"
The next recollection, and one that sweeps vividly across my memory,
is that of going to Farringford for the first time, and seeing
Tennyson among the surroundings so admirably suited to his tastes and
necessities. The place was much more retired than at present; indeed,
there was neither sight nor sound of any intrusion during those summer
days. The island might have been Prospero's own, it seemed so still
and far away.
Beyond the gardens and the lawn the great downs sloped to the sea, and
in the distance on either hand could be seen the cliffs and shores as
they wound away and were lost in the dim haze that lay between us and
the horizon. We found ourselves suddenly walking as in a dream,
surrounded with the scenery of his poems.
It is still easy to distinguish with perfect clearness to the "inward
eye" two figures rambling along the downs that lovely day, and pausing
at a rude summer-house, a kind of forgotten shelter, a relic of some
other life. The great world was still as only the noon of summer knows
how to be; the air blew freshly up from the sea, and the figures
stopped a moment to look and rest. The door of the shelter hung idly
on rusted hinges, and the two entered to enjoy the shade. Turning,
they saw the whole delicious scene framed in the rude doorway. "Ah,"
the lady said, "I have found one of your haunts. I think you must
sometimes write here." Tennyson looked at her with a smile which said,
"I can trust my friends;" and putting his hand up high over the door,
he took from the tiny ledge a bit of pencil and paper secreted there,
held them out to her for one moment, and then carefully put them back
again.
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