best lines; but I persuaded him to replace it when he came home. It is a mistake in general for him to listen to the suggestions of others about his poems."

All this was long ago, and the finger of memory has left faint tracings for me to follow; but I recall her figure at dinner as she sat in her soft white muslin dress, tied with blue, at that time hardly whiter than her face or bluer than her eyes, and how the boys stood sometimes one on either side of her in their black velvet dresses, like Millais' picture of the princes in the tower, and sometimes helped to serve the guests. By and by we adjourned to another room, where there was a fire and a shining dark table with fruit and wine after her own picturesque fashion, and where later the poet read to us, while she, being always delicate in health, took her accustomed couch. I remember the quaint apartment for the night, on different levels, and the faded tapestry, recalling "the faded mantle and the faded veil," her tender personal care, and her friendly good-night, the silence, the sweetness, and the calm.

She sometimes joined our out-door expeditions, but could not walk with


For years she used a wheeled chair, as Mrs. Ritchie has charmingly described in her truthful and sympathetic sketch of the life at Aldworth. I only associated her with the interior, where her influence was perfect.

The social atmosphere of Farring ford, which depended upon its mistress, was warm and simple. A pleasant company of neighbors and friends was gathered when "Maud" was read aloud to us, a wide group, grateful and appreciative, and one to which he liked

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dusky figure standing by her side, and that is all.

Sometimes she lives confusedly to the world of imagination as the Abbess at Almesbury; and sometimes, as one who knew her has said, she was like the first of the three queens, "the tallest of them all, and fairest," who bore away the body of Arthur. She was no less than these, being a living inspiration at the heart of the poet's every-day life.

It would seem to be upon another visit that we were talking together in the drawing-room about Browning. "We should like to see him oftener," she said, "he is delightful company, but we cannot get him to come here; we are too quiet for him!"

I found food for thought in this little speech when I remembered the fatuous talk at dinner-tables where I had sometimes met Browning, and thought of Tennyson's great talk and the lofty serenity of his lady's pres


My last interview with Lady Tennyson was scarcely two months before Tennyson's death. The great grief of their life in the loss of their son Lionel had fallen upon them meanwhile. They were then at Aldworth, which, although a house of their own building, was far more medieval in appearance than Farringford. She was alone, and still on the couch in the large drawing-room, and there she spoke with the same youth of heart, the same deep tenderness, the same simple affection which had never failed through years of intercourse. When she rose to say farewell and to follow me as far as possible, she stepped with the same spirited sweep I had first seen.

The happiness of welcoming her lovely face, which wore to those who knew her an indescribable heavenliness, is mine no more; but the memory cannot be effaced of one lady who held the traditions of human exist


From "Authors and Friends." By Annie Fields. Houghton, Mifflin & Company, Publishers.



They sent him round the circle fair,
To bow before the prettiest there.
I'm bound to say the choice he made
A creditable taste displayed:
Although-I can't say what it meant-
The little maid looked ill-content.

His task was then anew begun-
To kneel before the wittiest one.
Once more that little maid sought he,
And went him down upon his knee.
She bent her eyes upon the floor-
I think she thought the game a bore.
He circled then-his sweet behest
To kiss the one he loved the best.
For all she frowned, for all she chid,
He kissed that little maid, he did.
And then-though why I can't decide-
The little maid looked satisfied.

Are less than the sick whose smiles come quick

At the touch of my lady's hand.

Her little shoe of satin

Peeps underneath her skirt-
And a foot so small ought never at all
To move in mire and dirt.
But oh! she goes among the poor,

And heavy hearts rejoice

As they can tell who know her well-
To hear my lady's voice.

her glove is soft as feathers

Upon the nestling dove:

Its touch so light I have no right
To think, to dream of love-
But oh! when, claa in simplest garb,
She goes where none may see,

I watch, and pray that some happy day
My lady may pity ME.

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Her silken gown it rustles
As she goes down the stair:

And in all the place there's ne'er a face
One half, one half so fair.
But oh! I saw her yesterday—
And no one knew 'twas she-

When a little sick child looked up and smiled

As she sat on my lady's knee.

Fer fan it flirts and flutters,

Her eyes grow bright, grow dim,-
And all around no man is found
But thinks she thinks of him.
But, oh! to her the best of all,
Though they be great and grand,

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U. S. Grant-July 23, 1885.
His name was as a sword and shield,
His words were armed men,
He mowed his foemen as a field
Of wheat is mowed-and then
Set his strong hand to make the shorn
earth smile again.

Not in the whirlwind of his fight,
The unbroken line of war,
Did he best battle for the right—
His victory was more:

Peace was his triumph, greater far than all before.

Who in the spirit and love of peace
Takes sadly up the blade,

Makes war on war, that wars may


He striveth undismayed,

And in the eternal strength his morta strength is stayed.

Peace, that he conquered for our sake-
This is his honor, dead.

We saw the clouds of battle break
To glory o'er his head-

But brighter shone the light about his dying bed.

Dead is thy warrior, King of Life,
Take thou his spirit flown:

The prayer of them that knew his strife
Goes upward to thy throne-

Peace be to him who fought-and fought

for Peace alone.

From "Poems." By H. C. Bunner. Charles Scribner's Sons, Publishers.



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By the yesterdays were hidden, And to-morrow flowered unbidden

Kindest of mothers, from whom I have Round feet that moved unchidden


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But Chenonceaux, lightly scorning Lapse of years and fortune's lies, Watched the valley wake at morning

And the sunset fill the skies With its pageant rare and splendidLike a queen with pomp attended Till her little day is ended And she dies.

And doubtless yet some lady

Spends her happy springtime there, And wanders through the shady

Woodland paths with loosened hair,

Or, laughing with her lover,
Marks the night creep down and cover
The grey walls built above her,
And the Cher.



In the days of pomp and pleasure
It was wrought in fashion rare,

A lordly house of leisure

On the little, laughing Cher,

And the waters danced around it,

And the green banks rose to bound it
Ti roof and turret crowned it,
Tall and fair.

And thither, spurring level

With their plumes upon the breeze, Rode the gallants to the revel

Lusty hearts that ranged at ease O'er the vineclad slopes, and clattered Through the village streets, and battered At the hostels, ere they scattered 'Mid the trees.

Ah, the hunting and the hawking
For the monarch and his man,
Ah, the mirth and merry talking
In the château, when Diane
Won it fair with bow and quiver,
And kissed the royal giver,

As they leaned and watched the river
Where it ran!

But love may lose its glamour,
And luck avert his face;

The eyes that could enamour

And the lips that granted grace

A GALE PASSING OVER GRAVES. "Rest ye shall find,"

The grasses bind:

Over the headstones the undulant wind.

Yews at the root

Of a tomb stand mute;

While the orchard-garlands heave their fruit.

Lichens prey

On the stony clay:

The willows flow free from the south to-day.

Darksome the tomb:
How the gales illume

The dove-feathered heaven, plume on plume.

Peaceful the grave;

But how life is brave.

The rows of elms in their rhythm rave.

Let the grasses bind!
My dead I find

In the host of the cloud-compelling wind.

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