could reserve for them. The party was small, but very agreeable,—Sir Charles and Lady Bell, Professor Wilson, Sir W. Hamilton, young Mr. Gregory, brother of Mrs. Alison and son of the famous Professor Gregory. Miss Alison, daughter of the old Dr. Alison,—a very uncommon and striking person, who devotes herself wholly to her father,—came in after dinner. We all stayed late, even for Edinburgh; and Sir William Hamilton came home with us, and bade us farewell in the kindest manner, on our doorsteps.


[165]

After an excursion as far north as the season allowed, and a visit of one night at Carstairs, on the Clyde, the handsome establishment of Mr. Monteith, the party arrived on the 5th of May at Dumfries, and went the next day to Terregles, the old seat of the Maxwells and Earls of Nithsdale. Here they were expected by Mr.Maxwell and Mrs. Marmaduke Maxwell, old acquaintances of the party at Wighill Park in 1835.

It is one of those ample estates with a large, hospitable, luxurious house upon it, such as abound through the whole island. Its present possessor is Marmaduke Constable Maxwell, and the estate has belonged for four centuries and more to his ancestors, the great Maxwell family, which rose on the fall of the Douglases, and for a long time was the most powerful family in all the South of Scotland. . .—. For a long period they were the proud Earls of Nithsdale, a title which was forfeited, . . . . for adherence to the Stuarts, in 1716. For the last century they have been simply the retired, rich old Catholic family of the Maxwells. When we arrived the brothers8 were at service in their own chapel, and Mrs. Maxwell, who is a Protestant, received us. She is little altered by her change of name and position, and must always be gentle and lady-like.

The brothers came soon afterwards,—honest, frank, intelligent men, just in the prime of life,—and with them was Mr. Weld, another rich Catholic, somewhat older, and brother of the late Cardinal Weld. . . . . Nobody else was in the house but Mr. Reed, a Catholic priest. . . . . After a little refreshment we walked out on the lawn and round the park and some of the grounds. The old trees, full of rooks, were witness to the antiquity of the family, while the nice, new stone cottages, which are necessarily rented at a rate that barely pays for their repairs, bore no less witness to the kindliness of its present head.

The dinner was in the French style, and very luxurious; after which the brothers, who hold Sunday to be a jour de fete, and are very fond of music, played on a fine organ, and sang glees and airs. . . .

May 7.—The first thing this morning, after a luxurious Scotch breakfast, they showed us some of the curiosities of their ancient house. The most interesting, if not the most remarkable, was the cloak with which the last Countess of Nithsdale, in 1715, disguised her husband, and freed him from the Tower. . . . . I inquired about this extraordinary woman, and find they have a good many memorials [166] and letters of hers, besides the delightful one that records the story of her lord's escape.

The other very curious relic they showed us was a prayer-book belonging to Mary Queen of Scots. The family were at all times her faithful adherents, and just before she left Scotland to put herself under the protection of Elizabeth,—which the Maxwells most strenuously resisted,—she stayed a night with them, and in the morning, when she went away, left this prayer-book as a keepsake.

Having shown us these and other curiosities, Mrs. Maxwell proposed to take us to their great memorial, the ruins of Carlaverock Castle, the scene of their family's ancient splendor, and not only so, but the scene of Allan Cunningham's Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, and the Ellangowan Castle, of Scott's ‘Guy Mannering.’ We gladly consented, and, driving through Dumfries, went down through a fine country, to the point where the Nith joins the Solway. There we found these grand ruins, standing in the solitude of their neglected old age. The first castle, which was destroyed by fire in the year 1300, has left few or no proper remains; the present widespread ruins belong to the castle that was built immediately afterwards, and which was maintained till it was taken by Cromwell, who could not prevail on the Earl of Nithsdale to surrender, though reduced to great extremity, until he had the written orders of the King to that effect. . . . . The ruins are finely situated, extensive, and picturesque, and were shown to us by an old warder,—maintained there by the Maxwells,—now eighty-three years old, who kept a school in the village fifty-three years, and who, in showing them, repeated long passages from Grose, . . . . besides fragments from Burns, and snatches of old poetry in honor of the castle and the family. . . . .

On the 8th of May, arriving at Keswick:—

Southey received us as usual, in his nice and somewhat peculiar library, but seemed more sad, and abstracted even, than he did when we last saw him. One of his daughters only was at home, Bertha, a very pleasing person; and there was, besides, Mrs. Lovell, the sister of his late wife, and a Polish Count, a very intelligent man, who seemed to have travelled everywhere . . . . I talked chiefly with Southey himself, who seemed to like to be apart from those around him, and to talk in a very low, gentle tone of voice. He showed me a curious letter from Brougham, soon after he became Chancellor, asking Southey's advice about encouraging literature by rewards to men of letters; and his answer, saying that all he thought desirable was [167] a proper copyright law. He showed me, too, some curious books, in which he takes great delight, and with which he has filled his modest house, the bedchambers, staircases, and all. But his interest in all things seems much diminished, and I left him with sad feelings. . . . .

May 9.—. . . . We were expected at Wordsworth's, and were most heartily welcomed, with real frank kindness, as old friends. It was nearly their dinner-time, . . . . and we took the meal with them. It was simple as possible, . . . . and the servants took our places when we left them, and dined directly after us. Afterwards we walked an hour . . . . on the terrace, and through the little grounds, while Mr. Wordsworth explained the scenery about us, and repeated passages of his poetry relating to it. Mrs. Wordsworth asked me to talk to him about finishing the Excursion, or the Recluse; saying, that she could not bear to have him occupied constantly in writing sonnets and other trifles, while this great work lay by him untouched, but that she had ceased to urge him on the subject, because she had done it so much in vain. I asked him about it, therefore. He said that the Introduction, which is a sort of autobiography, is completed. This I knew, for he read me large portions of it twenty years ago. The rest is divided into three parts, the first of which is partly written in fragments, which Mr. Wordsworth says would be useless and unintelligible in other hands than his own; the second is the Excursion; and the third is untouched. On my asking him why he does not finish it, he turned to me very decidedly, and said, ‘Why did not Gray finish the long poem he began on a similar subject? Because he found he had undertaken something beyond his powers to accomplish. And that is my case.’ We controverted his position, of course, but I am not certain the event will not prove that he has acted upon his belief. At any rate, I have no hope it will ever be completed, though after his death the world will no doubt have much more than it now possesses.

We remained two or three hours with him in this sort of talk, and recollections of our meetings, . . . . and then took a cheerful leave of him and Mrs. Wordsworth, feeling that we left true friends behind us, even if we never see them again.

After passing a day or two at the Dales', near Manchester, where they were most kindly invited by Mr.Greg and Mrs. W. R. Greg, whose acquaintance they had made in Rome, Mr.Ticknor and Mrs. Ticknor went on to Oxford. [168]

May 15.—We walked about in a beautiful morning among the exquisite gardens and the grand old colleges with which the town is filled. . . . . It is such a pleasure as is afforded by no place I have ever visited, except Oxford.

When we came home, I found a note from Buckland, saying he was attending a meeting of the Oxford Gas Company, and inviting me to his lecture at two o'clock. So a little before two I went to his lecture-room. There I found the active and energetic little gentleman, in a short jacket, very busy in nailing up maps, plans, and engravings, and in arranging all sorts of specimens to illustrate his subject. He seemed very glad to see me, and talked as hurriedly as ever till his class came in, which consisted of about thirty-five good-looking young men, several of whom wore the nobleman's gown and cap. His subject was the stratification of rocks, and his manner was quite easy and businesslike . . . . In the course of the lecture he took occasion to compliment Hitchcock, and Eaton, another American geologist . . . .

As soon as he could leave the room, he was hurried away to preside at a meeting held to organize a society for encouraging the cultivation of bees, for he is the centre of all movement and activity at Oxford. He asked me to go with him, and I soon found myself in the midst of a collection of masters of colleges and their wives, . . . . and many of the principal persons at Oxford, assembled by the zeal of one of the Fellows of Christ Church,—Cotton,9—a man of fortune, who hopes to do much good by persuading the cottagers of the country about to cultivate bees. Buckland made it all very amusing, . . . . and everything was done that Mr. Cotton desired. It was now late. Buckland asked me to go home and dine with him, but I was very tired, . . . . and came back to the comfort and quiet of our excellent inn . . . .

May 16.—I breakfasted with Dr. Buckland, and met Dr. Duncan, one of the principal persons at the meeting yesterday; Cotton; Peters, the principal person in Merton College; the Marquis of Kildare; Marryat, a dandy brother of the traveller; and one or two others. We had a lively time of it for a couple of hours. and Buckland finally commended me to Cotton and Peters, saying he had made the breakfast in order to bring me acquainted with those persons who would be most likely to be agreeable and useful to me in Oxford.

Cotton went with me at once to the Bodleian, where I wished to make some researches and inquiries, and where he is himself employed on a manuscript of St. Chrysostom, and presented me to Dr. Bandinel, [169] the principal librarian. I was struck with the name, and found he is of an Italian stock, and claims to be descended from Bandinelli, the Italian novelliere. At any rate, he is a pleasant, kindly person, and has more bibliographical knowledge than anybody I have met with in England, except Hallam . . . . I was curious for old Spanish books, but the Bodleian, vast as it is, and even with Douce's rare collection added to it, making in all nearly half a million volumes, is yet miserably deficient in Spanish literature. . . . . I was much disappointed, for I thought I should have found a great deal in odd corners; but Bandinel evidently had the whole collection by heart, just as Von Praet used to have the Royal Library at Paris, and he could find nothing really rare or valuable.

I went afterwards with Cotton to Peters at Merton, and went over his fine old College, with its curious and strange library, where some of the books are still chained, and the arrangement is much the same as in the Laurentian at Florence, both belonging to nearly the same period. May 17.—I breakfasted this morning with Cotton, in his nice suite of rooms in Christ Church, and met there Peters, Bunsen,—son of my old friend, the Prussian Minister, who is here preparing himself for the English Church,—and two or three others. It was a favorable and agreeable specimen of the University life, something too luxurious, perhaps, but still it was plain there was a good deal of learning and literary taste among them. At two o'clock I went again to Buckland's lecture . . . . . In the course of his remarks, he said America could never be a manufacturing country without coal in great quantities. After he had finished, I told him we depended on water-power, of which we had great abundance. He said he thought that would not be sufficient, as it was frozen up five months in the year. I set him right about this also. He seemed surprised, but took it all well, better than most professional men would have done. I dined with him, and met a brother of Denison, a man of fortune, who lives at Shotover,—Milton's Shotover,—Dr. McBride, Dr. Hawkins, and some others of the masters of colleges, and Dr. Bandinel. It was a genuinely academic dinner, and things had much less the air of the world than they had at Cambridge, compared with which, no doubt, Oxford is a very monastic place. But it was pleasant and good-natured. Their talk was of books and geology, of the church, and such things. May 18.—Cotton invited the ladies to breakfast with him this morning, and invited two or three persons to meet them, among the rest a [170] Mr. Ruskin, who has one of the most beautiful collections of sketches, made by himself, from nature, on the Continent, I have ever seen. The whole affair was tasteful and pleasant, and very luxurious for cloisters, certainly. . . . .

Althorp, May 19.—The approach to Althorp is through a fine, rich, and broken country, and the moment we had passed the porter's lodge we felt the quietness and comfortable repose that come over one in these rich, aristocratic establishments. The grounds of the park are uneven and beautiful in their variety, and such rich clumps and copses of venerable oak I do not remember to have seen elsewhere. The house is large, but not remarkable; but the moment we entered it we recognized the superb staircase that figures in Dibdin. . . . . Lord Spencer had gone to Northampton to attend a meeting of the justices, which the best of the nobility are anxious never to miss. I asked if anybody was stopping in the house, and was glad to hear there was not, but that Mr. Appleyard, the last Earl's librarian, and who knows the library better than anybody else alive, was expected to-night; a most agreeable attention, as I afterwards found, on the part of Lord Spencer, who had him down from London for the express purpose of showing the rarities to us. We went to our rooms, and, in the peculiar English phrase, ‘made ourselves comfortable’ amidst their manifold luxuries.

Soon afterwards Lord Spencer came home dripping, for it rained hard, and, like a true country gentleman, he was on horseback. He sent his compliments to us, . . . . and when we went down to dinner . . . . we found him as good, frank, and kindly as we had found him at Wentworth, three years ago. The dinner . . . . was made agreeable by his conversation, which was uncommonly free, as if he were not afraid or unwilling to say what he thought about anybody; but his good-nature makes him charitable, and his honesty is proverbial. . . . . Lord Spencer went on with an admirable series of stories and sketches of Pitt, whom he knew much in his early manhood, when his father was Pitt's first Lord of the Admiralty; of Sheridan, who was associated with his own earlier friends; and of Brougham, from whom he has now separated himself, but who was long his very intimate companion, if not friend.

Pitt he described as more successful and less good-natured in conversation than I had supposed him, and particularly as liking to make some one in his company his butt, in a way that was neither consistent with good taste nor very good manners; but which he said made him, as a boy, delight to be in Pitt's society. [171]

Sheridan he undervalued, I think, and especially placed his conversation quite low; and Brougham he thought, since he became Chancellor, had been misconducting nearly the whole time. He said that within his own knowledge it had been determined, when Lord Melbourne took office the second time, that Brougham should be left out, on the ground that he would do more injury to the administration as a member of it, than as an opponent; that Brougham, however, persisted in believing that he had been rejected by the King personally; that he —Lord Spencer—had tried to undeceive him twice, but that Brougham would not be approached on the subject, and that when the Queen came in and he could no longer doubt why he was excluded from the Ministry, he took the unprincipled and violent course he has pursued ever since. Lord Spencer looks upon him as politically ruined. He talked, too, a good deal about himself, and explained the circumstances under which he took office with Lord Grey, and how he carried it as leader of the House of Commons, without being able to make a speech. It was all very curious and interesting; for, though he does not talk fluently or gracefully, he is full of facts, from an experience and familiarity with whatever has been most distinguished in affairs or society for the last thirty-five years, and his fairness and honesty are so sure that you can trust implicitly to his statements. We sat, therefore, late with him, and went to bed reluctantly.

May 20.—We walked to church, about a mile through the park. . . . . Lord Spencer told me that his family was originally from Warwickshire, where they still possess estates, and that they removed to Althorp in the time of Henry VII . . . . It is the fashion, he added, to hold only by annual leases in this part of the country, but there are several families on the estate who have been there by annual renewals of their rent-holds from the time when the Spencers first came here; a fact very remarkable in itself, and very creditable to both parties . . . . . .

When we had lunched, Mr. Appleyard and Lord Spencer began in earnest to show us the library, and taking us to the beautiful room built by the late Earl, and called the Poet's Library, where the most splendid books are collected, they took down successively some of the most magnificent works of art, of the sort, that I ever beheld. Among them were the original drawings for the Magna Charta, that was published some years since; those for the coronation of George IV.; and the outlines of Flaxman for Aeschylus, interleaved in a beautiful copy of the original, and presented to the late Countess Spencer by Flaxman, with a manuscript inscription. The large paper copies of books in this [172] room are extraordinary, both for their beauty and number, especially the folios; and the binding of all the books, without being showy, is as rich and solid as money could make it. . . . . In the Long Library is a cabinet containing the Historical Plays of Shakespeare, illustrated by Lady Lucan, Lord Spencer's grandmother. I looked there among the early Italian and English books, where almost nothing was wanting that could be asked after or thought of.

The whole number of volumes in the library is about 110,000, no doubt the finest private library in the world, and all collected by the late Earl. The collection of rarities is said to have cost above £ 200,000. And so the present Earl finds it expedient to economize, which he does very cheerfully. . . . . He refused to let his father retrench, saying that he would do all that was necessary to restore the estate, which, to be sure, is not much encumbered. . . . . In the saloon, after dinner, we had a succession of curious things brought to us from the library, sketches by the old masters, illuminated books, etc., which occupied us till nine o'clock, . . . . when Lord Spencer read prayers in the dining-hall to the whole family. It was a very solemn scene, and became well the man and his position in society.

May 21.—Immediately after prayers and breakfast Lord Spencer invited us to take a walk and see the place. We went first to the village, . . . . afterwards to the church, which can be traced back to the fourteenth century, which, with its graveyard, is a picturesque object on all sides. In one of the chapels, or chancels, the Spencers lie buried, from soon after 1500 to the last Earl and Countess.

The park is the same John Evelyn describes, and different monuments in it, from 1567, show when different woods, still subsisting, were planted, and by whom . . . . . It is, too, the scene of Ben Jonson's beautiful masque ‘The Satyr,’ which was performed amidst its shrubbery when the Queen and son of James I. were entertained here on their way to London in 1603.

Indeed, Althorp has always been poetic ground; . . . . but, as Gibbon says, the brightest jewel in the coronet of the Spencers is the Faery Queen . . . . . Our walk, which did not seem long, Lord Spencer told us had extended above five miles.

When we were rested we went to look at the pictures . . . . .We had been constantly seeing in the dining-hall, saloon, and library, works of art, such as the famous Rembrandt's Mother, the fragment of a cartoon by Raffaelle on the murder of the Innocents, two or three portraits by Titian, etc., . . . . a collection of perhaps an hundred pictures [173] in all, that place it among the best in England. But we went now to see the family portraits on the grand staircase and gallery, a crowd of Vandykes, Sir Peter Lelys, and Sir Joshuas, with now and then a Holbein, and one Pompeo Battoni. . . .

We lunched, and then Lord Spencer gave us over to the librarian to show us the rarities of the library, the incunabula, the unique copies, and the other curiosities for which the late Earl spent such incredible sums of money. . . . . . The series to illustrate the earliest history of printing down to the first book printed with a date—the Psalter of 1457—is, I suppose, the most complete in the world, certainly the most complete I have ever seen.

Afterwards there is only an embarras de richesses, but I occupied myself chiefly with the earliest specimens of the English press, and especially the English poets, where, again, nothing seemed wanting. Of course we stared at the famous Valdarfer Boccaccio, 1471, which was sold, in 1812, at the Roxburgh auction, for £ 2,260, and which was sold again in 1819, at the sale of the Duke of Marlborough's—Marquis of Blandford's White Knight's—library, for £ 918.16; both prices, I suppose, unexampled in their absurdity. Lord Spencer told me two odd facts about it: that Lord Blandford was not worth a sou when he bought it, and yet had given orders to go up to £ 5,000 for it, and was obliged to leave it in the auctioneer's hands above a year, before he could raise the money to pay for it; and that the last purchaser was Longman, against whom Lord Spencer, when he found out who his competitor was, would not bid, because he thought it was improper for his own bookseller to run him up, and of whom he would not afterwards buy it at any advance, because he would not suffer him to profit by his interference. The book is certainly a great curiosity, but it is made so chiefly by the folly of those who have owned it and those who have written about it.

We had a most pleasant dinner and evening, Lord Spencer telling us a great many anecdotes of Lord Brougham, illustrating the inconsistency and unprincipledness of his course since he ceased to be Lord Chancellor . . . . . I was sorry to break off such talk and go to bed, for it was the last evening we could give to Althorp, where we certainly have been most kindly received, and where we have enjoyed a great deal. But, as Sancho says, ‘there is an end to everything but death.’


On this Sunday passed at Althorp, Mr. Ticknor wrote the following letter:— [174]

To Miss Maria Edgeworth, Edgeworthtown.

Althorp Park, Northampton, May 20, 1838.
my dear Miss Edgeworth,—It is seldom the lot of a letter to give so much pleasure and so much pain as did the one we have quite lately received from you,—so much pleasure from the kindness it expresses toward us and our children, in the renewal of your invitation to Ireland, and the words in which you renew it,—so much pain because we cannot accept it.10 It is truly a grief to us; and I do not feel sure you had a right to make it so heavy; and yet I would not, for much, part with one of the kind phrases that constitute its weight. The fact is, we have talked a great deal about another visit to Ireland, which with us is another name for Edgeworthtown. When we first had the happiness of seeing you, we felt pretty sure of it; for we thought then we should remain four years in Europe. But of late we have changed our purpose. Mrs. Ticknor, for whose health I came abroad, has long been quite well and strong. My eldest daughter, who is now fifteen, needs to be at home, where she is destined to live, and cannot have what the French call une existence complete any longer in lands of strangers. The youngest cannot be anything but a plaything while she is all the time in hotels, and at five she must begin to be something more serious. And I feel, myself, that I have duties to perform which are not on this side the great waters. So we are going home. I will not even disguise from you that some of us are very anxious to do so, and even a little homesick withal. But still we leave many things, many friends behind us to regret, and when I say that there is not, among them all, anything we shall more regret than not being able to make you another visit at Edgeworthtown, I shall only repeat what was our first remark at Rome when we began to talk of shortening our absence, and what we have repeated [175] a great many times when we have spoken of it since. We shall think of you much when we pass the bright coasts of your island in June; we shall think of you still more when we are amidst our own home, and always with great pleasure and much gratitude. . . .

In Scotland we saw the Alisons often, and it brought us near to you; for you may remember that it was under your hospitable roof we made their agreeable acquaintance. We saw, too, Abbotsford, which is still more intimately associated with you in our minds. But I cannot tell you how sad a place it is, so deserted, so cold, so full of heart-rending recollections and memorials. We did not feel half so bad when we stood by its master's grave at Dryburgh. Indeed, I almost wish it were burnt up, or destroyed in some way, for it is a monument of the weakest part of Sir Walter's character; that love of a magnificence beyond his means, which, by causing his pecuniary embarrassments, caused his premature death. It is altogether a most painful, melancholy place. The very air seemed oppressive as we went through it. . . . .

And now, farewell. I do not despair of seeing you in the course of this world's chances and changes yet once more, for there is a greater chance that I shall be in Europe three times now, than there was originally that I should come once. So, I still say au revoir.

Yours faithfully and affectionately,


Reaching London on the 22d of May, Mr. Ticknor was again plunged, for two weeks, into the excitements of ‘the season.’ On the day after his arrival he received and paid some visits, and thus describes Lord Brougham:—

He has gained a good deal of flesh since I knew him in 1818-19, and is even improved in that particular since I saw him at York three years ago. But in other respects I do not think he is changed for the better. He showed a very disagreeable disposition when he spoke of Jeffrey and Empson . . . . . It was really ungentlemanlike and coarse to speak as he did, of two persons who were formerly his associates, and are still, in all respects of general intercourse, his equals. What struck me most, however, was his marvellous memory. He remembered where I lodged in London in 1819, on what occasions he came to see me, and some circumstances about my attendance on the committee of the House of Commons on Education; which I had myself forgotten, till he recalled them to me. Such a memory, [176] for such mere trifles, seems almost incredible. But Niebuhr had it; so had Scott, and so has Humboldt; four examples—including Brougham—which are remarkable enough. I doubt not that much of the success of each depended on this extraordinary memory, which holds everything in its grasp. I dined with the Geological Club, and afterwards attended a meeting of the Geological Society . . . . We sat down to table nearly thirty strong; Whewell of Cambridge, the President of the Society, in the chair, and Stokes, the witty lawyer, as its Vice-President. Among the persons present were Sedgwick and Buckland, Murchison, Lord Cole, Mr. Ponsonby, the Marquess of Northampton, Babbage, Hallam, and especially Sir John Herschel, just returned from the Cape of Good Hope, and decidedly at this moment the lion of London. I sat between Sir John and Babbage, and had an excellent time. Sir John is a small man, and, I should think, a little more than fifty years old, and growing gray; very quiet and unpretending in his manner, and though at first seeming cold, getting easily interested in whatever is going forward. . . . At half past 8 we adjourned in mass, after a very lively talk, from the tavern, which was the well-known ‘Crown and Anchor,’ in the Strand, to the Geological Rooms at Somerset House. . . . . Sedgwick read a synopsis of the stratified rocks of Great Britain; an excellent, good-humored extemporaneous discussion followed, managed with much spirit by Greenough, the first President, and founder of the Society; Murchison; Lyell, the well-known author; Stokes; Buckland; and Phillips of York. . . . . May 24.—Dined at Holland House, with Lady Fitzpatrick, Mr. Akerley,—who has done such good service as chairman of the committee on the Poor-Laws,—Lord Shelburne, Sir James Kempt,— who is thankful to be no longer Governor-General of Canada,— Lord John Russell, Allen, and two others. It was a pleasure to dine in that grand old Gilt Room, with its two ancient, deep fireplaces, and to hear Lord Holland's genial talk, for I cannot help agreeing with Scott, that he is the most agreeable man I have ever known. The reason, I apprehend, is, that to the great resources of his knowledge he adds a laissez-aller, arising from his remarkable good-nature, which is quite irresistible. We passed the evening in the great library, Addison's picture-gallery, one of the most luxurious and agreeable spots in the world. I talked a good deal with Sir J. Kempt about the Canadas, which he seems to regard much as we do in the United States, and condemns—as Lord Holland did plainly— [177] the whole course of Sir Francis Head, as far as the United States are concerned. He had intended to ask Head to dine to-day, and as I expressed a good deal of regret that I had not seen him, he said he would invite him soon, and let me know when he would come; but seemed a little surprised that I should be pleased to meet one who had just been abusing my country so thoroughly, confessing, at last, that he had omitted him to-day, thinking I might be unwilling to meet him.

Lady Holland, I really think, made an effort to be agreeable, and she certainly has power to be so when she chooses; but I think I could never like her.

May 25.—Began the morning with a long and most agreeable visit from Sedgwick of Cambridge, one of those visits which are only made in England, I think, and there only when people take some liking to one another. . . . . Few men, anywhere, are so bright and active-minded as this most popular of the English professors.

Afterwards I went by appointment to see old Mr. Thomas Grenville, elder brother of the late Lord Grenville, and uncle of the present Duke of Buckingham. He was one of the negotiators of our treaty of 1783, and was first Lord of the Admiralty; but retired from affairs many years ago, on the ground that he preferred quietness and literary occupation to anything else. A few years ago he declined an addition of £ 10,000 a year to his large fortune, saying he had enough, and that he preferred ‘it should go on’—as he expressed it—to the next generation that would be entitled.

He is now nearly eighty-four years old, and lives in that old, aristocratic quarter, St. James's Square, next to Stafford House. He is admirably preserved for his age, and took apparent pleasure in showing me his library, about which Lord Spencer had written to him, asking him to show it to me.

It consists of twenty-two thousand volumes; but what is remarkable about it is, that not only is every book in rich, solid, tasteful binding, but it may almost be said that every book is in some way or other a rarity, if not by the small number of copies known to exist of it, at least by something peculiar in some other way. Such beautiful miniatures I never saw before in books, as in two or three that he showed me; and in individual cases, for instance Milton and Cervantes, his collection of the original editions is absolutely complete, which I have never seen elsewhere. Of course it is not to be compared to the library at Althorp, though even there it would frequently fill gaps; but take it altogether,—the library, its owner, and [178] his house,—it is one of the most perfect, consistent, and satisfactory things I have ever seen. . . .

May 26.—. . . . To Mortimer House to dine with Lord Fitzwilliam. Besides the family, there was the Bishop of Hereford,—Musgrave,— the Bishop of Durham,—Maltby,—Sedgwick, Lord and Lady Radnor, and Miss Bouverie,—their pretty daughter,—Lord Brougham, and Dr. Birkbeck, the father of Mechanics' Institutes and popular lecturing. He is a nice, round, warm old gentleman. . . . . Sedgwick was eminently agreeable, as he always is; and Brougham was violent and outrageous, extremely rude and offensive to Maltby and Sedgwick, but very civil to Lady Charlotte and Lady Radnor. I never saw anybody so rude in respectable society in my life. Some laughed, some looked sober about it, but all thought it was outrageous. Sedgwick was the only person who rebuked him, and he did it in a manner rather too measured and moderate for my taste . . .

About eleven o'clock we got away from Lord Fitzwilliam's and went to Mr. Babbage's, who, at this season, gives three or four routs on successive weeks. It was very crowded to-night, and very brilliant; for among the people there were Hallam, Milman and his pretty wife; the Bishop of Norwich,—Stanley,—the Bishop of Hereford, —Musgrave,—both the Hellenists; Rogers, Sir J. Herschel and his beautiful wife, Sedgwick, Mrs. Somerville and her daughters, Senior, the Taylors, Sir F. Chantrey, Jane Porter, Lady Morgan, and I know not how many others. We seemed really to know as many people as we should in a party at home, which is a rare thing in a strange capital, and rarest of all in this vast overgrown London. Notwithstanding, therefore, our fatiguing day, we enjoyed it very much.

May 27.—To-day being Sunday, we have kept as quiet as we could, refusing invitations. . . . . In the afternoon we had a very long and agreeable visit from Rogers, who showed great sensibility when speaking of his last visit to Scott, which he said he was obliged to shorten in order to keep an appointment with other friends, and then added—as if the thought had just rushed upon him, and filled his eyes with tears,—‘and they too are dead.’ It was some time before he could command himself enough to speak again.

While we were at dinner Senior came in, and stayed with us very agreeably, having come to ask us to dine with them some day before we go; but we have none left.

May 28.—. . . . On our return home we had visits from the Misses Luxmoore11 and their brother, the Dean of St. Asaph, . . . . who [179] have taken a house for a few weeks to enjoy London, and from the pretty Mrs. Milman, whose kind and urgent invitations to dinner we were really sorry to refuse. After they were gone we went to visit Lady Mulgrave, who is just arrived from Ireland . . . . . She is ‘fair, fat, and forty,’ I should think; but she has a certain sort of beauty still, most sweet and winning manners, and a great deal of tact and intelligence. She is fit to be a queen, every inch. Indeed, all these Ravensworths are remarkable people. Scott's visit to them, which he so well describes, shows what a race they are.

May 29.—We are beginning now to be extremely busy, in our labors to finish up this three-years' absence from home, and get our affairs ready for embarkation. . . . .

In the evening I went to a late and very aristocratic dinner at Murchison's, the great geologist and man of fortune, at the west end of the town, who seems to have his house really at the ultra west end, so that I thought I never should get there. The party, however, was worth the trouble, for it was a striking mixture of talent and aristocracy and fashion. The talent might be considered as represented by Sedgwick, Lubbock,—the mathematician, whom I liked a good deal,—Lockhart, and Murchison; and the aristocracy and fashion, by the haggard, dried — up Lady Davy, Sir Charles Dalbiack,—the Commander of the Cavalry,—the Duke and Duchess of Roxburgh,— both young, handsome, and well-bred,—and the Earl of Dartmouth, who renewed an acquaintance I had with him formerly at Rome, and invited me to his place in Staffordshire. It was all quite agreeable. Even Lockhart was softened by the society, and introduced the subject of ‘Ferdinand and Isabella,’ which he would not have done if he had not been very amiable. . . . . He promised, when he should be in the country, to look it over, and if he finds it what he expects to find it, to give it to some person who understands Spanish literature, to make an article about it . . . . . This is a good deal, and it is still more that he was really good-humored about it . . . . . It was a pleasant time with such people, but we did not stay late; and when we left, I took Sedgwick to the Athenaeum, and there bade him farewell with much regret. He goes to Cambridge to-morrow.

May 30.—. . . . A party at Mr. Bates's, entirely American, except Baron Stockmar, a Saxon, formerly confidential secretary to Prince Leopold, now much about the Queen. I had him pretty much to myself, and found him very acute, and full of knowledge. He talks English almost like a native.

May 31.—We breakfasted, by very especial invitation, with Rogers, [180] in order to look over his pictures, curiosities, etc.; and therefore nobody was invited to meet us but Miss Rogers and the Milmans. We had a three-hours' visit of it, from ten till past one, and saw certainly a great amount of curious things; not only the pictures, but drawings, autographs, little antiques; in short, whatever should belong to such a piece of bijouterie and virtu as Rogers himself is. Nor was agreeable conversation wanting, for he is full of anecdotes of his sixty or seventy years experience.

Among other things, he told me that Crabbe was nearly ruined by grief and vexation at the conduct of his wife for above seven years, at the end of which time she proved to be insane. . . . .

We dined with our friends the Edward Villiers', where we always enjoy ourselves, and where we always meet remarkable people. Today there was a Mr. Lewis,12 evidently a very scholar-like person; Sir Edmund Head; Henry Taylor, the poet; and Mr. Stephen,13 the real head of the Colonial Office, an uncommon man, son of Wilberforce's brother-in-law, the author of ‘War in Disguise.’ He is, I apprehend, very orthodox, and, what is better, very conscientious. He told me that his father wrote the ‘Frauds of Neutral Flags’—which so annoyed us Americans, and brought out Mr. Madison in replywholly from the relations of the subject to the slave-trade; his purpose being to resist all attempts on our part, or on the part of any other nation, to stop the English right—or practice—of search, because without that he was persuaded the slave-trade could never be practically and entirely abolished. The present state of things seems to justify his fears, if not his doctrines.

June 1.—. . . . After all, however, I found time to make a visit to Carlyle, and to hear one of his lectures. He is rather a small, spare, ugly Scotchman, with a strong accent, which I should think he takes no pains to mitigate. His manners are plain and simple, but not polished, and his conversation much of the same sort. He is now lecturing for subsistence, to about a hundred persons, who pay him, I believe, two guineas each . . . . . To-day he spoke—as I think he commonly does—without notes, and therefore as nearly extempore as a man can who prepares himself carefully, as it was plain he had done. His course is on Modern Literature, and his subject to-day was that of the eighteenth century; in which he contrasted Johnson and Voltaire very well, and gave a good character of Swift. He was impressive, I think, though such lecturing could not well be very [181] popular; and in some parts, if he were not poetical, he was picturesque. He was nowhere obscure, nor were his sentences artificially constructed, though some of them, no doubt, savored of his peculiar manner.

June 2.—. . . . I dined at Kenyon's, with a literary party: Reed, the author of ‘Italy’; Dyce, the editor of ‘Old Plays,’ whom I was very glad to see; H. N. Coleridge; and especially Talfourd, the author of ‘Ion’; with a few others. Talfourd I was glad to see, but he disappointed me. He is no doubt a poet of genius, within certain limits, and a very hard-working, successful lawyer, but he is a little too fat, red-faced, and coarse in his appearance. . . . . He talks strikingly rather than soundly, defending Cato, for instance, as an admirable, poetical tragedy; and was a little too artificial and too brilliant, both in the structure and phraseology of his sentences and in the general tone of his thoughts . . . . However, we got along very well together, and about eleven o'clock I took him to Babbage's, where there was a grand assembly, lords and bishops in plenty. . . . . The only person to whom I was introduced, that I was curious about, was Bulwer, the novelist; a white-haired, white-whiskered, white-faced fop, all point device, with his flowing curls and his silk-lined coat, and his conversation to match the whole. . . . .

June 3.—We began the day with a breakfast at Miss Rogers's, in her nice house on Regent's Park, which is a sort of imitation—and not a bad one either—of her brother's on St. James's. She has some good pictures, among which is Leslie's Duchess and Sancho, the best thing of his I have seen of late years; and she keeps autographs, curiosities, and objects of virtu, just like her brother. Best of all, she is kind and good-humored, and had invited very pleasant friends to meet us,—Leslie, Babbage, Mackintosh, and her brother, who was extraordinarily agreeable, and made us stay unreasonably late.

We then made some visits P. P. C., and on coming home received many, which we were sorry to receive, because they were intimations that our expected departure would hardly permit us to see these kind friends again . . . . . As soon as they were gone I hurried out to dine at Holland House. It was a larger party than is quite common at that very agreeable round table . . . . . We dined, of course, in the grand Gilt Room, and had at table Mr. Ellice, one of Lord Melbourne's first cabinet, and brother-in-law of Lord Grey; Lady Cowper and her daughter, Lady Fanny,—mater pulchra, filia pulchrior; Lord John Russell, the Atlas of this unhappy administration; . . . . . Lord and Lady Morley; Stanley, of the Treasury; Gayangos,—the [182] Spaniard I was desirous to see, because he is to review Prescott's book; and Sir Francis Head . . . . . It was certainly as agreeable as a party well could be. I took pains to get between Head and Gayangos at dinner, because I wanted to know them both. The Spaniard——about thirty-two years old, and talking English like a native, almost—I found quite pleasant, and full of pleasant knowledge in Spanish and Arabic, and with the kindliest good — will towards ‘Ferdinand and Isabella.’

Sir Francis Head, on the contrary,—a little short man, with quick, decisive motions, and his reddish hair cut very close to his head,—I found somewhat stiff; but the difficulty, as I soon discovered, was, that he did not feel at his ease, knowing that he is out of all favor with the present administration, two or three of the leading members of which were at table. However, Lord Holland's genial good-nature in time thawed all reserve, and before we followed the ladies into the grand old library the conversation was as free as possible. Sir Francis, however, I observed, made his escape early.

The rest of us stayed very late, gossiping and talking over odd books, old Spanish manuscripts, and the awkward state of parties in England. I was sorry to come away, for I shall never be there again; but it was nearly one o'clock when I reached the Brunswick.

June 4.—We breakfasted at Milman's, in his nice, comfortable establishment in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey, with only Mr. and Miss Rogers and Rio,14 a Frenchman learned in what relates to the Middle Ages, and who, from talking English very well, has had good success in London literary society of late. They were all pleasant, Rogers especially so. I was amused, and not sorry, to hear him say that Bulwer, though of a good old family and enjoying a certain degree of popularity, had never been able to establish for himself a place in the best London society. He added, that he himself had never seen him so as to know him, though he supposed he must have met him in large parties; a curious fact, considering Rogers's own universality. He urged us again to dine with him to-morrow, said he would give up dining abroad himself and insure us seats at the opera, to see Taglioni, who appears for the first time; in short, he was exceedingly kind. But it is out of the question. To-morrow is our last day in London. . . . .

June 5.—. . . . We went to breakfast at Kenyon's, where we met Davies Gilbert,—the former President of the Royal Society,—Guillemard, young Southey, and Mr. Andrew Crosse, of Somersetshire, [183] who has made so much noise of late with his crystallized minerals, formed by galvanic action, and especially with the insects that appeared in some experiments with acids and silica. The object of the breakfast was to show these minerals and insects, and they are really very marvellous and curious.

Crosse, too, is worth knowing; a fine, manly, frank fellow, of about fifty years old, full of genius and zeal. It was an interesting morning, but it was ended by a very sad parting; for Kenyon is an old and true friend, and when he stood by the carriage door as we stepped in, we could none of us get out the words we wanted to utter.

Leaving London on the 6th of June, Mr. Ticknor and his family embarked at Portsmouth on the 10th, on board a sailing packet. The first steamer that crossed the Atlantic, the Sirius, made its first voyage from England to the United States that spring; but, when Mr. Ticknor was obliged to decide on the mode of his return, she had not been heard from, and he did not think it wise to risk the safety of his family on such a new experiment.

1 From Lord Holland and Sydney Smith. Lord Jeffrey and John Allen had also written to Mr. Napier on the subject. Don P. de Gayangos wrote the review.

2 See Vol. I. p. 278, and note.

3 The distinguished Professor of Logic and Metaphysics of the University of Edinburgh, author of ‘Discussions in Philosophy, Literature,’ etc.

4 See Vol. I. p. 278, and note.

5 Who had been at Edgeworthtown in 1835.

6 Dean Ramsay, author of ‘Reminiscences of Scottish Life,’ etc.

7 Authoress of ‘Modem Accomplishments,’ ‘Modern Society,’ etc.

8 Mr. Henry Maxwell was staying at Terregles.

9 W. C. Cotton afterwards went to New Zealand with Bishop Selwyn.

10 We give a part of the letter from Miss Edgeworth, to which the above is an answer:

We are very eager, very anxious, to see you again at our own home, retired and homely as it is. You flattered us you were happy here during the two short days you gave us. O, pray! pray! come to us again before you go from our world forever,—at least, from me forever. Consider my age! and Mrs. Mary Sneyd begs you to consider her. I trust you will . . . . . Be pleased, my dear friends, to like or to love us all as much as ever you can, and pray prove to us that you will take as much trouble to come to Edgeworthtown, after having become acquainted with us, as you took when you only knew the authorship part of

Your affectionate friend,


11 To whom Mr.Ticknor and Mrs. Ticknor had made a visit in Wales in 1835.

12 Afterwards Sir George Cornewall Lewis.

13 Afterwards Sir James Stephen.

14 M. A. F. Rio, author of ‘La Poesie Chretienne,’ etc.

Boston, J. R. Osgood and company, 1876.

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