* * * * *

I cannot remember just when it was that an English visitor, who brought
a letter of introduction to my husband, spoke to me of the "Bothie of
Tober-na-Fuosich" and its author, Arthur Hugh Clough. The gentleman was
a graduate of Oxford or of Cambridge. He came to our house several
times, and I consulted him with regard to the classic rhythms, in which
he was well versed. I had it in mind at this time to write a poem in
classic rhythm. It was printed in my first volume, "Passion Flowers;"
and Mr. Sanborn, in an otherwise very friendly review of my work,
characterized as "pitiable hexameters" the lines which were really not
hexameters at all, nor intended to pass for such. They were pentameters
constructed according to my own ideas; I did not have in view any
special school or rule.

I soon had the pleasure of reading the "Bothie," which I greatly
admired. While it was fresh in my mind Mr. Clough arrived in Boston,
furnished with excellent letters of introduction both for that city and
for the dignitaries of Cambridge. My husband at once invited him to pass
some days at our house, and I was very glad to welcome him there. In
appearance I thought him rather striking. He was tall, tending a little
to stoutness, with a beautifully ruddy complexion and dark eyes which
twinkled with suppressed humor. His sweet, cheery manner at once
attracted my young children to him, and I was amused, on passing near
the open door of his room, to see him engaged in conversation with my
little son, then some five or six years of age. In Dr. Howe's daily
absences I tried to keep our guest company a little, but I found him
very shy. I remember that I said to him, when we had made some
acquaintance, that I had often wished to meet Thackeray, and to give him
two buffets, saying, "This one is for your Becky Sharp and this one for
Blanche Amory,"--regarding both as slanders upon my sex. Mr. Clough
suggested that in the great world of London such characters were not out
of place. The device of Blanche Amory's book, "Mes Larmes," seemed to
have afforded him much amusement.

It happened that, while he was with us, I dined one day with a German
friend, who served us with quite a wonderful repast. The feast had been
a merry one, and at the dessert two such sumptuous dishes were presented
to us that I, having tasted of one of them, said to a friend across the
table, "Anna, this is poetry!" She was occupied with