indeed it was not a rational pessimism; it was but the shadow of
his fear. And the fact remains that in spite of a life of great
good fortune, and an undimmed supremacy of fame, he spent much of
his time in fighting shadows, involved in clouds of darkness and
dissatisfaction. That was no doubt the price he paid for his
exquisite perception of beauty and his power of melodious
expression. But we make a great mistake if we merely think of
Tennyson as a rich and ample nature moving serenely through life.
He was "black-blooded," he once said, adding, "like all the
Tennysons." Doubtless he had in his mind his father, a man often
deeply in the grip of melancholy. And the absurd legend, invented
probably by Rossetti, contains a truth in it and may be quoted
here. Rossetti said that he once went to dine with a friend in
London, and was shown into a dimly lit drawing-room with no one to
receive him. He went towards the fireplace, and suddenly to his
surprise discovered an immensely tall man in evening dress lying
prostrate on the hearthrug, his face downwards, in an attitude of
prone despair. While he gazed, the stranger rose to his feet,
looked fixedly at him, and said, "I must introduce myself; I am
Octavius, the most morbid of the Tennysons."

With Ruskin we have a different case. He was brought up in the most
secluded fashion, and though he was sharply enough disciplined into
decorous behaviour by his very grim and positive mother, he was
guarded like a precious jewel, and as he grew up he was endlessly
petted and indulged. The Ruskins lived a very comfortable life in a
big villa with ample grounds at Denmark Hill. Whatever the
wonderful boy did was applauded and even dangerously encouraged,
both in the way of drawing and of writing. Though he seems to have
been often publicly snubbed by both his parents, it was more a