By his appearance I was somewhat startled.

Instead of a grave recluse in scholastic black, whom I expected to see, I found an affable and lovable old man dressed in the roughest coat of blue with metal buttons, and checked trousers, more like a New York farmer than an English poet.

His nose was very large, his forehead a lofty dome of thought, and his long white locks hung over his stooping shoulders; his eyes presented a singular, half closed appearance.

We entered at once into a delightful conversation.

He made many inquiries about Irving, Mrs.Sigourney and our other American authors, and spoke, with great vehemence, in favor of an international copyright law.