carted off to the dumping-ground of inadequate things. To be sure, if he
chances to have been not entirely unworthy, and on cool examination is
found to possess some appreciable degree of merit, then he is set up on
a new slab of appropriate dimensions. The late colossal statue shrinks
to a modest bas-relief. On the other hand, some scarcely noticed bust
may suddenly become a revered full-length figure. Between the reputation
of the author living and the reputation of the same author dead there is
ever a wide discrepancy.

A NOT too enchanting glimpse of Tennyson is incidentally given by
Charles Brookfield, the English actor, in his "Random Recollections."
Mr. Brookfield's father was, on one occasion, dining at the Oxford and
Cambridge Club with George Venables, Frank Lushington, Alfred Tennyson,
and others. "After dinner," relates the random recollector, "the poet
insisted upon putting his feet on the table, tilting back his chair
_more Americano_. There were strangers in the room, and he was
expostulated with for his uncouthness, but in vain. 'Do put down your
feet!' pleaded his host. 'Why should I?' retorted Tennyson. 'I 'm very
comfortable as I am.' 'Every one's staring at you,' said another.
'Let 'em stare,' replied the poet, placidly. 'Alfred,' said my father,
'people will think you're Longfellow.' Down went the feet." That _more
Americano_ of Brookfield the younger is delicious with its fine insular
flavor, but the holding up of Longfellow--the soul of gentleness, the
prince of courtesy--as a bugaboo of bad manners is simply inimitable. It
will take England years and years to detect the full unconscious humor
of it.

GREAT orators who are not also great writers become very indistinct
historical shadows to the generations immediately following them. The
spell vanishes with the voice. A man's voice is almost the only part of