* * * * *

With passages like these still upon the mind and ear, and likewise having in view many others in the “Princess” and elsewhere, we may confidently assert it as one of Mr. Tennyson’s brightest distinctions that he is now what from the very first he strove to be, and what when he wrote “Godiva” he gave ample promise of becoming—­the poet of woman.  We do not mean, nor do we know, that his hold over women as his readers is greater than his command or influence over men; but that he has studied, sounded, painted woman in form, in motion, in character, in office, in capability, with rare devotion, power, and skill; and the poet who best achieves this end does also most and best for man.

In 1850 Mr. Tennyson gave to the world, under the title of “In Memoriam,” perhaps the richest oblation ever offered by the affection of friendship at the tomb of the departed.  The memory of Arthur Henry Hallam, who died suddenly in 1833, at the age of twenty-two, will doubtless live chiefly in connection with this volume; but he is well known to have been one who, if the term of his days had been prolonged, would have needed no aid from a friendly hand, would have built for himself an enduring monument, and would have bequeathed to his country a name in all likelihood greater than that of his very distinguished father.  There was no one among those who were blessed with his friendship, nay, as we see, not even Mr. Tennyson,[1] who did not feel at once bound closely to him by commanding affection, and left far behind by the rapid, full, and rich development of his ever-searching mind; by his

  All comprehensive tenderness,
    All subtilising intellect.

[1] See “In Memoriam,” pp. 64, 84.

It would be easy to show what, in the varied forms of human excellence, he might, had life been granted him, have accomplished; much more difficult to point the finger and to say, “This he never could have done.”  Enough remains from among his early efforts to accredit whatever mournful witness may now be borne of him.  But what can be a nobler tribute than this, that for seventeen years after his death a poet, fast rising towards the lofty summits of his art, found that young fading image the richest source of his inspiration, and of thoughts that gave him buoyancy for a flight such as he had not hitherto attained?

It would be very difficult to convey a just idea of this volume either by narrative or by quotation.  In the series of monodies or meditations which compose it, and which follow in long series without weariness or sameness, the poet never moves away a step from the grave of his friend, but, while circling round it, has always a new point of view.  Strength of love, depth of grief, aching sense of loss, have driven him forth as it were on a quest of consolation, and he asks it of nature, thought, religion, in a hundred forms which a rich and varied imagination continually suggests, but all of them connected by