Tennyson died on Thursday, October 6, eleven days after we had seen him. Two others only saw him after we did—with of course the exception of his own family—Mr. Craik, of Messrs. Macmillan, his publishers, and Dr. Dabbs, of the Isle of Wight, his physician. Before he died he spoke of May—the spring seemed to be for him a time which the Lords of Life and Death would not allow him to pass. It had too some connection in his mind with his play _The Promise of May_. He said to Dr. Dabbs, who wrote to me about it afterwards: “I suppose I shall never see _Becket_?” “I fear not!” “Ah!” After a long pause he said again: “They did not do me justice with _The Promise of May_—but——” another long pause and then half fiercely: “I can trust Irving—he will do me justice!” Tennyson was buried in the Poet’s Corner of Westminster Abbey on October 12. There was a great crowd both in the Abbey and the streets without. All were still, hushed and solemn. The sense of great loss was over all. Very solemn and impressive was the service. There was gloom in the great Cathedral, and the lights were misty. Everywhere the strong odour of many flowers. A body of distinguished men of letters, science and art followed the coffin, coming behind his family. Amongst them Henry Irving, looking as usual, wherever he was, the most distinguished of all. On that sad day, Tennyson’s poem, _Crossing the Bar_, was sung. Then his last poem, _The Silent Voices_. The exquisite music written for this by Lady Tennyson and arranged by Sir John Frederick Bridge was heard for the first time. The noble words ringing through the great Cathedral seemed like a solemn epitome of the teaching of the poet’s life. Six years afterwards I heard Irving speak them in the crowded Senate House at Cambridge with that fervour which seemed a part of his very life. Now, from that Poet’s Corner where they both rest I seem to hear the voices of the two great souls in unison, calling to the great Humanity which each in his own way loved and which was so deep in the hearts of both: “Call me rather, silent voices, Forward to the starry track Glimmering up the heights beyond me On, and always on!” II