as a projection of himself, a sort of eidolon, that
goes about in near and remote places making friends or enemies for him
among persons who never lay eyes upon the writer in the flesh. When he
dies, this phantasmal personality fades away, and the author lives only
in the impression created by his own literature. It is only then that
the world begins to perceive what manner of man the poet, the novelist,
or the historian really was. Not until he is dead, and perhaps some long
time dead, is it possible for the public to take his exact measure.
Up to that point contemporary criticism has either overrated him or
underrated him, or ignored him altogether, having been misled by the
eidolon, which always plays fantastic tricks with the writer temporarily
under its dominion. It invariably represents him as either a greater or
a smaller personage than he actually is. Presently the simulacrum
works no more spells, good or evil, and the deception is unveiled. The
hitherto disregarded author is recognized, and the idol of yesterday,
which seemed so important, is taken down from his too large pedestal and
carted off to the dumping-ground of inadequate things. To be sure, if he
chances to have been not entirely unworthy, and on cool examination is
found to possess some appreciable degree of merit, then he is set up on
a new slab of appropriate dimensions. The late colossal statue shrinks
to a modest bas-relief. On the other hand, some scarcely noticed bust
may suddenly become a revered full-length figure. Between the reputation
of the author living and the reputation of the same author dead there is
ever a wide discrepancy.

A NOT too enchanting glimpse of Tennyson is incidentally given by
Charles Brookfield, the English actor, in his "Random Recollections."
Mr. Brookfield's father was, on one occasion, dining at the Oxford and
Cambridge Club with George Venables, Frank Lushington, Alfred Tennyson,
and others. "After dinner," relates the random recollector, "the poet
insisted upon putting his feet on the table, tilting back his chair
_more Americano_. There were strangers in the room, and he was
expostulated with for his uncouthness, but in vain. 'Do put down your
feet!' pleaded his host. 'Why should I?' retorted Tennyson. 'I 'm very
comfortable as I am.' 'Every one's staring at you,' said another.
'Let 'em stare,' replied the poet, placidly. 'Alfred,' said my father,
'people will think you're Longfellow.' Down went the feet." That _