not to feel afraid of you; and that he is beginning to get over
your extreme insolence to him when he was young and you were in
your meridian splendor and glory. So one reads your simplicity. He
was very violent with the girls on the subject of the rage for
autographs. He said he believed every crime and every vice in the
world was connected with the passion for autographs and anecdotes
and records; that the desiring anecdotes and acquaintance with the
lives of great men was treating them like pigs, to be ripped open
for the public; that he knew he himself should be ripped open like
a pig; that he thanked God Almighty with his whole heart and soul
that he knew nothing, and that the world knew nothing, of
Shakspeare but his writings."

All of which sounds not unlike what Carlyle himself might have said in
those days; and yet what personal revelations he made to the world
before his death!

The news that Lord Tennyson is writing his autobiography may be sent by
cable almost any day now, and the world will not receive it with any
great surprise, but with very great interest and pleasure. This dislike
of being lionized and overrun by celebrity hunters is probably one great
reason why the poet prefers the solitude of the country to a residence
in London. His servants and family guard him very securely from
unwelcome visitors in his country home. The injunctions against
disturbing him while at his work are so strong, that one day during the
life of Prince Albert that distinguished _attache_ of royalty was
refused admittance at the door. The poet formed a friendship with the
Prince, however, later in life, and is now an occasional visitor to the
Queen at Windsor. He is also a favorite with the Princess of Wales and
other members of the royal family. But even such august friends as these
do not draw him often from his solitude. Mr. Gladstone begs him in vain
for a visit, and his invitations to the houses of the great lords are of
course many and importunate; but of late he refuses them all. He says he
will never again voluntarily pass a week in London, and he is not more
fond of visits to country houses than to the city. Nor can we wonder
much at this. He has never been a society man, and now that he is old,
and growing somewhat feeble, the effort to conform to the demands of a
conventional life is harder than ever. He tried taking a house in London
and spending the se