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With great,

Art. I.-TENNYSON AND HIS "MAUD." Maud, and Other Poems. By Alfred Tennyson, D.C.L.,

Poet Laureate. London: Moxon. 1855.

Five-and-twenty years ago Eflingham Wilson published a volume of poems for a young man then in College: he was only known as the son of a clergyman down in the country; and he bore the name of Alfred Tennyson. It was an odd book, full of genius, thought, new coined words, and those mental gymnastics known as esthetic ideas. and grave follies it combined the deepest and truest spirit of Poetry. Critics praised and abused ; lectured and suggested ; in one page “flooring" the poet, in the next "back. ing him up” well to the public; but in all phases of criticism admitting his genius, even whilst regretting his wayward fancies.

A second volume appeared in the year 1832, and this was marked by many of the characteristics of the earlier publication ; but the working of a mind, striving to achieve a perfect poem was evident; and again the critics blamed, and praised, and petted, and all but spoiled the poet.

Ten years passed on, and the mind of the young student grew with these years, in force and strength. All these years he lived for poesy, and in studying the fair proportions of his idol he learned to know how stilted, how cold, how artificial were the offerings with which, in his early days of poetic adoration, he had decked her shrine.

Ten years of thought; of study; of whole-leart devotion to any pursuit must produce results marked and patent, even where men are less gifted thau Alfred Tennyson ; and when, VOL. V.-NO. XIX.


That whitened all the eastern ridge,

in 1842, Moxon, that poet-publisher for poets, issued the two volumes of Poems, now in the hands of all; the author's mind seemed to have acquired the strength and sustaining power which make the poem immortal, and the poet a demi-god. The books showed that the poetic wild-oats of youthful faucy were sown; The Laily of Shalott was gravely dressed ; The Lotus-Eaters was touched and re-touched, and was all the more rich in its dreamy loveliness for the changes; in The Miller's Daughter, the charming Miller's Daughter, the lover's mother was introduced, but these following verses were omitted, and we think not justly : "Remember you the clear moonlight I heard, as I have seem'd to hear

When all the under air was still, When o'er the water dancing white,

The low voice of the glad new year I stepp'd upon the old mill-bridge ?

Call to the freshly-flowered hill. I heard you whisper from above,

I heard, as I have often heard A lute-toned whisper, I am here !

The nightingale in leafy woods I murmur'd, speak again, my love,

Call to its mate when nothing stirr'd The stream is loud : I cannot hear!

To left or right, but falling floods !" But though the poet's mind was there in all the glory of its power and magic charms, yet still the besetting fault, dreaming oddity of fancy was present, and none could say, “Tennyson is a great poet :" it was not that he-" nodded,” he slept, he snored, and in his slumbers strange contortions and twinings half amused, half disgusted, the astonished, wondering, admiring reader.

The Princess came next; then, In Memoriam, and now we have Maud, and other Poems,--would we had never seen this latter.

What is the true characteristic of genuine poetry? Its power of reaching, exciting, and enthralling every heart. What' is the characteristic of Maud ? Maudlin semi-insanity; words meaning nothing worth remembering; and a disjointed tale of love and blood, to be discovered after close and laborious application to the text, omitting the various gasps and gaps of passionate prose ruu mad which intervene.

But what is Maud? Is it a medley ? a dramatic poem We confess we do not know what to call it; and as to its outbursts of passion, they are precisely such as Sim Tappertit might, in his bloody-minded moments, have addressed to Miss Miggs. It is not a poem worthy the author of the Miller's Daughter, of Locksley Hall, of Oriana, or of the other exqui. site pieces that have rendered Tennyson the poet of the time. Readers have paused in wonder at many a weak and unworthy

passage in The Princess and in In Memoriam, but if this Maud, or any other poem contained in this volume, is to be considered as the latest specimen of the Laureate's best style, readers will quickly discover that the fancy and imagery of Alexander Smith, and the wild pathos, the deep-hearted poetry of Gerald Massey, are truer, and nobler, and worthier sources of pride to the Nation, than the weak affectations which disfigure the poem now before us.

If poetry consisted in exciting horror ; if it were allowable to astonish the reader by a series of disjointed episodes; if a poet could support his reputation by the occasional introduction of a few lines reminding one of his higher productions in earlier and more ambitious days, one might consider Maud a thirdrate composition; but, as these things are not allowable, Maud must be looked upon gently, for the sake of the pleasant lours its author has given us in times of truer inspiration.

Well, asks the reader, what is Maud, and what is the story ? Reader, Daud opens with blood, thus :

I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood,
Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath,
The red-ribb d ledges drip with a silent horror of blood,
And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers • Death.'

For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found,
His who had given me life-0 father! O God! was it well ?
Mangied, and flatten'd, and crush d, and dinted into the ground:
There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he fell.

After this introduction we have some lines in the true Tennysonian style, abusing this our age : then, with a recollection of Doctor Hassell, and the Adulteration of Food Committee, the author thus writes, and one can fancy that he is versifying the police reports of the cheap Sunday papers:

Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone by,
When the poor are hovell’d and bustled together, each sex, like swine,
When only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie;
Peace in her vineyard-yes ! --but a company forges the wine.
And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian's head,
Til the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the trampled wife,
While chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor for bread,
And the spirit of murder works in the very means of life.
And Sleep must lie down arm'd, for the villainous centre-bits
Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moonless nights,
While another is cheating the sick of a few last gasps, as he sits
To pestle a poison'd poison behind his crimson lights.
When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a burial fee,
And Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of children's bones,
Is it peace or war? better, war! lourd war by land and by sea,
War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hundred thrones.

For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder round by the hill,
And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out of the foarn.'
That the smoothfaced snubnosed rogue would leap from his counter and till

And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yardwand, home. Having thus disposed of the times, Tennyson, with some rhyme, but no reason, thus abruptly introduces Maud :

There are workmen up at the Hall: they are coming back from abroad,
The dark old place will be gilt by the touch of a millionra re:
I have heard, I know not whence, of the singular beauty of Mand,
I play'd with the girì when a child; she promised then to be fair.
Mand with her venturous climbings and tumbles and childish escapes,
Blaid the delight of the village, the ringing joy of the llall,
Maud with her sweet purse-mouth when iny father dangled the grapes,
Maud the beloved of iny mother, the moon-faced darling of all, -
What is she now! My dreams are bad. She may bring me a curse.
No, there is fatter gaine on the moor; she will let me alone.
Thanks, for the fiend best knows whether woman or man be the worse.

I will bury myself in my books, and the Devil may pipe to his own. At length Maud arrives at the village, and the hero being "round the corner" along with all the bumpkins, catches a glimpse of her "sensitive nose," and going home he thus pours out his feelings :

Long have I sigh'd for a calm: God grant I may find it at last!
It will never be broken by Maud, she has neither savour nor salt,
But a cold and clear-cut face, as I found when her carriage past,
Perfectly beautiful: let it be granted her: where is the fault?
All that I saw (for her eyes were downcast, not to be seen)
Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null,
Dead perfection, no more; nothing more, if it had not been
For a chance of travel, a paleness, an lour's defect of the rose,
Or an underlip, you inay call it a little too ripe, too full,
Or the least little delicate aquiline curve in a sensitive nose,

From which I escaped heart-free, with the least little touch of spleen The “sensitive nose appears to have acted upon the mind of the lover with an Unfortunate Miss Bailey, Giles Scroggins, and Ghost of a Grim Scrag of Dutton, combined porter, and Tennyson, thus, not forgetting his never failing “Orion describes his restless condition :

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Cold and clear cut face, why come you so cruelly meek,
Breaking a slumber in which all spleenful folly was drown'd,
Pale with the golden beam of an eyelash dead on the cheek,
Passionless, pale, cold face, star-sweet on a gloom profound;
Womanlike, taking rerenge too deep for a transient wrong
Done but in thought to your beauty, and ever as pale as before
Growing and fading and growing upon me without a sound,
Luminous, gemlike, ghostlike, deathlike, half the night long
Growing and fading and growing, till I conld bear it no more,
But arose, and all by myself in my own dark garden ground,
Listening now to the tide in its broad fiung ship-wreching roar,
Now to the scream of a madden'd beach dragg'd down by the ware,
Walk'd in a wintry wind by a ghastly glimmer, and found

The shining daffodil dead, and Orion low in his grare.
He meets Maud as she rode by on the moor;" she flashes

with pride at his salutation, and having told himself that she

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is a "milkwhite fawn," and "all unmeet for a wife," that she has “ wandered about at her will,” he adds, prettily"You have but fed on the roses, and lain in the lilies of life.”'

Let the reader bear in mind that these lines above quoted are from the pen of Alfred Tennyson : the man of all others in these Kingdoms from whom one might expect taste and feeling. Who could believe that the writer of The Miller's Daughter was able to indite this nonsense. We have heard Tennyson called thoughtful and philosophic, like Wordsworth; fanciful as Coleridge ; pathetic, yet strony, as Crabbe. But is this like Wordsworth, or Coleridge, or Crabbe?

Maud's brother appears to have excited the lover's anger; Sin writes;

"That dandy-despot, he,
That jewell'd muss of millinery,
That vild and curld Assyrian Bull,
Smelling of musk and of insolence,

ller brother." Tappertit is found trespassing by the brother, and angry at being so discovered, he thus describes him, and he reminds us of a saying of Charles Lamb--we paint our enemies so unflatteringly that no body knows them. There is a curious problem in obstetrics and physiology suggested towards the end of this extract, in which it is stated that Maud is “only the child of her mother.” Scorn'd, to be scorn'd by one that I scorn, Why sits he here in his father's chair? Is that a matter to make me fret ?

That old man never comes to his place: That a calamity hard to be borne ?

Shall I believe him ashamed to be seen? Well, he may live to hate me yet.

For only once, in the village street, Fool that I am to be vext with his pride! Last year, I canght a glimpse of his face, I pasi him, I was crossing his lands; A gray old wolf and a lean. He stood un the path a little aside;

Scarcely, now, would I call him a chcat; His face, as I grant, in spite of spite, For then, perhaps, as a child of deceit, Has a broad-blown comeliness, red and She might by a true descent be untrue; white,

And Maud is as true as Maud is sweet: And six feet two, as I think, he stands; Tho' I fancy her sweetness only due But his essences turn'd the live air sick, To the sweeter blood by the other side; And barbarous opulence jewel-thick

Her mother has been a thing compleie, Sunnd itself on his breast and his hands.

And fuir without, taithful within, Who shall call me ungentle, unfair,

Maud to him is nothing akin : I lonx'd so earnestly then and there Svine peculiar inystic grace To give him the grasp of fellowship; Made her only the child of her mother, But while I past he was humming an air, And heap'd the whole inherited sin Stopt, and then with a riding whip

On that huge scapegoat of the race,
Laurely tapping a glossy boot,

All, all upon the drother.
And curving a contunelious lip,
Gorgonised me from head to foot
With a stony British stare.

Far upon a lonely moor he sees his mistress ride, and by her side her brother and a

"new made lord, splendour plucks
The slavish hat from the villager's head."

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However she came to be so allied.

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