, 1876-03-03
Tennyson's Summer Home.

I sat upon a projecting rock on the
Isle of Tintigel, hundreds of feet above
the sea, which was rolling in upon the
beach below with wayward Incidence.
Close by rose the tall cliffs of the Cornish
coast, with their rock-ribbed sides
The ruins of the castle, with its decayed
and totterihg stones, rise again, in i'm
agination, in all of its barbaric splendor;
towers and battlements glistened with the
spears of armed men; the rattling Ofarms
and tramp of steeds were heard coming
down the ravine-a goodly company OF
brave knights and fair ladies-at their
head, he, Arthur, their king, and riding
by his side, on her snow white palfrey, the
sweet bat faithless Guinevere, and behind
them, foremost among the train, Lancelot'
With merry laughter and many a courtly
Jest they passed over the bridge, (Which
now the waves of the Atlantic have swept
away, leaving but few rough stones into
the castle.
My day dream was suddenly interrupt |
ed by discovering a stranger near me.
l arose from my seat and approached
him. 1t was one of those wild solitudes, |
far away from any human habitation,
where you would always forget the ordi-
nary formalities of life, and address any
stranger you might happen to meet. Be-
fore reached him, l knew, although
had never looked on his face before, that
l stood in the presence of the great ma
gician who had peopled the ruins and the
solitude around me with bright visions.
1t was the poet Tennyson; the face and
figure which had seen so often pictured
could not be mistaken. Like most men
of mark he had a striking appearance,
and wherever you met him, you would at
once have set him down as a man of no
ordinary character; tall, but looking taller
than he really was on account ofhis spare
frame; sallow complexion, with keen
dark eyes and shaggy eyebrows, unshaven,
with long beard and mustache turning
iron gray, and long hair of the same color
falling to his shoulders, he had a gener-
ally unkempt appearance; his dress did
not appear to have been made by a fash
ionable tailor, and it looked as If some
years had elapsed since it was first worn;
in his mouth he had short black
pipe, which he was smoking. Not the
kind of man that the reader would i'm
agine wrote "Come into the Garden,
Maud"
first accosted him, saying:
81 believe have the honor ofspeaking
to Mr.. Tennyson"
In reply he stifiy bowed his head,
somewhat surlily, 1 thought.
l told him who / was, and that | had come
to Tntigel to look upon the scenes he had
made so familiar to readers of English
literature. He commenced asking me
questions, mostly concerning the United
States, its literature, and the English au-
thors that were mostly read there. He
expressed a great admiration for Long
fellow, whom he knew personally. He
then poiLted out various objects of inter
est that had escaped my notice among
the ruins of the castle, on the island and
the shore, among others King Arthur's
drinking cup, huge piece of rock hol-
lowed out into the shape of bowl, and
large enough to hold the contents OF a
barrel, and a small chapel, the foundation
of which can be traced, and in which the
altar stone, solid piece of hewn rock,
still remains perfect. =
} The island is but few hundred yards
! in diameter. 1t is almost circular and
] rises out of the sea, with abrupt precip-
itous sides, at least two hundred feet
high. On the nearest point of the main
land considerable portion of the ruins
} of the castle are to be found. The poet
stated that he believed that the island had
! been originally connected with the main
land by narrow isthmus that the sea
had washed away, or else that a bridge
J had been built over, which had shared
the same fate. There are traces of ma
sonry on both sides, and at low tide you
can still walk across. We walked up the
ravine which leads down to the sea, into
the high lane, and he pointed out to me
the supposed field of Camelot, the scene
of the Kings last struggle.
"There," said he, sis a panorama.
Every spot on which your eye rests has
some historical interest" II had none
other, for the country was as bleak and
wild as can be imagined, with scarcely
any vegetation. Away north was Laun-
ceston, tn whose abbey the faithless GUM
evere retired and became its Lady Abbess.
A few miles away was the little town Of
Camelford (the Camelot), and yonder a
small lake that might have served for the
burial place of "Excalibar."
We walked over to the small village of
I1ntigel, n dreary looking place of one
street, containing a few houses of the
poorer class, "a small inn and one handsome
house, which was the summer residence
of Mr.. Scott, then the editor of the Sat-
urddy ReUielo. The place could have but
two charms-its historic associations, and
its solitude. Both are evidently attrac.
tions to the poet laureate, for he frequent
ly spends weeks at the place, roaming
around the wild coast scenery alone,
dreaming of the heroes that once fought
and did deeds of daring upon its now des-
olate shores, and framing other poetic
stories to be added to the Idyls of the
King.