brought her warrior dead," by Tennyson, into this tongue, and I had the
MS. of it in my pocket. Tennyson was very much pleased at the
compliment, and asked me to read the poem, which I did. The work was by
permission dedicated to him. At last, when dinner was over, Tennyson,
who had disposed of an entire bottle of port, rose, and approaching me,
took me gaily-gravely by both sides, as if he would lift me up, and
drawing himself up to his full height, said, "I like to see a poet a full-
sized substantial man," or "tall and strong," or words to that effect. I
replied that it was very evident from the general appearance of
Shakespeare's bust that he was a very tall man, but that though the
thunder of height had hit twice--the Poet Laureate being the second
case--that I had been very slightly singed, tall as I was. _Enfin_, some
days after, Tennyson in a letter invited me to call and see him should I
ever be in the Isle of Wight; which took place by mere chance some time
after--in fact, I did not know, when I was first at the hotel in
Freshwater, that Tennyson lived at a mile's distance.

I walked over one afternoon and sent in my card. Mr. Hallam Tennyson,
then a very handsome young man of winsome manner, came out and said that
his father was taking his usual _siesta_, but begged me to remain, kindly
adding, "Because I know, Mr. Leland, he would be very sorry to have
missed you." After a little time, however, Tennyson himself appeared,
and took me up to his den or studio, where I was asked to take a pipe,
which I did with great good-will, and blew a cloud, enjoying it greatly,
because I felt with my host, as with Bulwer, that we had quickly crossed
acquaintanceship into the more familiar realm where one can talk about
whatever you please with the certainty of being understood and getting a
sympathetic answer. There are lifelong friends with whom one never
really gets to this, and there are acquaintances of an hour at _table-
d'hotes_, who "come like shadows, so depart," who talk with a touch to
our hearts. Bulwer and Tennyson were such to me, and _apre miro zi_, as
the gypsies say--on my life-soul!--if I had talked with them, as I did,
without knowing who they were, I should have recalled them with quite as
much interest as I now do, and see them again in dreams. And here I may
add, that the common-place saying that literary men are rarely good
talkers, and generally disappointing, is not at all confirmed by my
e