Archery from this time became an established pastime in Scotland, amicably sharing men’s leisure with its old enemies golf and football, while with the ladies it took rank as their chief, if not only, outdoor pastime. Queen Margaret herself might possibly have taken her place with credit beside the six Englishmen she backed in this match against her son; for we are told by Leland and others that Henry’s sister was no mean shot, while her unfortunate grandchild, Mary Queen of Scots, was as fond of archery as was her cousin Elizabeth of England and many another lady of that time.
[TENNYSON AND MRS. CARLYLE.]
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!”
How dear is fatherland to all noble hearts.—Voltaire.