MEREDITH GIVES TENNYSON AWAY.

Evening Post, Volume CXII, Issue 57, 4 September 1926, Page 21

MEREDITH GIVES TENNYSON AWAY.

Some anecdotes of Tennyson's supersensitiveness to criticism, his vanity and borishness, wore told the author by George Meredith. Mr. le Gallienne thinks they were substantially true and characteristic, although perhaps Meredith, with his dramatic sense, heightened them sbmewhaj;. By the post ono morning there had come some unimportant criticism by some unimportant person, and Tennyson could think of nothing else, and, as ho and Meredith walked side by side, '' Tennyson's deep voice went booming along the hills: 'Apollodorus says I'm not a groat poet!' till Meredith got tired of it and ventured at last to express his surprise that Tennyson should consider the criticism of tho insignificant Apollodorus worth thinking about. But it was no use, the deep voice continued to boom on, 'Apollodorua says I'm not a great poet.' And that seems to have been all that Meredith got out of his visit."

Tennyson was a guest in a certain great house whero many distinguished people had been invited to meet him. The poet took no part in the talk before lunch in the drawing-room, but

prowled about the tables where lay the new books of the day, watched, by his hostess, who suddenly remembered with alarm that a new book on Tennyson, by Churton Collins, who had made a point of tracking down the poet's considerable indebtedness to the classics, was on one of the tables. She had forgotten to remove it. He was already bending over the table. "As by instinct he had scented out the very book. It was already in ids hand, and he was glaring at it with infuriated eyes. There was nothing to be done but to await the event, which was not long in coming. Presently, with a deep grunt of indignation, Tennyson turned to his wife and mado for the door of the drawing-room. 'My dear,' he boomed out, 'I'm afraid we must be going'; and actually without a word of explanation or excuse —they went. Which, to adapt what I once heard Meredith say of a picnic ruined by sudden rain, as the drenched picnickers trailed back over the hill, 'funeral of picnic!' was decidedly the funeral of the poor lady's lunch. Next day she wrote to Lady Tennyson regretting the incident. But still no apologies, and Lady Tennyson's only response was that it was indeed a distressing occurrence, and that Alfred had been in bed ever since.''