austere and unsocial, too much absorbed in the contemplation of his own greatness, to be willing to carry a lady's parasol, or perform such other trivial duty as may fall to a man in the society of the fair sex. Vanity and egotism he displayed in his works, and his conversation was a great deal about himself; he was little interested in the works of other men, and knew little of what passed in the general literary world. He was a man of extremes. in his poetry as in his politics; he started the notion that there existed latent capabilities and attractions in insignificant objects, and to prove his theory he selected trifling subjects on which to weave a poem; but, as the Quarterly Review said, "His doctrine that the business of a poet is to educe an interest where none is apparent, engaged him in efforts to squeeze moisture out of dust."

Hazlitt's notes on Wordsworth's style are worth repeating, as they explain some of the causes of the slow progress his poetry made in public estimation :

"Wordsworth is the poet of mere sentiment, and of many of the Lyrical Ballads it is not possible to speak in terms of too high praise. He has produced a deeper impression, and on a smaller circle than any other of his contemporaries. His powers have been mistaken by the age, nor does he exactly understand them himself. He cannot form a whole. He has not the constructive faculty. He is totally deficient in all the machinery of poetry. His Excursion, taken as a whole, notwithstanding the noble materials thrown away in it, is a proof of this. The line labours, the sentiment moves slow; but the poem stands stock-still. The reader makes no way from the first line to the last. Mr. Wordsworth is at the head of that which has been denominated the Lake school of poetry. This school had its origin in the French Revolution, or rather in those sentiments and opinions which produced that revolution. Our poetical literature had, towards the close of the last century, degenerated into the most trite, insipid, and mechanical of all things,

in the hands of the followers of Pope, and the old French school of poetry. It wanted something to stir it up, and it found that something in the principles and events of the French Revolution."

He then examines the peculiarities of Wordsworth's genius, and truly remarks that the reason that so few people take an interest in his writings is because he takes an interest in nothing that others do.

It is certain that his works have much increased in popularity since his death, and this in a great measure owing to the exertions of the very critics who were supposed to have combined together to drive the public away from their perusal. These gentlemen, on the contrary, nave erected sign-posts and mile-stones on the road, by the aid of which the general reader can go direct to delight in the beauties of Wordsworth's sonnets and ballads; or may easily discover the passages of simple pathos and tender feeling, or alight upon some of the splendours of description scattered up and down in his longer compositions, without being compelled to undertake the wearying task of toiling through The Prelude, The Excursion, or The White Doe of Rhylstone.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

1850.

"Who would not be
The Laureate bold,
With his butt of sherry
To keep him merry,

And nothing to do but to pocket his gold?

'Tis I would be the Laureate bold!

When the days are hot, and the sun is strong,
I'd lounge in the gateway all the day long,
With her majesty's footmen in crimson and gold.
I'd care not a pin for the waiting-lord;

But I'd lie on my back on the smooth green sward,
With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest,
And the cool wind blowing upon my breast,
And I'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky,
And watch the clouds as listless as I,
Lazily, lazily!

And I'd pick the moss and daisies white,
And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite;

And I'd let my fancies roam abroad

In search of a hint for a birth-day ode,

Crazily, crazily!"

BON GAULTIER BALLADS.

FOR more than a quarter of a century Mr. Tennyson has held the title of Poet Laureate, and for the greater part of that time he has justly been considered the real, as well as

the titular poet-king of the latter half of the nineteenth century.

His poems increase in popularity day by day, and many passages of his magnificent word-painting (for Tennyson is nothing, if not artistic) are treasured up as firmly in our minds, as are the sweetly thoughtful words of Shakespeare, or the sprightly elegance of L'Allegro :

"Married to immortal verse

Such as the meeting soul may pierce
In notes, with many a winding bout
Of linked sweetness long drawn out."

It is, therefore, somewhat remarkable that so little is generally known of the poet himself, when other writers of far less eminence are constantly being brought before the public in biographies, sensational articles, photographs, and all the other little stratagems commonly employed to attain notoriety, if not fame.

Yet this is precisely the celebrity which Mr. Tennyson wisely avoids; many years ago, after reading The Life and Letters of a Deceased Poet, he wrote some vigorous lines against the needless publicity to which the life of a man of letters was subjected:

"For now the Poet cannot die

Nor leave his music as of old,

But round him ere he scarce be cold
Begins the scandal and the cry:

"Proclaim the faults he would not show:

Break lock and seal betray the trust:
Keep nothing sacred: 'tis but just
The many-headed beast should know.'
"Ah shameless! for he did but sing

A song that pleased us from its worth;
No public life was his on earth,

No blazon'd statesman he, nor king.

"He gave the people of his best:

His worst he kept, his best he gave.

My Shakespeare's curse on clown and knave
Who will not let his ashes rest."

The little that is known of Tennyson's private life and public career is, like the tone of his writings, irreproachable. In his works he has generally avoided controversial topics, scarce one in a hundred of his readers can judge whether Mr. Tennyson is a Liberal or a Conservative, or can form any idea whether he prefers the stately service of the High Church to the severely simple worship of a Wesleyan chapel. In a few of his earlier poems he expresses his contempt for the Papacy, and when his pen touches upon patriotism it generally expresses some distrust, if not actual dislike, of the French nation:

"For the French the Pope may shrive 'em,

For the devil a whit we heed 'em :

As for the French, God speed 'em

Unto their hearts' desire,

And the merry devil drive 'em

Through the water and the fire."

Yet these are the veriest trifles, and aged ones too, perhaps time and acquaintance have increased his love for our sprightly, kindly, gallant neighbours. He has wisely kept his private views and feelings in the background, as studiously as Wordsworth, on the contrary, displayed his thoughts and opinions in everything he wrote. Not only is this the case in his writings, but from the secluded life he leads, it would appear that he prefers the society of the muses in retired parts of Surrey or the Isle of Wight, to the busy hum of men in the lion-hunting metropolis.

Thus only could we expect to reap the fruits in his