But in this poem his allusions are not only very frequent, but also very severe. Thus he satirizes the sleepy land in which Sir Aylmer lived, and its conservative lethargy; or, again, the idea so prevalent among the higher classes of society that the whole object of life is to preserve game and fall back upon the glories of a name. The fault of the whole piece is perhaps the irritable and spiteful tone which pervades it. This may be accounted for by the hatred which the laureate shows here no less than in the rest of his works of the cardinal vice of overweening pride. And to this spiteful feeling we may in turn attribute the gloomy view of life which he takes. Thus speaking of the legal profession, which he calls the "lawless science of our law," he alludes to the unfairness of fortune in her favours and the uncertainty of success

Thro' which a few, by wit or fortune led,

May beat a pathway out to wealth and fame.

But the one vice so common to the present day on which Mr. Tennyson has spoken with the saddest enthusiasm, and which is the groundwork of some of his greatest and most celebrated poems, is the attempt to stifle real love. Pure and loyal devotion to a woman can only be the product of a high state of civilization; and when a parent sells his daughter to the highest bidder he is travelling back into the darkness of the early centuries. This sin, accordingly, is lashed by the poet with the strongest invective. He describes how Edith's parents tried to lure all the wealthiest and noblest of their neighbours into their net, and to force their daughter to give up her real love for Leolin to another whom she could not ever sincerely love; and he remarks how they two contrived every thing for "her good" as they tried to make themselves believe

Her worldly wise begetters plagued themselves
To sell her, those good parents for her good.

These two traits, and a few other illusions like that wondrous sympathy between absent friends mentioned in

Star to star vibrates light: may soul to soul
Strike through a finer element of her own?

which recalls to our minds a similar passage in the Princess,. are the chief points of resemblance between Sir Aylmer's Field and the rest of Mr. Tennyson's works: but the differences are not less marked or distinct. It remains for me, therefore, to mention some of the most important.

The first thing that strikes any one reading Sir Aylmer's Field for the first time is the number of expressions or passages which appear awkward or difficult to understand. And this difficulty of meaning is quite different from that which we meet with in Mr. Browning. For Mr. Tennyson's mind is cast in a mould altogether distinct from that of his great contemporary. When the former conceives an idea he clothes it at once in the most telling and enticing language, and if he pauses for an instant, it is only because he cannot choose between the number of rich words that crowd in upon his mind. If, therefore, he becomes anywhere obscure, it is generally because he has not taken sufficient pains to arrange his words. But when the latter has conceived any idea, his mind travels so quick, that he feels that in its present form it would be unintelligible to the majority of his readers. His first impulse, therefore, is not to clothe it in the richest garb, but rather in the plainest. The thought is with him the soul of poetry, and not the mode of expression. Hence, when we find him hard to understand, it is because the numerous ideas which have presented themselves to his imagination are not sufficiently discriminated, the mist of thought not properly cleared up. He is stunned by the exuberance of thought, not of language. In Aylmer's Field, therefore, the dark expressions, and in particular the haze which hangs over the rector's sermon seem to point out a want of care and pains on the part of the poet. In Enoch Arden, not a word seems out of its due place; but here the execution is much less artistic.

I will merely quote one passage, by way of example, which is taken from the Rector's Sermon.

Thou wilt not gash thy flesh for Him: for thine
Fares richly, in fine linen, not a hair
Ruffled upon the scarfskin, even while
The deathless ruler of thy dying house
Is wounded to the death that cannot die.

If we were to compare this passage with an obscure expression from Robert Browning's works, we should see the truth of the remark which I have made above. The meaning of this piece is not obscure from the depth or exuberance of its thought, but simply from the language and the play upon words. Mr. Tennyson cannot resist the temptation of using an Oxymoron wherever he has an opportunity. When compared with a somewhat similar expression at the end of Guinevere, the allusion seems to be

to the soul, and the meaning of the piece as follows: Though with your daughter has passed away and died the whole house of Aylmer, and though your conscience tells you that in your immortal soul you have bowed down to another god, a god of acreage rather than the God of Heaven, yet do you show yourself still impenitent and are unwilling to humble yourself before Him. In addition to the longer passages there are many expressions like "neither loved nor liked," a repetition which is hardly forcible; or again "ran a Malayan muck," or lastly

"Seconded, for my lady followed suit,"

an allusion that is almost humorous, and on that account not quite in accordance with the spirit of the passages which seem to warrant us in assuming that the poet took less pains in working at Aylmer's Field than Enoch Arden.

In considering the next three poems which follow Aylmer's Field there is not much to delay us. The first of them is entitled "Sea Dreams," and is one of those moral pieces which by the neatness of the plot and the delicacy of its language tend so much to preserve Mr. Tennyson's popularity among his admirers. A celebrated French critic, who in a comparison between Tennyson and Alfred de Musset awards the palm of genius to the latter, considers that our poet's popularity depends on the sympathy which his audience feel with him in the subjects which he chooses. "Sa poésie," he remarks "semble faite exprès pour ces bourgeois opulents, cultivés, libres, heritiers de l'ancienne noblesse, chefs modernes d'une Angleterre nouvelle. elle fait partie de leur luxe comme de leur morale: elle est une confirmation éloquente de leurs principes et un meuble précieux de leur salon." This little piece is merely meant to convey the lesson of forgiveness to us, and it owes its name to the dreams which a city clerk and his wife are represented as having dreamed. It is very tasteful and pretty, but when we have said this we have said all that can be said for it.

Car

The next two pieces are quite distinct from any other pieces in the volume before us, and they present many points of similarity between themselves. They belong to that class of literature which we should call dramatic, and so far they resemble Enoch Arden and Aylmer's Field. But in other respects they are quite distinct. For they contain as it were no plot. They are merely little touches and small portraits of one phase of character. They are certainly very pretty and even perfect in themselves, but they are of such a kind

that we can attach no importance to them.
Had they
appeared by themselves in the lists under a mask and with-
out a name, critics would have pronounced them happy and
promising, but they would not have entitled their author to
the praises of genius or originality. As it is, the prowess of
their artificer being known, they have been loudly praised,
and in fact the second of them has been received with more
enthusiasm than any other poem in the book. In one point
certainly they present Mr. Tennyson to our view in almost,
I may say, a new light. Hitherto with the exception perhaps
of "Amphion" in his book of poems, and one or two touches
here and there he has shown no signs of humour. But
these two poems are full to overflowing of this thoroughly
Saxon element. People could not understand how it was
that a great English poet like Mr. Tennyson should be
deficient in that quality which has been so prominent in the
works of so many of our greatest poets including the names
of Chaucer, Shakspeare, and Dryden. But now the Poet
Laureate has shown that in common with other qualities he
possesses this indispensable requisite for dramatic poetry.
The Northern Farmer is certainly the greatest success of the
two poems: and the subject is one which we should expect
to be more congenial to the tastes of our poet, both from his
early acquaintance with the eastern counties and the natural
constitution of his mind. The way in which the mind of
the Farmer is always reverting to his farm, is very cleverly
kept up by the poet; and even in his most serious moments
we find him mixing up his duty to his farm and his duty to
God as if they were synonymous terms.

I weänt saäy men be loiars, thof summun said it in 'aäste :
But a reäds wonn sarmin a weeäk, an' I 'a stubb'd Thornaby

waäste.

He cannot bear the thought of dying before he has stubbed up and ploughed the whole common, and while his cows are calving. It is an enigma which he cannot solve. Again the comparison between the parson's sermons and the buzzing of a buzzard-clock is very humorous. But though it is perfect in itself, it can only be regarded as a very successful experiment. Our poet Laureate has tried his strength on several of the separate parts which make a perfect drama, and every one must hope that he will attempt the harder and more tedious work of writing a complete drama upon which posterity may decide whether Tennyson shall be

"a name to resound for ages."

That morn would see him dubbed a knight,

To join the valiant band

Of those who for their country's right

Fought in a stranger land.

In festal robes with stately pace

The long procession came:

Churchmen and lords of high degree,
With dames of noble name.