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politics, it is seldom that he will appear in public to advocate his views. His voice is sweet and even rather than strong, his manner gentle and elegant rather than demonstrative; and to be a successful stump orator in America needs much gesticulation and lungs of iron— brains are, unfortunately, not an essential, and are not apt to be appreciated by the commune vulgus. With such audiences, however, as Lowell has, consisting not only of the most advanced University students, but often of the élite of the literary circles of the literary centre of America, only the highest culture, the most chaste finish will pass current. Those who have heard his lectures, and also those of his predecessor, are able to compare the delivery and prose style of the two most eminent of American poets. As a lecturer, Lowell must be confessed to bear off the palm. Longfellow's manner was plain and to a degree monotonous; his voice had not that melodious charm which belongs to Lowell's; he took much less pains to please in the mere manner of putting forth his ideas. His language was not so neatly fitting to the subject and the audience; on the other hand, he was less fastidious, less, so to speak, epicurean in his use of words. Lowell, in everything appertaining to him, possesses an inimitable grace and finish such as is not conspicuous in Longfellow. Both are ripe scholars, accomplished linguists especially; their pursuit, con amore, of the riches which lie deep down in the living languages, is equally zealous. Longfellow is the most profound in the classics, and his favourite studies appear to be Italian and Spanish letters; those of Lowell, of German and English letters. Lowell is far the more facile of the two, in versification especially his composition is almost marvellously rapid; that of Longfellow deliberate with much forethought, and the results of this difference are evident in a comparison of their respective productions. The friends of Professor Lowell who are privileged to see him in his house and to sit at his table, are often delighted by sparkling impromptus, the thought of a moment suggested by a passing incident; epigrams follow each other in quick succession, none of which fail of pith and humour. We have heard it said that the "Biglow Papers" were mostly composed thus, quickly, on the spur of the moment. The poet seldom re-writes, and his manuscript usually goes to the printer with hardly an erasure, as it was first jotted down. Occasionally one finds in the printed copy indications of haste, then again there is a freshness and point which more than make up for the delinquency, and which is far better in its effect than if it had been the subject of deliberate revision. This can never be said of the pro

ductions of Longfellow, which appear with their last finish. The mental and moral contrasts between Longfellow and Lowell are in harmony with the contrast in their personal appearance and social character. While Longfellow appears venerable, and looks to be much older than he is, Lowell is youthful in manner and appearance. Both are remarkably prepossessing; Longfellow inspires veneration, Lowell admiration. The latter who is verging on fifty seems not more than thirty-five; in his way, too, he looks the poet. His hair is of a rich glossy curling auburn, long, parted over the centre of the forehead, and without perceptible grey hair. The features have the regularity of an Apollo Belvidere, the forehead is beautiful-high, white, broad, and gently receding; the nose straight, thin, sensitive; the mouth covered by a thick auburn moustache a shade lighter than the hair, is full, and amiable in expression; the chin is round and even, wherefrom extends a long beard of auburn. But the poet's eye is his best feature, large dark blue, gentle, full of sentiment, sparkling, a true poet's eye. Lowell is rather below middle-height, is straight and well-built, has the small hands and feet which are supposed to come of aristocratic descent. In dress he is jaunty, studiously prim, every garment is exactly fitted and quite in the fashion. To see him at a little distance, your guess as to his age would wander downward by at least twenty years. His step is so brisk, so easy and buoyant, that his gait adds to the deception. He is one of the most social and genial of men; easy of access, always bland and courteous, quite devoid of any stiffness, fond of talking and always talking charmingly, he entertains a stranger as handsomely as if he were an old acquaintance. One never is tired of his conversation; once introduced into his society, and you can hear the constant flow of his witticisms and descriptions for hours without a thought of weariness. He always has something to say, is never at a loss for a thought, or a word, or an apt illustration; is well primed with quotations from all books and tongues, yet uses them without ostentatious pedantry, always with effect. Thoroughly human in his tastes and proclivities, not ethereally disdaining a pipe or a merry meeting now and then, but enjoying them to the fullest, like smaller men; fond of ease, yet practising the theory that all work that is worth doing, is worth doing well. He is, equally with Longfellow, free from all snobbish affectation of the oddities of genius, whether of the greater or the smaller sort. It is a rare privilege to visit Lowell in the congenial privacy of his study. It is a small room at the rear of the house, the

windows looking out upon the shrubberies and garden, and shaded with trees. The walls are covered with book-shelves laden with the treasures which the scholar-poet's taste has collected. Rare editions of the old poets and philosophers, English, Italian, and German, are not wanting. There are histories, books of sketches and travel, political, and literary pamphlets, evincing the variety of their possessor's interest. A large open old-fashioned fireplace, surmounted by a high mantelpiece, takes up nearly the whole of one side of the room; before this is a writing-table whereupon are scattered books, pamphlets, letters, scraps of manuscript, blank paper, pens, and inkstands, by no means primly arranged. On the mantelpiece is a miscellaneous collection of little ornaments, souvenirs, and utilities; and you will not fail to observe that pipes, cigars, and other convenient apparatus for smoking are distributed about here and there, hinting to you that Lowell is wedded to "the weed." It is here usually that he receives his friends, and indeed all who call upon him; and there are not a few who will recollect the hours passed there before a blazing fire as memorable. The ease of the host's manners, the utter absence of all snobbishness, the readiness with which he enters into conversation and brilliantly sustains it, the new ideas which keep coming to the surface, the veritable poetry which constantly characterizes his conversation, and the great extent of his æsthetical learning, make the hours pass so swiftly and agreeably, that one always deeply regrets the moment for bidding him adieu. A cozy old-fashioned room, plainly adorned, but with that most welcome adornment to lovers of letters-a multitude of bookseverywhere scattered indications of the presence of one deep in lore, and a cheerful air of comfort which takes possession of you the moment you enter. It is from hence that the "Biglow Papers," and the charming little lyrics have gone forth to be in the lips of men all over America and England. As an instructor at the University, Professor Lowell is well liked by those students who are sincerely desirous of learning, for he is thorough, and imparts knowledge with clearness and accuracy, which greatly assists in the progress in a language. We would gladly pursue our subject further and describe the persons and houses of others, equally well known, who live in Cambridge; but the space we have taken up has already gone beyond our anticipation, and warns us to defer other descriptions to some future day.

How we started the "Unicorn."

THERE were three of us in Molyneux Brownjohn's office-that is to say, in that particular office of the Department for the Suppression of Inventions, which a paternal government devoted to Molyneux Brownjohn when he found it convenient to attend from eleven till three. It was a very pleasant apartment in the first floor, with a comfortable. easy-chair, a big writing-table, a convenient mahogany press for containing sherry and biscuits, a thick (if dusty) carpet, and a redbaize inner door, to keep out sound and baffle intrusive inventors. Not but what intrusive inventors were met, as it were, on the very threshold of their brutal attempts by three hall-porters, who occupied a sort of dim glass greenhouse in the lower lobby, where they were alternately engaged in eating something out of one half of a newspaper, while they read the other half, and in intercepting the misguided visitors who sought Molyneux Brownjohn and his colleagues without valid reason. The apartment in which we sat combined an air of business and pleasure, by means of a peerage, a post-office directory, a breech-loader, a saddle, a couple of riding-whips, a pair of rusty spurs, and the debris of refreshment, consisting of the bone of a mutton-chop, a tin canister of pic-nic biscuits, a remainder of dry sherry in a black bottle, and a box of "Veveys." He had a title in his family, had Brownjohn, and it was probably to this that he owed a talent for organisation," of which he was not a little proud. Perhaps it also had something to do with his previous career in an accredited governmental post at Batavia, and with his occupancy of the commodious office in which we were then seated. My companion was a common friend, known in some club circles, in his own set, as a wit-not yet fully developed, but of amazing promise. While Brownjohn was impressive from his firmness-twirled his tawny moustaches, looked at you unflinchingly with his large, wistful eyes; wore a curly-brimmed and obtrusive hat, on one side; and stood with his remarkably-fine legs rather wide apart, as he bit his "Vevey" into an angle of forty-five degrees of incidence; Harold Fortescue was remarkable chiefly for his indecision, a quality which he delighted to render abject, as a contrast to, and protest against, the assumption of his friends, few of whom refrained from inflicting their advice upon him because he was not only idle, but amiable, and therefore poor and young-so young that he could only stroke a smooth lip. Anything

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more comically deprecating than the laugh with which he received Brownjohn's announcement of the reason for calling us to meet him, I never hope to hear again.

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I've made up my mind to start an evening paper!"

"When you've started it, it will run away with you, and you'll get hurt," grinned Fortescue.

"Nonsense. You're always such a fool, Harold. I can tell you some men are going to put money in it, and it must pay. Look at the " Times;" look at the "Globe," and the "Observer," and "Bell's Life," and they, none of 'em, are founded on such a notion as mine; don't you see. The Race-course, and the Recreations of the people, and publish at a penny for a broad sheet. This is in confidence of course, don't you know. You'll help me, I'm certain, when you know the scheme. Harold, I've got you down for something, at a hundred a year-hundred and fifty nominal."

We both swore we'd help him. Fortescue smiled feebly, as though he'd like to see a quarter's salary in advance: in fact he hinted as much; but Brownjohn said this was very serious, and it was no good to spoil it with tomfoolery.

"Who's to edit it?" said I.

We both looked very grave. "Bracebridge has been spoken to, and he says it's a capital idea. If we can only, don't you see, get him, why, his name's worth something to us. Look at his farces and his extravaganzas; they're all of 'em the rage, and, begad, clever; don't you agree with me?"

Of course we agreed with him. We all believed in the ability as well as in the wit and industry of Bracebridge; but still, just as a gentle inquiry, was it to be a dramatic or a comic publication? Bracebridge was a household name for both these walks; but when you came, don't you see, to the matter of fact-the, the, what do you call it? mere padding of news and politics, and that sort of thing, to say nothing of the work of editing

"Well, there's Taversham; he's just brought out a second piece at the Osnaburg, a great success, and, don't you see, up to this sort of thing; wrote for the magazines, and, begad, clever. If he'll be a sort of sub-editor-not by the name of sub, of course, but to help Bracebridge-why, there you are."

At this point, and while Fortescue was elaborating a joke, which, as it were, died in silence, one of the hall-porters, who was dis tinguished by baldness and a stiff leg, came to announce a the name of Faust."

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