And I was well
pleased to have had in my arms Tennyson's child. After my raid I went
on. . . .
Of this glimpse of the great poet fortunately accorded to our family
my father writes in the "Note-Books:" "Gazing at him with all my eyes,
I liked him very well, and rejoiced more in him than in all the other
wonders of the exhibition." Again my mother refers to the interesting
experience:--
MY DEAR ELIZABETH,--My last letter I had not time to even double up
myself, as Mr. Hawthorne was booted and spurred for Liverpool before I
was aware, and everything was huddled up in a hasty manner. It was
something about Tennyson's family that I was saying. I wanted you to
know how happy and loving they all seemed together. As Tennyson is in
very ill health, very shy and moody, I had sometimes thought his wife
might look worn and sad. I was delighted, therefore, to see her serene
and sweet face. I cannot say, however, that there was no solicitude in
it, but it was a solicitude entirely penetrated with satisfied
tenderness. . . .
I did not reply to your last long letter to me about slavery. . . .
There is not a single person whom I know or ever talked with who
advocates slavery. Your letters to me would be far more appropriate to
a slaveholder. . . . I do not see how they apply to me at all. . . .
There has been the customary misinterpretation of calm justice in the
case of my father's moderation during the wild ardor of abolition.
This sort of ardor is very likely necessary in great upheavals, but it
is not necessary that every individual should join the partisans
(while they slash somewhat promiscuously) at the expense of his own
merciful discretion.
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