to resent the
smallest criticism of his works from the humblest reader. There are
many stories of this, how he declaimed against the lust of gossip,
which he called with rough appositeness "ripping up a man like a pig,"
and thanked God with all his heart and soul that he knew nothing of
Shakespeare's private life; and in the same breath went on to say that
he thought that his own fame was suffering from a sort of congestion,
because he had received no letters about his poems for several days.

In later life he became very pessimistic, and believed that the world
was sinking fast into dull materialism, petty selfishness, and moral
anarchy. He had less opportunity of knowing what was going on in the
world than most people, in his sheltered and secluded life, with his
court of friends and worshippers. And indeed it was not a rational
pessimism; it was but the shadow of his fear. And the fact remains that
in spite of a life of great good fortune, and an undimmed supremacy of
fame, he spent much of his time in fighting shadows, involved in clouds
of darkness and dissatisfaction. That was no doubt the price he paid
for his exquisite perception of beauty and his power of melodious
expression. But we make a great mistake if we merely think of Tennyson
as a rich and ample nature moving serenely through life. He was
"black-blooded," he once said, adding, "like all the Tennysons."
Doubtless he had in his mind his father, a man often deeply in the grip
of melancholy. And the absurd legend, invented probably by Rossetti,
contains a truth in it and may be quoted here. Rossetti said that he
once went to dine with a friend in London, and was shown into a dimly
lit drawing-room with no one to receive him. He went towards the
fireplace, and suddenly to his surprise discovered an immensely tall
man in evening dress lying prostrate on the hearthrug, his face
downwards, in an attitude of prone despair. While he gazed, the
stranger rose to his feet, looked fixedly at him, and said, "I must
introduce myself; I am Octavius, the most morbid of the Tennysons."

With Ruskin we have a different case. He was brought up in the most
secluded fashion, and though he was sharply enough disciplined into
decorous behaviour by his very grim and positive mother, he was guarded
like a precious jewel, and as he grew up he was endlessly petted and
indulged. The Ruskins lived a very comfortable life in a big villa with
ample grounds at Denmark Hill. Whatever