I believe that in the early days of our acquaintance the Poet, seeing me with what appeared to be a notebook under my arm, suspected me of Boswellizing, but I was duly warned and reassured him of my innocence. I simply recorded very briefly in my diary a few of his "dicta" which I wished to have for the benefit of my children, one of whom was a frequent and delighted listener to the Laureate's reading of his own poems. Mary Coleridge, at that time a shy, timid girl, was more than once asked to dictate the particular poems she wanted him to recite. I can hear him saying, "Give me my seven-and-sixpenny" (meaning the single volume edition), and then we listened to the "high Orphic chant," rather than the conventional reading of many of our favourite poems. I often asked for the "Ode on the Duke of Wellington," and on one occasion, in the presence of Sir Charles Stanford--then organist of Trinity College, Cambridge--the Poet, lowering his voice at the words, "God accept him, Christ receive him," added: "It's a mighty anthem, that's what it is." Stanford's music to "The Voyage of Mældune" was written at Freshwater, and four of us visitors sang a lovely quartet in that work for the first time in the Poet's presence. It was rather nervous work, for the composer and ourselves were anxious to satisfy the Poet in a work intended as a novelty for the Leeds Festival. The verdict was rather enigmatical: "I like the ripple of your music." It met with a good reception at Leeds, and Madame Albani expressed a confident hope in my hearing that the work would become popular. I wish the prophecy had been adequately fulfilled, but English audiences, though, like the Athenians of old, clamouring for a new thing, are very cautious in giving more than one or two trials to musical novelties. It is lamentable to see works which have cost long years, perhaps a lifetime, of skilled experience, shelved in musical libraries or relegated to foreign audiences for adjudication of their real value.