war. The great minister did justice to the misguided patriotism of the youth by saying in later years in the Reichstag: "His (Ferdinand's) dead body became the object of a cult; that ladies of considerable name, whose husbands enjoyed a certain reputation in the scientific world, crowned it with laurels and flowers, and that this was tolerated by the police—the mass of the ordinary officials, perhaps even some of the higher ones, being rather on his side." The present writer saw Mathilde for the first time draped in the deepest mourning for this event, and the impression of combined beauty, dignity, and sorrow will never be effaced from his recollection.
After the publication of her first verses Mathilde continued to write poetry, and also produced "Blue Ogwen," a successful tale for children. Her attention, however, was partly diverted from literary composition by the idea she then entertained that she might succeed as a lecturer. No species of success could have been more thoroughly enjoyed by her, had it been within her reach, but with many qualifications for an orator, she had serious disadvantages. Her beauty and her earnestness were entirely in her favour, her diction was pure, but her accent was not. She had quitted Baden too late to escape the harsh South German intonation, which told heavily against her. And, in truth, her eloquence, though striking, was not the kind of eloquence that lends itself to a set speech. She shone principally in conversation, her brilliant things were sparks struck out from the collision of mind with mind. Always fluent and animated, never disposed to engross conversation unduly, she was admirable whether in a téte—téte or as the centre of a group of congenial spirits. Could she but have discoursed as she conversed, all would have been
