THE UNKINDEST CUT OF ALL.

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

THE UNKINDEST CUT OF ALL.

Meredith also told the tale of Tennyson and William Morris walking together on a road in the Isle of Wight, when two cyclists appeared, wheeling towards them. "Tennyson immediately took alarm, and, turning to Morris, growled out, 'Oh, Morris, what shall I do? These fellows are sure to bother me!' Thereupon Morris drew him protectively to hia side. 'Keep close to me,' he said; 'I'll see that they don't bother you.' The cyclists came, sped by without a sign, and presently disappeared on the horizon. There was a moment or two of silence, and then Tennyson, evidently huffed that he had attracted no attention, once more growled out, 'They never even looked at me!' '»■.,' . But Meredith himself was by no means insensitive to criticism, especially about his poetry. Mr. Le Gallienne once put his foot in it very badly; in fact, the only excuse that can be made for him is that he was very nervous at the time. The author ventured to remind Meredith of a promise to give him a page of, his manuscript, and said: "Of course, Mr. Meredith, I. don't expect anything important; I don't expect — I don't expect—the manuscript of ' The Egoist' or ' Bichard Feverel'— and then, in an evil moment, I added, 'only a little poem.' That was enough. The poet proceeded to let loose his lightnings. 'Oh, I see,' he said, turning to my fellow guests. ' Mark you that! He wants nothing important. Only a little poem! How truly, after all, he speaks. Everyone knows the unimportance of my poor poems —'poetical matter, not poems,' as some person of insight has acutely saia. Yes! nothing important-HJnly a little poem!'" Mr. Le Gallienne did not get his manuscript. Here is the author's first impression of Swinburne. It was at luncheon at Watts-Dunton'a home, "The Pines," at Putney: "Well, I was going to see Swinburne, and so strange and dreamlike it seemed to me that, when at last I found myself seated at .luncheon, with the great lyric master before me, I pinched my leg under the table to persuade myself of the reality of my experience. 'There sits the poet of 'Atalanta in Calydon." I said'over and over to myself, as I watched him tenderly wiping with his.napkin the neck of the pint of Bass which was Mr. Watts-Dunton 'g allowance to the friend over whose hazardously lyrical nature he watched with brotherly care."