hat must be the author of 'Hans Brietmann.'" Which suggested to me the
idea, "Does the public, then, generally believe that poets look like
their heroes?" One can indeed imagine Longfellow as Poor Henry of the
"Golden Legend," but few would expect to find the counterpart of Biglow
in a Lowell. And yet this belief or instinct is in every case a _great_
compliment, for it testifies that there is that in the poem which is
inspired by Nature and originality, and that it is not all mere art-work
or artificial. And it is true that by some strange law, name, body, and
soul generally do preserve some kind of unity in the realm of literature.
There has never been, as yet, a really great Gubbins or Podgers in
poetry, or Boggs in romance; and if literature has its Hogg, let it be
remembered that the wild boar in all Northern sagas and chronicles, like
the Eber in Germany, or the Wolf, was a name of pride and honour, as seen
in Eberstein. The Whistler of St. Leonard's is one of the most eccentric
and original of Scott's characters, and the Whistler of St. Luke's, or
the patron saint of painting, is in no respect deficient in these noble
qualifications. The Seven Whistlers who fly unseen by night, ever piping
a wild nocturne, are the most uncanny of birds, while there is, to my
mind, something absolutely grotesquely awful (as in many of "Dreadful
Jemmy's" pictures) in the narration that in ancient days the immense army
of the Mexican Indians marched forth to battle all whistling in
unison--probably a symphony in blood-colour. Fancy half a million of
Whistlers on the war-path, about to do battle to the death with as many
Ruskins--I mean red-skins! _Nomen est omen_.

One of the most charming persons whom I ever met in my life was the Hon.
Mrs. Caroline Norton, and one of the most delightful dinners at which my
wife and I were ever present was at her house. As I had been familiar
with her poems from my boyhood, I was astonished to find her still so
beautiful and young--if my memory does not deceive me, I thought her far
younger looking than myself. I owe her this compliment, for I can recall
her speaking with great admiration of Mrs. Leland to Lord Houghton and
"Bulwer."

Mrs. Norton had not only a graceful, fascinating expression of figure and
motion, but narrated everything so well as to cast a peculiar life and
interest into the most trifling anecdote. I remember one of the latter.

"Lord Houghton," she said, "calls you,