I listened, spellbound. He also very
gently and breezily expressed his touched sensibility, after some
recitation of his of rare lines from other poems, but in the same odd
manner. My father stirred this beloved friend with judicious,
thought-developing opposition of opinion concerning all sorts of
polite subjects, but principally, when I overheard, concerning the
respective worth of writers. The small volume of Tennyson which Mr.
Bright held in his two hands caressingly, with that Anglo-literary
filliping of the leaves which is so great a compliment to any book,
contained for him a large share of Great Britain's greatness. His
brave heart beat for Tennyson; I think my father's did not, though his
head applauded. My mother, for her part, was entranced by the
goldsmith's work of the noble poet, and by the gems enclasped in its
perfection of formative art,--perfections within the pale of
convention and fashion and romantic beauty which make lovely
Tennyson's baronial domain. Henry Bright wrote verses, too; and he was
beginning to be successful in a certain profound interest which
customarily absorbs young men of genuine feeling who are not yet
married; and therefore it was worth while to stir the young lover up,
and hear what he could say for "The Princess" and "The Lord of
Burleigh." My mother, in a letter written six months after we had
reached England, and when he was established as a household friend,
draws a graphic picture of his lively personality:--
ROCK PARK, December 8.
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