WHEN

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THEN the news of the death of Tennyson was flashed along the wires, many hearts echoed his own words in the "Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington," "The last great Englishman is low." Many more would have echoed them had they read, "The last great English poet is low," for it is a fact that no one remained whom the people deemed worthy of the succession to the Laureate's high position. It had been filled too long by a man of consummate genius, whose faultless taste had added new lustre to its honors, to be handed down to any minor poet of the day whose talents elevated him a little "above the unlettered plain, its herd and crop." Swinburne could not be placed in such a category as that, but for many reasons there was little real enthusiasm for Swinburne. Had Robert Browning been alive, there would have been no hesitation. He was born to the purple, and the world had at last acknowledged it.