The breadth of the outlook upon Nature shown by the references in the Poet's works is only equalled by the minute accuracy of observation displayed. Astronomy, geology, meteorology, biology, and, indeed, all branches of science except chemistry, are thus made to bring their tribute, so that finally we have a perfect poetic garland, which displays for us the truths of Nature and Human Nature intertwined. MEMORIES By E. V. B. How kind to ask for some of my few small memories of your father--treasured memories which no length of years can ever rub out. And how much I like to recall them, though, alas! there is so little; it was so seldom that we met in those unforgotten times. Once, I remember, I sent him a rose from my garden, a black beauty, rather rare in those old days--"L'Empereur de Maroque," now quite cut out by "Prince Camille de Rohan." I keep the little word of thanks that came afterwards in return: MY DEAR E. V. B.--Many thanks for your more amiable than beautiful Black Rose. I don't mean to be personal, but am, yours always, TENNYSON. Another of his notes is the one wherein he gave me leave to illustrate "The May Queen." His words in the note were: "I would rather you than any one else should do it." His poems were a joy to me, even in childhood--from the days when, dull lesson hours, etc., being done, I could steal away and no one know, and, sitting on the carpet by the home book-shelves, read over and over on the sly from a bound volume (one of _Blackwood's Magazines_), where were long extracts from Tennyson's poems, especially the earlier ones, and amongst them one called "Adeline." There was certainly a magic in the poetry, scarce found elsewhere--magic even for a child of ten. [Illustration: SUMMER-HOUSE AT FARRINGFORD, WHERE "ENOCH ARDEN" WAS WRITTEN. Carved and painted by Alfred Lord Tennyson.] Do you remember how you used to tell me that your father had a great love for the red rose? He sent me, for my _Ros Rosarum_, lines on a Rosebud by himself: THE ROSEBUD The night with sudden odour reel'd, The southern stars a music peal'd, Warm beams across the meadow stole, For Love flew over grove and field, Said, "Open, Rosebud, open, yield Thy fragrant soul." I know he loved the poet's colour--lilac. A long-past scene in the garden at Farringford still remains in the mind's eye fresh and vivid--painted in with memory's fast colours among the pictures of remembrance.