It is from the difficulty of assuming this stand-point, that Tennyson can hardly be called a people's poet, and Maud, which is peculiarly Tennysonian, is consequently peculiarly unappreciated. Such is the object of this poem. To attain it, to pass from cynicism to philanthrophy, a certain number of stages must be passed through, each of which is shown in the successive soliloquies. We have not time to do more than glance at the principal divisions of the poem. Besides the first and last soliloquies, which may be regarded as prologue and epilogue, setting forth the first condition and final result, the poem may be divided into three separate parts. From II to VII inclusive, is the stage of doubt, from VIII to XXI, the season of certainty, from XXII to XXV, the period of frenzy. Let us examine these more minutely. The prologue gives a picture of a mind gloating over the image of a father's suicide, and of a world, irredeemably steeped in sin, misery and death, yet all the while "smiling a hard-set smile." Here, as everywhere, Tennyson's great forte, what has been termed his dynamical treatment of landscape, is most happily shown. A, to us, pleasant and somewhat tame spot, but the scene of a father's suicide, is "6 the dreadful hollow behind the little wood, The sight of beauty and the love of woman work a change-a very gradual and reluctant change, for it is not an easy thing to believe that truthful passion lives any longer under the sun, very difficult indeed to suppose that the poor and unknown should be blessed with the love of the rich, the famed and the courted. Rarely do we find more powerfully portrayed the rapid revulsions of feeling, the yielding one moment to the instincts of the heart; and the next called back to distrust and hate by the raven of a morbid suspicion, that ever croaks "Keep watch and ward, keep watch and ward, Or thou wilt prove their tool." Doubt, however, is an abnormal condition; sooner or later truth must triumph, and nought is stronger than the truth of love. Slowly, resistingly, but certainly, we yield to its power. What a change it works on a mind long accustomed to brood over its own deformities! of nature resumes her wonted smiles: "It seems that I am happy, that to me The face He learns the beauty that surrounds him; his thoughts flow in tuneful unison with the ȧvýpilμov yeλáoμa of nature. As an expression of this feeling few sonnets can surpass the much admired soliloquy in the Hall garden. But this happiness is not complete; a nameless something is wanting. "Blest, but for some dark under-current woe, That seems to draw-but it shall not be so, the dallyings of love. It is the secret dissatisfaction of a spirit destined for nobler work than Traveling the beaten track of life, he would never have made a hero. Pain, not pleasure, hastens our natures. Short sighted critics have blamed the poet for not closing his plot at this point. But for us, we always dislike such lame conclusions, always hate that the hero of a hundred dangers should marry, make money, rear children, patronize small charities, acquire comes. "A fair round belly, with fat capon lined," and finally be surmounted by an epitaph in bad taste. The workers of the world were never schooled by such discipline. Hatred and envy had been the cause of his former asceticism; actual anguish must make him know, before he could sympathize with, the misery of others. It In a moment of anger he kills the brother of his affianced bride. She dies with grief. Flight, insanity, the cell of the maniac, are seen in glimpses. It is a singular fact, mentioned by Bishop Percy, that English poetry surpasses that of any other nation in the number and power of its Mad Songs. If any of our readers would take the trouble to compare this portion of Maud with the poetical ravings given in the Reliques, they cannot but perceive the manifest superiority of Tennyson in this difficult department; yet withal, in the most incoherent portions, there is a certain method in the madness. The storm passes. A calm soothes the troubled spirit. In the pursuit of the noble and the good, in battling for the right, in the devotion of a life of unselfish action to a holy purpose, the soul finds at last its dwelling place, its long sought home, and own peculiar sphere. Maud is a lesson of life, and as we close its pages, the solemn words seem to reëcho from the experience of time, Two Weeks in and Around London. IMAGINE us at the end of a twenty-day voyage, and just beginning our experience of English life. Our party of eleven all found rooms at the same Hotel, and leaving the ladies, the gentlemen went en masse to the Custom House to pass our baggage, which the Romans rightly named "impedimenta." The officials were obliging, and we soon returned, choosing, after the manner of the newly landed emigrants in America, the middle of the street. Contrary to all hygienic rules we would have a hearty supper of land provender, for the enjoyment of which three weeks at sea had prepared us. An early start the next day, and a plentiful infusion of American energy into the sure but slow arrangements for English traveling, enabled us to see the harbor and docks of Portsmouth, the gorgeous yacht of the Queen, Nelson's flag ship, many others of the British Navy, the most beautiful part of the Isle of Wight, which to us, fresh from the sea, seemed an earthly paradise, and to reach Brighton late in the evening. The following morning we strolled through Brighton, and then took the cars for London. Away we dashed through tunnel and valley, over plains, until, fairy like, the Crystal Palace reared its beautiful proportions on our left. Soon we passed from it, and St. Paul's, looming through a London fog, met our gaze; then a few minutes' ride over the tops of houses and we stopped in the greatest city of modern times. For the first few days London completely dum-foundered us—its size, the immense current of life ever flowing in the streets, the huge proportions of its public buildings, the parks of hundreds of acres, the docks and bridges, the accumulation of wealth, and energy for good and evil amazed us. We strolled in the streets by day and night, rode over the routes of miles in the city on the omnibuses, lingered on the bridges, sailed on the Thames, looked from the ball of St. Paul's dome, and the top of the monuments, visited churches, palaces, museums, and places of amusement, and more and more felt how great this one part of Britain was, and more and more alone. I have been solitary on mountain tops, and in dark valleys, on lakes and rivers, in mansions gloomy by the withdrawal of the sunshine beaming from friendly faces, in sick chambers when dear ones were departing, in watches by the dead, and in a grave yard where hopes were buried, but never so completely alone as when jostled by hurrying crowds in London at mid-day. St. Paul's, although the effect of its size is marred by the low situation and the proximity of other buildings, is grand in its extent, and beautiful in the finished workmanship of many parts. I loved to loiter under the dome during the hour of service, listening to the organ's swell, the bass of men, and the treble of pretty boys in the choir, and musing over the monuments. Also, late in the day, when wearied with the bustle of the day, it was refreshing to spend a half hour in its darkening silence, and when a full moon brought out the massive outline, I wanted to spend hours before it. Westminster Abbey is of richer workmanship, but lacks the grandeur of size, when compared with St. Paul's. The Parliament House covers a large space, and has a beautiful exterior, but is badly located, and does not show to advantage except from the Thames. The interior is handsomely finished, and is divided into the room for the Lords, one for the Commons, committee and other rooms for the transaction of public business. The present building is made to include the old Westminster Hall. Through the kindness of Mr. Dallas and Mr. Peabody we obtained tickets of admission to the sessions of the Lords and Commons, and heard several of the public men, as lords Panmure, Derby, Ellenborough, Palmerston, Mr. Roebuck, D'Isræli, and Frederick Peel speak. Except lords Derby and Ellenborough, none displayed much oratorical power; the general manner was tame, a simple, business-like style. Lord Palmerston, despite a hesitancy in speech and lack of effective gesture, has a certain indescribable something which commands your attention; you feel that a strong man is speaking. I have experienced the same when listening to Seward in our Senate Chamber. Both houses are magnificently decorated and furnished; that of the Commons pleased me most; except when speaking the members kept their hats on. Buckingham Palace is somewhat imposing in appearance, externally; we did not see the interior as the Queen was there, and no strangers are admitted except during her absence. In the royal stables some of the horses realized all my expectations as to the good qualities of English thorough breeds. The National Gallery has some good and many common paintings. The Tower has historic interest, and the collection of ancient and modern armor is large; models in wood of men and horses, show the ancient suits to good advantage; in the room filled with deadly weapons from all parts of the world, I practiced Langdonics with some of the war clubs. The Crown Jewels disappointed us; they were not as magnificent as we expected, especially the Kohinoor. The British Museum would interest one for weeks. I spent a few hours very agreeably in the Library of 750,000 volumes, having a good guide through the politeness of the librarian, to whom I had an introduction. By an act of Parliament, every publisher must send a copy of every new book to the Library, which secures a large accumulation of books, at no particular cost to anybody. In one department are files of newspapers from the earliest down to the issues of to-day; the gradual change from the small tract to the mammoth sheet is noticeable. The evidence of what skill, wealth and energy can accomplish is strikingly shown in the Tunnel under the Thames, although as a connection between the two parts of the city, affording a transit for vehicles and pedestrians, it is a failure. Some queer feelings arise when walking through it under the river; one thinks of Jonah, and of the fish story in Hiawatha. By the by, the English in general do not like Hiawatha as much as Longfellow's other poems, which they value highly. Of London divines, Hamilton has a beautifully smooth, poetic composition, but a poor delivery; Cummings a still, somewhat quaint, and very penetrating style of writing and speaking, and in some abrupt practicalities resembles Henry Ward Beecher; and Melville, the "golden tongued," reasons strongly, writes most correctly, has a fine voice, and little but graceful action; he is a good model for pulpit orators. He preaches in St. Lothbury Chapel every Tuesday morning, and such is his power that men of business leave their counting rooms and throng the church, much as when Chalmers preached his astronomical sermons. The church is in the heart of the busy part of London, and the contrast between the bustling service of Mammon without, and the quiet service of Jehovah within, is very marked; in the one the spirit is purturbed and worn, while in the other the better principles of our nature are exercised and developed. Spurgeon is worthy of a separate article. Other churches also, in England, are opened during the week, especially all Cathedrals, where the full service of the English Church is read each morning, with the accompaniment of the choir and organ. At Greenwich the hospital for sailors and the observatory interested us. In one of the buildings there are very good naval paintings, and many interesting relics, among them those of Sir John Franklin. We happened to be there at supper time, and saw the scarred and maimed old veterans of many battles take their evening meal; all attention appeared to be paid to their comfort. On the way down and back we sailed past the mammoth Great Eastern; although but partly com |