conscious pleasure in poetic style, except in such ringing verse as
Scott's, and Campbell's in his patriotic pieces. The pleasure and
enchantment of style first appealed to me, at about the age of fifteen,
when one read for the first time--

"So all day long the noise of battle rolled
Among the mountains by the winter sea;
Until King Arthur's Table, man by man,
Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their Lord."

Previously one had only heard of Mr. Tennyson as a name. When a child I
was told that a poet was coming to a house in the Highlands where we
chanced to be, a poet named Tennyson. "Is he a poet like Sir Walter
Scott?" I remember asking, and was told, "No, he was not like Sir Walter
Scott." Hearing no more of him, I was prowling among the books in an
ancient house, a rambling old place with a ghost-room, where I found
Tupper, and could not get on with "Proverbial Philosophy." Next I tried
Tennyson, and instantly a new light of poetry dawned, a new music was
audible, a new god came into my medley of a Pantheon, a god never to be
dethroned. "Men scarcely know how beautiful fire is," Shelley says. I
am convinced that we scarcely know how great a poet Lord Tennyson is; use
has made him too familiar. The same hand has "raised the Table Round
again," that has written the sacred book of friendship, that has lulled
us with the magic of the "Lotus Eaters," and the melody of "Tithonus." He
has made us move, like his own Prince--

"Among a world of ghosts,
And feel ourselves the shadows of a dream."

He has enriched our world with conquests of romance; he has recut and