(An Essay read before the Quizzical Club by J-mes T. F-lds.)

EVER since I can remember, it has been the greatest desire of my life to visit and converse with the great authors whose works I have read with so much pleasure. That wish has fortunately been gratified in many instances; and I think I may truthfully say that no man living is more intimately acquainted with the doings and sayings of the famous literary people of the age than I am. And since the Quizzical Club has kindly invited me to speak to them to-night on the subject of Tennyson, having ascertained that the great poet is at the Isle of Wight for the season, and not likely to return before his anger has had time to cool, I will endeavor, to the best of my ability, to disclose to you his personal habits and his characteristic mental traits.

I first saw Tennyson twenty years ago in a London restaurant. I was a young man then; but I knew him, and I saw that he knew me, for he pretended to be greatly absorbed in a copy of the London Times. But I went up and greeted him heartily; and then I seated myself at the table, and ordered a brace of mutton-chops and a glass of 'alf-and-'alf. Tennyson was eating corned beef and cabbage with great relish, and I noticed that he invariably divided the portion of food upon his plate into triangular bits before conveying the same to his mouth. I asked him his reasons for so doing, but he did not give me a very satisfactory answer. When dinner was over, I told him that I had hunted for him without success for the past two months, and added, "I have come to stay a long while this time, Alfred, if it is convenient to your wife and your dear, dear family?"

He muttered that he would see me further.

"Yes - yes, I will call again, my dear fellow. When do you leave for Wight, eh?"

"Now - now!" he cried, crowding himself into his ulster, and seizing his carpet-bag. "I - I cannot stop - am very sorry, but my wife - come some time next year - my wife has the smallpox."

I was shocked at this startling revelation; but affliction cannot separate ME from my friends. I said, "I will help you nurse her back to life, Alfred."

I thought he looked terror-stricken at this; and I therefore concluded that he did not love his wife. Men of genius are seldom fitted for quiet domestic joys. I know this is so, for they are never at home when I call.

However, I went down to Wight with Tennyson. He was very gloomy and unsocial during our ride in the railway-carriage. We travelled third class, for, as he said, poetry was flat, and there was very little profit in the business. There was a plethoric Irish female in the apartment with a crying infant in her arms. I saw that Tennyson's countenance had a rapt, far-away look, so I said pleasantly, "Composing, eh? Sonnet on a weeping infant, - ah! very tender, very touching! Can't I give you a hint or two?"

He jumped as if he had been shot, and cried, "The devil!" so emphatically that he frightened the honest Hibernian half out of her wits. I quieted her by revealing in a whisper his identity, and told her that I thought from his actions be did not like children, - that great men never did. He frowned savagely thereupon, and, turning his back to us all, gazed persistently at the flying landscape until we arrived at our destination. Then I linked my arm in his, and held him firmly, although I saw he was in a poetic frenzy, for he was swearing under his breath all the while; but I pretended not to hear. We found Mrs. Tennyson awaiting us with a horse and buggy.

"My dear madam!" I cried, startled to see a small-pox patient permitted to roam abroad at will, - "My dear madam, how dare you expose yourself in such a manner!"

She turned very red at this, as though I had hinted that she was insufficiently clad. Then I explained. She laughed in the most astonishing way, and confessed that she had never yet been afflicted by the deadly disease which her husband had imputed to her. And then I knew that Alfred had been guilty of the basest prevarication. I almost wept over his fault; my confidence in human -

My meditations were interrupted by the subject of them, who insisted upon my riding up to the house with Mrs. T., saying that there was not room enough for three, and that, having enjoyed my company all day, he preferred to walk. I had long been desirous of a chance to study Mrs. T.'s character, and therefore I assented to this arrangement very cheerfully. I plied her with questions all the way, and I thus acquired many new ideas in relation to her husband's habits. I learned that he did not, as a rule, like Americans (thank Heaven! I am one of the exceptions); that he was very fond of his home and children, however, - which I still doubt, considering his heartless treatment of that child in the railway carriage; that he wore three clean shirts a week, but never changed his stockings oftener than once a fortnight; that he was a poet; that Queen Victoria had made him England's laureate; that he did not like to shave himself; that, however late he might stay out at night, he was always able to use the latch-key; that he wrote Maud; and that he was very fond of baked beans. I thanked Mrs. T. for this valuable information, which I immediately jotted down in my notebook.

I will not weary the Club with a detailed account of that delightful firstevening in the poet's pleasant home. Mrs. Tennyson is a most charming woman, and if the poet himself is not quite so cordial in his manners, I must attribute this to his fine poetic sensibilities. What he said and did during the evening, however, I do not feel at liberty to relate; I trust I have never been guilty of invading any person's private rights or of satisfying a vulgar curiosity. One incident, at least, I will relate before I conclude this already lengthy paper.

After we had retired for the night to our respective rooms, the thought occurred to me that I would attempt to find out whether the report that Tennyson is guilty of - of snoring were true or not. So I crept softly from the room, - I think it was only the second-best chamber; however, I forgive them that, - I crept, I say, down the long corridor to the door of the apartment where the great man lay. I applied my ear to the key-hole. All was still; "not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse," as the poet says, - I remember his grandfather well. Then I gently opened the door and looked in: the room was dark, but I thought - I thought that Alfred's mouth was - yes, it certainly was - open, ever so little. I crept near the bed. I could distinguish a faint sound, like the soughing of the wind through the pines. And then - then the poet stirred uneasily; then did he start up, and fell me to the ground with a pillow; and, before I could make good my retreat, he had discovered my identity. I almost felt embarrassed. I assured him that it was all a mistake; and he said he thought it was.

I left Wight the next morning, having pressing engagements elsewhere. I was very sorry indeed for the necessity which compelled me, for I had found Alfred a very companionable man, entirely frank and unaffected. Those people who think he is a proud and reserved man - a man of few words - labor under a profound mistake: he can be eloquent upon occasion. I cannot forbear relating the delicate compliment he paid me at parting: he said, and I think he meant it, that he hoped I had enjoyed my visit as much as he had.