He had called last week on the Duchess
of Sutherland at Stafford House.
Her two daughters were with
her, the Duchess of Argyll and the beautiful Lady Constance
Grosvenor, afterwards Duchess of Westminster. They happened
to be in the garden. After strolling about for a while, the
Mama Duchess begged him to recite some of his poetry. He
chose 'Come into the garden, Maud' - always a favourite of
the poet's, and, as may be supposed, many were the fervid
exclamations of 'How beautiful!' When they came into the
house, a princely groom of the chambers caught his eye and
his ear, and, pointing to his own throat, courteously
whispered: 'Your dress is not quite as you would wish it,
sir.'
'I had come out without a necktie; and there I was, spouting
my lines to the three Graces, as DECOLLETE as a strutting
turkey cock.'
The only other allusion to poetry or literature that night
was a story I told him of a Mr. Thomas Wrightson, a Yorkshire
banker, and a fanatical Swedenborgian. Tommy Wrightson, who
was one of the most amiable and benevolent of men, spent his
life in making a manuscript transcript of Swedenborg's works.
His writing was a marvel of calligraphic art; he himself, a
curiosity. Swedenborg was for him an avatar; but if he had
doubted of Tennyson's ultimate apotheosis, I think he would
have elected to seek him in 'the other place.' Anyhow, Mr.
Wrightson avowed to me that he repeated 'Locksley Hall' every
morning of his life before breakfast.
Enter page number
PreviousNext
Page 296 of 404
Words from 77766 to 78028
of 106633
