Our master’s prime is now—is ever now; Our star that wastes not in the wastes of night Holds Nature’s dower undimmed in Time’s despite; Those eyes seem Wisdom’s own beneath that brow, Where every furrow Time hath dared to plough Shines a new bar of still diviner light. This, then, was the secret of Tennyson’s personal charm. And if the reader is sceptical as to its magnetic effect upon his friends, let me remind him of the amazing rarity of these great and guileless natures; let me remind him also that this world is comprised of two classes of people—the bores, whose name is legion, and the interesting people, whose name is _not_ legion—the former being those whose natural instinct of self-protective mimicry impels them to move about among their fellows hiding their features behind a mask of convention, the latter being those who move about with uncovered faces just as Nature fashioned them. If guilelessness lends interest to a dullard, it is still more so with the really luminous souls. So infinite is the creative power of nature that she makes no two individuals alike. If we only had the power of inquiring into the matter, we should find not only that each individual creature that once inhabited one of the minute shells that go to the building of England’s fortress walls of chalk was absolutely unlike all the others, but that even the poor microbe himself, who in these days is so maligned, is also very intensely an individual. Some time ago the old discussion was revived in _The Athenæum_ as to whether the nightingale’s song was joyful or melancholy. And, perhaps, if the poems of the late James Thomson and the poems of Mr. Austin Dobson were recited by their authors to a congregation of nightingales, the question would at once be debated amongst them, “Is the note of the human songster joyful or melancholy?” The truth is that the humidity or the dryness of the atmosphere in the various habitats of the nightingale modifies so greatly the _timbre_ of the voice that, while a nightingale chorus at Fiesole may seem joyous, a nightingale chorus in the moist thickets along the banks of the Ouse may seem melancholy. Nay, more, as I once told Tennyson at Aldworth, I, when a truant boy wandering along the banks of the Ouse (where six nightingales’ nests have been found in the hedge of a single meadow), got so used to these matters that I had my own favourite individuals, and could easily distinguish one from another. That rich climacteric swell which is reached just before the “jug, jug, jug,” varies amazingly, if the listener will only give the matter attention. And if this infinite variety of individualism is thus seen in the lower animals, what must it be in man?