Then I told him some Irish dialect stories which were new to him and which really seemed to give him pleasure. I told him also some of the extravagant Orange toasts of former days whereat he laughed much. Then turning to me he said: “When we go in I want to read you something which I have just finished; but you must not say anything about it yet!” “All right!” I said, “of course I shall not. But why, may I ask, do you wish it so?” “Well, you see,” he said, “I have to be careful. If it is known that I am writing on a particular subject I get a dozen poems on it the next day. And then when mine comes out they say I plagiarised them!” In the course of our conversation something cropped up which suggested a line of one of his poems, _The Golden Year_, and I quoted it. “Go on!” said Tennyson, who seemed to like to know that any one quoting him knew more than the bare quotation. I happened to know that poem and went on to the end of the lyrical portion. There I stopped: “Go on!” he said again; so I spoke the narrative bit at the end, supposed to be spoken by the writer: “He spoke; and, high above, I heard them blast The steep slate-quarry, and the great echo flap And buffet round the hills, from bluff to bluff.” Tennyson listened attentively. When I spoke the last line he shook his head and said: “No!” “Surely that is correct?” I said. “No!” There was in this something which I did not understand, for I was certain that I had given the words correctly. So I ventured to say: “Of course one must not contradict an author about his own work; but I am certain those are the words in my edition of the poem.” He answered quickly: “Oh, the words are all right—quite correct!” “Then what is wrong?” For answer he said: “Have you ever been on a Welsh mountain?” “Yes! on Snowdon!” “Did you hear them blast a slate-quarry?” “Yes. In Wales, and also on Coniston in Lancashire.” “And did you notice the sound?” I was altogether at fault and said: “Won’t you tell me—explain to me. I really want to understand?” Accordingly he spoke the last line; and further explanation was unnecessary. The whole gist was in his pronunciation of the word “bluff” twice repeated. He spoke the word with a sort of quick propulsive effort as though throwing the word from his mouth. “I thought any one would understand that!” he added. It was the exact muffled sound which the exploding charge makes in the curves of the steep valleys. This is a good instance of Tennyson’s wonderful power of onomatopœia. To him the sound had a sense of its own. I had another instance of it before the day was over. That talk was full of very interesting memories. Perhaps it was apropos of the peas grown from the seed in the mummy hand, but Lazarus in his tomb came on the _tapis_. This stanza of _In Memoriam_ had always been a favourite of mine, and when I told him so, he said: