Mrs. Carlyle wrote in 1843: “Pickwick, Bulwer Lytton and Alfred
Tennyson—the last is the greatest genius, though the vulgar public have
not as yet recognized him as such. He is a very handsome man, and a
noble-hearted one, with something of the gipsy in his appearance which,
for me, is perfectly charming. One night at private theatricals in
being escorted through a long dim passage to a private box, I came on
a tall man leant to the wall, with his head touching the ceiling, to
all appearance asleep, or resolutely trying it under most unfavorable
circumstances. ‘Alfred Tennyson!’ I exclaimed in joyful surprise.
‘Well,’ said he, taking the hand I held out to him, and forgetting to
let it go again. ‘I did not know you were in town,’ said I. ‘I should
like to know who you are,’ said he; ‘I know that I know you, but I can
not tell your name.’ And I had actually to name myself to him. Then
he woke up in good earnest, and said he had been meaning to come to
Chelsea. ‘But Carlyle is in Scotland,’ I told him with due humility.
‘So I heard from Spedding already, but I asked Spedding, would he go
with me to see Mrs. Carlyle? and he said he would.’ Last Sunday I was
lying on the sofa, headachey, when a cab drove up. Mr. Strachey? No.
Alfred Tennyson alone! Actually, by a superhuman effort of volition he
had put himself into a cab, nay, brought himself away from a dinner
party, and was there to smoke and talk with me!—by myself—me!”
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