"I remember," interposed Ida, "that he and your brother, among the
matters they used to discuss, disagreed in their estimate of authors.
Sartliff could never endure N.P. Willis, for instance."
"A sign," said Miss Giddings, "that he was sane then, at least.
Willis, in Europe, is called the poet's lap-dog, with his ringlets and
Lady Blessingtons."
"I believe he had the pluck to meet Captain Marryatt," said Bart.
"Was that particularly creditable?" asked Miss Giddings.
"Well, poets' lap-dogs don't fight duels, much; and Miss Giddings, do
you think a lap-dog could have written this?" And taking up a volume
of Willis, he turned from them and read "Hagar." As he read, he seemed
possessed with the power and pathos of the piece, and his deep voice
trembled under its burthen. At the end, he laid the book down, and
walked to a window while his emotion subsided. His voice always had a
strange power of exciting him. After a moment's silence, Miss Giddings
said, with feeling:
"I never knew before that there was half that force and strength
in Willis. As you render it, it is almost sublime. Will you read
another?"
Taking up the book, he read "Jepthah's Daughter:" reading it with less
feeling, perhaps, but in a better manner.
"I give it up," said Miss Giddings, "though I am not certain whether
it is not in you, rather than in Willis, after all."
"Six or seven years ago, when my brother Henry came home and gathered
us up, and rekindled the home fires on the old hearth," said Bart, "he
commenced taking the _New York Mirror_, just established by George
P.
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