There is no
confusion, no noise, no rudeness of any kind, though there are
thousands of the second-class people there every day. If you shut
your eyes, you only hear the low thunder of movement. . . . Yesterday
we were all there, and met--now, whom do you think? Even Tennyson. He
is the most picturesque of men, very handsome and careless-looking,
with a wide-awake hat, a black beard, round shoulders, and slouching
gait; most romantic, poetic, and interesting. He was in the saloons of
the ancient masters. Was not that rare luck for us? Is it not a wonder
that we should meet? His voice is also deep and musical, his hair wild
and stormy. He is clearly the "love of love and hate of hate," and "in
a golden clime was born." He is the Morte d'Arthur, In Memoriam, and
Maud. He is Mariana in the moated grange. He is the Lady Clara Vere de
Vere and "rare, pale Margaret." There is a fine bust of him in the
exhibition, and a beautiful one of Wordsworth. . . . Ary Scheffer's
Magdalen, when Christ says, "Mary!" is the greatest picture of his I
have ever seen. Ary Scheffer himself was at the exhibition the other
day. . . .
Again Mr. Hawthorne, Una, and I were at the Palace all day. We went up
into the gallery of engraving to listen to the music; and suddenly Una
exclaimed, "Mamma! there is Tennyson!" He was sitting by the organ,
listening to the orchestra. He had a child with him, a little boy, in
whose emotions and impressions he evidently had great interest; and I
presumed it was his son.
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