brilliant, and was fond of repeating them.  You have forgotten, or perhaps never knew, that Motley’s first appearance in print was in the ‘Collegian.’  He brought me one day, in a very modest mood, a translation from Goethe, which I was most happy to oblige him by inserting.  It was very prettily done, and will now be a curiosity. . . .  How it happened that Motley wrote only one piece I do not remember.  I had the pleasure about that time of initiating him as a member of the Knights of the Square Table,—­always my favorite college club, for the reason, perhaps, that I was a sometime Grand Master.  He was always a genial and jovial companion at our supper- parties at Fresh Pond and Gallagher’s.”

We who live in the days of photographs know how many faces belong to every individual.  We know too under what different aspects the same character appears to those who study it from different points of view and with different prepossessions.  I do not hesitate, therefore, to place side by side the impressions of two of his classmates as to one of his personal traits as they observed him at this period of his youth.

“He was a manly boy, with no love for or leaning to girls’ company; no care for dress; not a trace of personal vanity. . . .  He was, or at least seemed, wholly unconscious of his rare beauty and of the fascination of his manner; not a trace of pretence, the simplest and most natural creature in the world.”

Look on that picture and on this:—­

“He seemed to have a passion for dress.  But as in everything else, so in this, his fancy was a fitful one.  At one time he would excite our admiration by the splendor of his outfit, and perhaps the next week he would seem to take equal pleasure in his slovenly or careless appearance.”

It is not very difficult to reconcile these two portraitures.  I recollect it was said by a witty lady of a handsome clergyman well remembered among us, that he had dressy eyes.  Motley so well became everything he wore, that if he had sprung from his bed and slipped his clothes on at an alarm of fire, his costume would have looked like a prince’s undress.  His natural presentment, like that of Count D’Orsay, was of the kind which suggests the intentional effects of an elaborate toilet, no matter how little thought or care may have been given to make it effective.  I think the “passion for dress” was really only a seeming, and that he often excited admiration when he had not taken half the pains to adorn himself that many a youth less favored by nature has wasted upon his unblest exterior only to be laughed at.

I gather some other interesting facts from a letter which I have received from his early playmate and school and college classmate, Mr. T. G. Appleton.