Every man of letters, however humble, is accustomed to these salutations, and probably Lord Tennyson receives scores every morning at breakfast.  Like all distinguished poets, like Scott certainly, we presume that he is annoyed with huge parcels of MSS.  These (unless Lord Tennyson is more fortunate than other singers) he is asked to read, correct, and return with a carefully considered opinion as to the sender’s chance of having “Assur ban-i-pal,” a tragedy, accepted at the Gaiety Theatre.  Rival but unheard-of bards will entreat him to use his influence to get their verses published.  Others (all the world knows) will send him “spiteful letters,” assuring him that “his fame in song has done them much wrong.”  How interesting it would be to ascertain the name of the author of that immortal “spiteful letter”!  Probably many persons have felt that they could make a good guess; no less probably they have been mistaken.

In no way can the recipient avoid making enemies of the authors of all these communications if he is at all an honest, irascible man.  Mr. Dickens used to reply to total strangers, and to poets like Miss Ada Menken, with a dignified and sympathetic politeness which disarmed wrath.  But he probably thereby did but invite fresh trouble of the same kind.  Mr. Thackeray (if a recently-published answer was a fair specimen) used to answer more briefly and brusquely.  One thing is certain.  No criticism not entirety laudatory, which the Involuntary Bailee may make of his correspondent’s MS., will be accepted without remonstrance.  Doubtless Lord Tennyson has at last chosen the only path of safety by declining to answer his unknown correspondents, or to return their rubbish, any more.

Of course, it is a wholly different affair when the anonymous correspondent sends several brace of grouse, or a salmon of noble proportions, or rare old books bound by Derome, or a service of Worcester china with the square mark, or other tribute of that kind.  Probably some dozen of rhymers sent Lord Tennyson amateur congratulatory odes when he was raised to the peerage.  If he is at all like other poets, he would have preferred a few dozen of extremely curious old port, or a Villon published by Galiot du Pre, or a gold nugget, or some of the produce of the diamond mines, to any number of signed congratulations from total strangers.  Actors seem to receive nicer tributes than poets.  Two brace of grouse were thrown on the stage when Mr. Irving was acting in a northern town.  This is as picturesque as, and a great deal more permanently enjoyable than, a shower of flowers and wreaths.  Another day a lady threw a gold cross on the stage, and yet another enthusiast contributed rare books appropriately bound.  These gifts will not, of course, be returned by a celebrity who respects himself; but they bless him who gives and him who takes, much more than tons of manuscript poetry, and thousands of entreaties for an autograph, and millions of announcements that the writer will be “proud to drink your honour’s noble health.”