Tennyson talked a good deal that evening in the drawing-room. I was sitting next to him most of the time, and wished, as I am wishing now, that I had inherited a better memory from my ancestors than I have. He talked about his poetry, he recited some of the 'Locksley Hall Sixty Years Later,' he spoke of his friend Aubrey de Vere, and he referred in scathing terms to Mr. Gladstone. Gladstone is my friend," he said, "but I confess I do not understand him now. He seems to me to have gone mad. It looks as if he were going to fulfil the old prophecy that he would ruin his country and die in amadhouse." He seemed entirely unconscious of the fact that two of the ladies present, near relations of his wife's, were Irishwomen and Home Rulers. And that, I am afraid, is all I can remember. It' is possible that there was not much else calculated to stick in the memory. Yes—I am' reminded of one thing more. Tennyson told us an excellent story of something that had happened in the room we were then in, It was apropos of spiritualism. You see that great table?" he said, pointing to a huge, massive, ponderous piece of furniture in the corner. Then he went on to tell us how, one night, when the Marchioness of Stafford(I think it was Stafford) was present, a trial was made at table-turning, with the result that that very table raced about and span, and turned, and twisted, and capered to such an extent that even' those accus: tomed to such proceedings felt a certain consternation. Suddenly the thing stoped dead. The moment before, Bishop Wilberforce had entered the room, and mentally exclaimed: In the name of God the Father, God the Son, and Gad the Holy Ghost, I ndjure thee to be still." The table never danced in the Bishop's presence again, "Now," said Tennyson at last, "I'm upstairs to have half a pipe before if anybody wants to join me let him come.
So up we all trooped, and Tennyson taking up on of his celebrated clay p pes, washed and rinsed it well with sal-volatile, and handed it to me. I filled it from a big brown jar of very dry tobacco, and began to smoke. A more abominable pipe was never in my mouth. My lips stuck to it ina most painful manner, and my tongue and palate began to burn and dry up like bricks in a ki It was impossible to look as though I liked it, and I don't suppose I tried very hard to, with You don't seem to get on with that pipe very well," at length remarked Hallam Tennyson, " Perhaps you're not. accustomed to clays." I dare say the pipe'sall right," I replied, "but it creates a certain routh, I notice, which"—I paused for the inevitable response, but paused in vain. Thirst was now added to the tortures of that horrid pipe. Suddenly M—tovk pity on me, "Aren't you very thirsty?" he asked in a very clear voice deed." Very thirsty," I replied unhesitatingly. Then Hallam went downstairs, and ina few minutes returned, carrying the familiar tray. hat, going to make as all drank at this time o' night?" cried Tennyson, taken by surprise. Evidently the Tennyson family are not great drinkers, though how Tennyson could smoke those harsh, dry, clay pipes that he was so partial ts, and smoke them with impunity, and yet never want to wet his whistle, I cannot understand. I have that pipe still. I keep it ina case that doesn't belong to it, and I never by avy chance attempt to smoke it. I intend to leave it in my will to my great-grandson. However, we got our whiskey-and-soda, thanks to M-—'s happy lack of false delicacy, and the last moments I spent with Tennyson were pleasant ones.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.