Faithfully yours, J. R. LOWELL. Lowell’s conversation was inexhaustible, his information astonishing. Pleasant as he was, even as an antagonist, he would occasionally lose his temper and use very emphatic language. I was once sitting next to him when I heard him stagger his neighbour, a young lady, by bursting out with: “But, madam, I do not accept your major premiss!” Poor thing, she evidently was not accustomed to such language, and not acquainted with that terrible term. She collapsed, evidently quite at a loss as to what gift on her part Mr. Lowell declined to accept. Sometimes even the most harmless remark about America would call forth very sharp replies from him. Everybody knows that the salaries paid by America to her diplomatic staff are insufficient, and no one knew it better than he himself. But when the remark was made in his presence that the United States treated their diplomatic representatives stingily, he fired up, and discoursed most eloquently on the advantages of high thoughts and humble living. His cleverness and readiness in writing occasional verses have become proverbial, and I am glad to be able to add two more to the many _jeux d’esprit_ of this brilliant and amiable guest. Had I all tongues Max Müller knows, I could not with them altogether Tell half the debt a stranger owes Who Oxford sees in pleasant weather. The halls, the gardens, and the quads, There’s nought can match them on this planet, Smiled on by all the partial gods Since Alfred (if ’twas he) began it; But more than all the welcomes warm, Thrown thick as lavish hands could toss ’em, Why, they’d have wooed in winter-storm One’s very umbrella-stick to blossom! Bring me a cup of All Souls’ ale, Better than e’er was bought with siller, To drink (Oh, may the vow prevail) The health of Max[13] and Mrs. Müller! Abundant as was his wit in the true sense of that word, his kindness was equally so. After he had written the above verses for my wife, my young daughter Beatrice (now Mrs. Colyer Fergusson) asked him, as young ladies are wont to do, for a few lines for herself. He at once resumed his pen and wrote:— O’er the wet sands an insect crept Ages ere man on earth was known— And patient Time, while Nature slept, The slender tracing turned to stone. ’Twas the first autograph: and ours? Prithee, how much of prose or song, In league with the Creative powers, Shall ’scape Oblivion’s broom so long? In great haste, Faithfully yours, J. R. LOWELL. _24th June, 1886._