Then there are his letters. Some years ago, when lectur-
ing to a women's college in the United States, I was con- ducted over their library. I asked them to show me their particular treasures. There were the usual collection of first editions of Emerson and Edgar Allan Poe. There were a few manuscripts of Thoreau. And there was a bundle of letters from Arthur Hallam to his fiancée Elizabeth Tennyson. On them I pounced. It is not easy to describe in measured terms the impression which they produced. It was an impression of sententious heartiness. Many of the letters were written in muscular Italian. There were jocular references to " old Alfred " which were as musty as old Cheddar cheese. There were innumerable, but specious, excuses explaining why, in fact, it would 13° impossible for him to come up to Somersby for the Whitsun vacation. There were short, sharp instructions regarding the books which Elizabeth must read. I returned the letters to the librarian feeling that Miss Tennyson, after all, had been well- advised to marry Captain Jesse of the Royal Navy.
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