eturned home, and
since then he has remained in America. The chronicle that he has written
glides lightly over these latter years, only now and then touching on
their golden summits. The manifest wish of the writer has been to people
his pages as much as possible with the men and women of his artistic
circle and knowledge who would be likely to interest the reader. Robert
Browning, Charles Kingsley, and George Augustus Sala come into the
picture, and there is a pleasing story of Browning and Longfellow
walking arm in arm in London streets till driven into a cab by a summer
shower, when Longfellow insisted on passing his umbrella through the
hole in the roof, for the protection of the cab-driver. Jefferson lived
for one summer in an old mansion at Morningside, Edinburgh, and he
dwells with natural delight on his recollections of that majestic city.
He had many a talk, at odd times, with the glittering farceur Charles
Mathews, about dramatic art, and some of this is recorded in piquant
anecdotes. "By many," says the amiable annalist, "he was thought to be
cold and selfish; I do not think he was so." There is a kind word for
Charles Fechter, whose imitations of Frederick Lemaitre, in _Belphegor,
the Mountebank_, live in Jefferson's remembrance as wonderfully graphic.
There are glimpses of James Wallack, Walter Montgomery, Peter Richings,
E.A. Sothern, Laura Keene, James G. Burnett, John Gilbert, Tyrone Power,
Lester Wallack, John McCullough, John T. Raymond, Mr. and Mrs. Barney
Williams, John Drew (the elder), F.S. Chanfrau, Charlotte Cushman, Mrs.
Drake, and many others; and the record incorporates two letters, not
before published, from John Howard Payne, the author of _Home, Sweet
Home_--a melody that is the natural accompaniment of Jefferson's life.
There is a pretty picture of that ancient supper-room at No. 2 Bulfinch
Place, Boston--Miss Fisher's kitchen--as it appeared when William Warren
sat behind the mound of lobsters, at the head of the table, while the
polished pewters reflected the cheerful light, and wit and raillery
enlivened the happy throng, and many a face was wreathed with smiles
that now is dark and still forever. In one chapter Jefferson sets forth
his views upon the art of acting; and seldom within so brief a compass
will so many sensible reflections be found so simply and tersely
expressed. The book closes with words of gratitude for many blessings,
and with an emblematic picture of a spirit resigned t