st
beginning to reap some of the rewards of his labors. His fame increased
rapidly from that time forward, and his fortune with his fame. For many
years he has been a rich man, being a sharp and shrewd manager of his
worldly affairs. His investments have always proved to be paying ones;
and for a long time he has had whatever prices he named for his poems.
He has a beautiful place at Farringford, Isle of Wight, and another
country seat at Aldworth, in Surrey. He also owns a house in London,
although he spends very little time there. He kept up his visits to the
Carlyles during his occasional stays in the metropolis, until the death
of his old friends. He was very fond of Mrs. Carlyle, her sharp wit
amusing him, and her appreciation of his own work flattering him. She
gives occasional pleasant mention of him in her letters. Over his later
work Carlyle was not enthusiastic, although he retained his friendship
for the man. In 1867, after the death of his wife, he gives us his last
glimpse of the poet, which is as characteristic as the other:--

"We read at first Tennyson's 'Idyls,' with profound recognition of
the finely elaborated execution, and also of the inward perfection
of vacancy--and, to say truth, with considerable impatience at
being treated so very like infants though the lollipops were so
superlative. We gladly changed for one Emerson's 'English Traits;'
and read that with increasing and ever increasing satisfaction
every evening; blessing heaven that there were still books for
grown-up people too."

According to Carlyle, what Tennyson needed was a Task; and wanting that,
he almost lost his way among the will-o'-wisps. High art, in the eyes of
Carlyle, was but a poor "task" for a man like Tennyson. Upon this point
the world will not be likely to agree with him, nor in his judgment of
the wonderful "Idyls of the King." Although Tennyson, like Carlyle
himself, has written too far into the shadows of age, he will not be
judged by the labors of his old age, but by the matchless products of
his prime. These are surely a priceless possession for the readers of
the future, as well as for the men of his own time.

In the autobiography of Sir Henry Taylor we have this glimpse of the
poet, in a letter from Mrs. Cameron to that gentleman:--

"Alfred has grown, he says, much fonder of you since your last
visit here. He says he feels now he is beginning to know you and