Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and letters of Charles Sumner: volume 1

[318] home: and yet I need not complain; I have found so much kindness, and particularly from my old friend Brown. I belong to two clubs,—the Garrick, and the Alfred. The Garrick is the chosen place of the wits: dining quietly there, you may see and enjoy the society of many of the men whose scintillations we catch even across the Atlantic. There is poor James Smith, one of the handsomest men I ever saw, tall and well-proportioned, with a clear, bright eye, and the white silver crown of age; and yet observe his hand, and you see the horrid marks of gout, and on his foot the large soft shoe; often he calls the waiter to cut his meat, his hand is so lame. Hayward I saw there yesterday talking earnestly with Stephen Price,¹ the author, you will remember, of that redoubtable punch commemorated in the ‘Quarterly.’ Poole,² of ‘Paul Pry’ memory, sits very quietly, eating moderately and using few but choice words; I have heard him say some very clever things. Forster, of the ‘Examiner,’ formerly dined there often. Talfourd is a night-bird; he does not appear till midnight or thereabouts. Then a quantity of barristers congregate here, so that I am always sure to find somebody with whom to have a good talk; further, the charges are the most moderate in London. In the ‘Alfred’³ there is more style, a larger library, better cooking, and less society. A delightful place it is to read the reviews and new publications; you will find them all there in a beautiful suite of drawing-rooms, full of chairs the most variously contrived for comfort that I ever saw; you will hardly find two alike, so that when your body is tired of one position, you may fall into another. It was here that I read Brougham's article in the last ‘Edinburgh’ on George IV., in parts excessively able, and full of democratic tendencies.⁴ I am told it has excited a greater stir than any other article which ever appeared in any journal, and it is considered his Lordship's best production in point of style. Poor Lord Brougham! how fallen! He is, indeed, fallen: you know my gauge of men's position and my admiration of his career, and you will understand me when I say he is fallen. I shall undoubtedly see him while here.

I heard Carlyle lecture the other day; he seemed like an inspired boy; truth and thoughts that made one move on the benches came from his apparently unconscious mind, couched in the most grotesque style, and yet condensed to a degree of intensity, if I may so write. He is the Zerah Colburn of thought; childlike in manner and feeling, and yet reaching by intuition points and extremes of ratiocination which others could not so well