“In a hotel ‘out West’ a lot of men in the bar-room were discussing the Shakespeare and Bacon question. They got greatly excited and presently a lot of them had their guns out. Some one interfered and suggested that the matter should be left to arbitration. The arbitrator selected was an Irishman, who had all the time sat quiet smoking and not saying a word—which circumstance probably suggested his suitability for the office. When he had heard the arguments on both sides formally stated, he gave his decision: “‘Well, Gintlemin, me decision is this: Thim plays was not wrote be Shakespeare! But they was wrote be a man iv the saame naame!’” Tennyson seemed delighted with the story. Then he spoke of Shakespeare, commenting on _Henry VIII._, which had been running all the year at the Lyceum. He mentioned Wolsey’s speech, speaking the lines: “Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition.” Then he added in a very pronounced way: “Shakespeare never wrote that! I know it! I know it! I know it!” As he spoke he smote hard upon the table beside him. After a long chat we left Tennyson to have his afternoon nap, and smoked in the summer-house. Then we walked to the south-west edge of Blackdown. The afternoon was very clear and we could see the hills of the Isle of Wight, which Hallam said he had never before seen from there. VII After tea Hallam took Leaf and me again to his father. After a while we were joined there by Mrs. Tennyson and my wife. Tennyson was then very feeble, but cheerful. He told us a lot of stories and incidents—his humour and memory were quick in him that evening. One was of the landlord of a hotel at Stirling. He had, during a trip in Scotland, telegraphed to the hotel to have rooms kept. When he arrived he was delighted with them. They were on the first floor, airy and spacious, and in all ways desirable. He felt pleased at being treated with such consideration. After dinner he was sitting by the open window smoking his pipe when he heard a conversation going on below. One of the speakers was the landlord, the other a stranger. Said the latter: “I hear you have Tennyson staying with you to-night?” “Aye! That’s the man’s name. He telegraphed the day for rooms. Do ye ken him?” “Know him! Why that’s Alfred Tennyson, the poet!” “The poet! I’m wishin’ I had kent that!” “Why?” asked the stranger. After a pause the answer came: “He a poet! I’d ha’ seen him dommed before I had gied him ma best rooms!” As he was reminiscent that night his anecdotes were mostly personal. Another was of a man of the lower class in the Isle of Wight, who spoke of him in early days: “He, a great man! Why ’e only keeps one man-servant—an’ ’e don’t sleep in th’ ’ouse!” Another was of a workman who was heard to say: “Shakespeare an’ Tennyson! Well, I don’t think nothin’ of neither on ’em!”