Tennyson himself had been proctorized once or twice. Once, during the first few days of his College life, he came out to receive a parcel by a midnight mail. "Pray, sir, what are you doing at this time of night?" said the Proctor. "And pray, sir, what business of yours is it to ask me?" replied the Freshman, who in his innocence knew nothing about the Proctor. He was told to call upon him next day, but then explained his ignorance, and was let off. On one occasion a throng of University men outside the Senate House had been yelling against Whewell. Tennyson was standing by the door of Macmillan's shop, and raised a counter-cry _for_ Whewell. He was, however, seen standing, and was sent for to Whewell. "I was surprised, sir, to see _you_ among that shouting mob the other day." "I was shouting _for_ you," was the reply. Whewell was greatly pleased, and grunted his approbation. Another funny story. A wine-party was going on in Arthur Hallam's rooms in the New Court, when enter angrily the Senior Dean, "Tommy Thorp." "What is the meaning, Mr. Hallam, of all this noise?" "I am very sorry, sir," said Hallam, "we had no idea we were making a noise." "Well, gentlemen, if you'll all come down into the Court, you'll _hear_ what a noise you're making." "Perhaps," admits Tennyson, "I may have put in the _all_." So ends my wife's short journal, and it only remains for me to sum up very briefly the impressions left upon me, after a lapse of fifty, forty, thirty, twenty years, by these visits to Farringford which once made so large a part of my interest and my happiness. Little as I am able to put these impressions into words, I can say with truth that no personality with which I have ever come in close touch, either seemed to me at the time, or has seemed in later recollection, to cover so large, so rich, and so diverse a field for veneration, wonder, and regard. Tennyson was, and is, to me the most remarkable man that I have ever met. Often when I was with him, whether in long walks or in his study, and when I came to think of him silently afterwards, I used to recall his own lines on Wellington: Our greatest yet with least pretence..., Rich in saving common-sense, _And, as the greatest only are, In his simplicity sublime_. Simple, natural, shrewd, humorous; feeling strongly on a vast variety of subjects, and saying freely just what he felt; passing rapidly and easily from the gravest matters of speculation or conduct to some trifling or amusing incident of the moment, or some recollection of the years of his youth; he seemed to me unconscious of being a great man, though he must have known himself to be one of the foremost thinkers, and quite the foremost poet of his day. He was wholly free from affectation. He was never an actor of a part. There was about him always an atmosphere of truth. Truth-teller was our Alfred named,