iplomatic life, returning to
the United States, where he resumed literary work, his chief interest
in the stage being revived by his association with Barrett. His home
in Philadelphia--one of the literary centres of the time,--bore traces
of his Turkish stay--carpets brought from Constantinople, Arabic
designs on the draperies, and rich Eastern colours in the tapestried
chairs. His experience was obliged to affect his writing, if not in
feeling, at least in expression. I note in his "Monody," written
at the time of the death of his friend, the poet, T. Buchanan Read
(1822-1872), such lines as "the hilly Bosphorus," and "... For
the hills of Ancient Asia through my trembling tears glimmer like
fabrics...." As early as 1855, he had written for the _U.S. Gazette
and North American_, an article on Read comparing his "New Pastoral"
with the poetry of Cowper and Thompson. But Read to-day is familiar
because of his "Sheridan's Ride." We are told that Boker had a
work-room where he delighted in designing metal scrolls.

There was a slight revival of public interest in his poems, which
necessitated the reprinting of several of his books.

"The last time when I saw him," Stoddard recalls in 1890, "was at the
funeral of Taylor, at Cedarcroft, a little more than ten years ago. We
rode to the grave, on a hillside, and we rode back to the house. And
now he has gone to the great majority!" Boker died in Philadelphia,
January 2, 1890. "He takes place with Motley on our roll of well-known
authors," George Parsons Lathrop has written, "and it is even more
remarkable that he should have cultivated poetry in Philadelphia,
where the conditions were unfavourable, than that Motley should
have taken up history in Boston, where the conditions were wholly
propitious."

It is by "Francesca da Rimini" that Boker is best remembered. In a
letter to Stoddard, March 3, 1853, he writes:

You will laugh at this, but the thing is so. "Francesca da
Rimini" is the title. Of course you know the story,--everyone
does; but you nor any one else, do not know it as I have
treated it. I have great faith in the successful issue of this
new attempt. I think all day, and write all night. This is one
of my peculiarities, by the bye: a subject seizes me soul and
body, which accounts for the rapidity of my execution. My muse
resembles a whirlwind: she catches me up, hurries me along,
and drops me all breathless at the end of her