lar poet of the hour was, as we all know, Byron. A kind of haughty verbal extravagance; a rather theatrical treatment of nature; a jaded style of moralizing that half-reminded one of some clever club-man of the day in the clutches of indigestion, and half of a wounded demi-god crying out with wild sweetness against the tyrannies of fate; a wit that sang like an arrow as it leapt to its mark; occasional hideous vulgarities of style; occasional passages of supreme eloquence; occasional interludes of exceedingly bald sentimentality, and here and there a scrap of rank indecency-these, it might be asserted, were the more prominent details of what in its totality constituted the genius of Lord Byron --a man who perhaps made more immediate and visible mark upon the age in which he lived than any poet of any time. With Keats extravagance was also a fault, but it was extravagance of a wholly different sort. What in Byron was excess of cheap tinsel, was in Keats a rich redundance, like the odorous foliage of some tropic land. Into this exuberance of beauty which everywhere marked Endymion, the scythe of art might well have entered, even though it would only have levelled aromatic grasses and blossoming vines. As we now contemplate the unfinished work of Keats, viewing it from the advantageous stand-point of general metrical advancement, we are struck with one most noteworthy truth. It would seem as if this boy had been specially designed to appear and vanish, in the stately walks of English letters, not that he might leave any enduring souvenirs there of his own greatness, but rather that his work, filled so full of crudeness and incompleteness, might carry a sort of glorious hint to the poets of succeeding ages. Mr. Robert Browning has touched this idea in one of the lyrics of his Men and Women,' under the title, Popularity. Though perhaps unpleasantly familiar to many readers Mr. Browning refrains until the last from explaining the exact meaning of his apologue, but when, armed with its final scrap of enlightenment, we re-read the poem by its aid, we are forced to admit that nearly everything in these curious verses which fails as poetry possesses at least the solid advantage of being strict truth. Who Hobbs, Nobbs, Nokes and Stokes are, Mr. Browning doubtless knows very well, and for the sake of peace let us be very far from either inquir ing or speculating; but apart from any attempt to drag forth ambushed personalities, may we not find something superlatively applicable in the rugged stanza about pounding, squeezing, clarification and filtration ? The reigning poet of our own time is unquestionably Alfred Tennyson. Byron's popularity grew up in England like some splendid great leaved plant that a single month will broaden into majestic fulness. Tennyson's has grown slowly, years having gone to the making of almost every separate branch, but it has struck its roots deep into the love and gratitude of two continents, and has often coiled them about the bare stone of unlettered disfavour. Between Tennyson and the three poets, Byron, Shelley and Coleridge there is but slight resemblance, we must all agree, unless it be asserted that he has indirectly profited by all that is most meritorious in each. But few will deny that Wordsworth and Keats have been for Tennyson the two chief poetic models. Without them he would still have charmed his age, no doubt, but he would have charmed it in a very different way. What that way would have been it is almost idle to speculate, for the development of English poetry, had neither Keats nor Wordsworth ever existed, might have suffered from some injurious retardment or else have been thrown into wholly different channels. Especially in the earlier poems of Tennyson are the results of this dual influence most noticeable; and for the reason that in these poems the author alike ofArabian Nights and the 'Ode to Memory' shows himself more dependent upon previous models and less able to manage that consummate art and irresistible grace which have since so fascinatingly marked his verse. The 'Ode to Memory,' both in form and treatment, suggests England's preceding laureate, while in the 'Arabian Nights' we have something of the same passionate revelling in colour and in word-effects which belongs to many a line in Endymion, Hyperion or Lamia. As his genius strengthened more and more, Tenny. son began to show an admirable skill in laying on the same colours which Keats had once used with such artless lavishness; as, for example, in the passage of Enone, where Aphrodite is described as one who 6 With rosy slender fingers backward drew Or, again, in the Palace of Art, where we meet such a picture as— ... The deep-set windows, stained and traced, Or, again, where, in the same poem, it is said of the superb chambers in this palace of art, that— 'Some were hung with arras, green and blue, Showing a gaudy summer morn, Where, with puffed cheeks, the belted hunter blew His wreathed bugle horn. Or, in the Dream of Fair Women: 'I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise, In this same poem Tennyson's beautiful lines, 'The maiden splendours of the morning star suggest those in The Eve of St. Agnes, 'Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose. But it is useless, no doubt, to quote examples of this sort, since every reader at all familiar with the two poets under discussion knows how much one is indebted to the other in a general way, although it is doubtful whether a single instance may be found where two passages taken from either poet would hint of an imitation, howsoever vaguely. Keats is like some strange Gothic structure belonging to no special period, loaded with massive carvings as ill-placed as they are rich and costly. Tennyson is like the lordly pleasure-house' of which he sings so enchantingly, that— 'From level meadow-bases of deep grass Suddenly scaled the light.' He is less astonishing than Keats, because more harmonious; on the other hand he is, for the same reason, a deep intellectual delight where Keats sometimes becomes an over-luscious æsthetic surfeit. We always read Tennyson with an active and vital sympathy; we very often read whole pages of Keats with a kind of melancholy curiosity. Which poet possessed the greatest real genius may be a contested question in future times. It now seems to us extremely evident that Keats could have given us nothing at all comparable with Guinevere, or Godiva, or the Princess, for grace, finish, culture, self-repression, and all the other cardinal literary virtues. 'But,' might here cry the unknown writer of a certain well-known 'Spiteful Letter,'' shall we presume to say that Tennyson, born when John Keats was born, could have written the eloquent Ode to a Nightingale, the throbbing Ode to a Grecian Urn, or th drowsily plaintive Ode to Melancholy?" Time alone must answer such cavilling questions, for time is the one just and merciless critic. Much that we admire in Tennyson to-day may possibly take upon itself an inevitable tarnish; many of what now seem his loveliest colours may have faded for future eyes; here and there succeeding years may discover beauties in lines that we now hold somewhat lightly. But, on the other hand, it is quite different with John Keats. He has secured his niche for all succeeding time. His work has been weighed and has not been found wanting. There seems almost insolence, now, in speculation as to what he might have done for English poetry had death spared him beyond the youthful age of four-and-twenty; since, in this glorious direction, he already accomplished so much, and since his memory is so unfadingly laurelled as the symbol of lofty aspiration wedded to sweet and durable accomplishment. SONNET BY MARY BARRY SMITH N the deep silence, to mine ear attuned, IN There comes strange sound, like to the stir of wings, Like to the wail of weak, half-stifled things, Like to the world's cry for the old, old wound. The Past is dead, she must not be impugned ;— A PRESSING PROBLEM. BY FIDELIS. And yet it would be unjust to say that people are generally hard-hearted towards the poor. After a somewhat vague and unimaginative fashion, it is true, but still sincerely enough, most of us, who though we may not be rich -may even be in 'embarrassed' or 'straitened' circumstances-are yet still surrounded by the ordinary comforts of life, do feel for those less fortunate, to whom the 'struggle for existence' is a literal and daily fact. While we all, doubtless, know instances of callous selfishness, where sums are wasted on the merest caprices—a little of which would be grudged to the starving and shivering poor-yet these instances are happily exceptional, and we gladly recognize a very large proportion of genuine benevolence and sincere desire to ameliorate the condition of the suffering poor, not always, however, judiciously carried out. Indeed, it is a tolerably safe assertion to make, that if all the money annually given in this country towards the relief of the poor in some form or other, could be collected and applied with strict judgment and economy, there would not only be sufficient to meet all cases of real distress in ordinary years, but also, pauperism, pure and simple, would rapidly diminish. For there is, it is self-evident, no surer and more prolific feeder of pauperism than the indolent and indiscriminate alms which is so often misnamed 'charity.' Not that it would be desirable to prevent the exercise of individual benevolence. It were well if, on the contrary, all our distress from poverty could be relieved through the kindly, sympathetic individual dealing of man with man, which is the simplest and most natural plan, as well as the one most fitted to call forth individual gratitude, and develop the best feelings in both giver and receiver. But, to make individual alms-giving a good rather than an evil, self-denying, painstaking effort and enquiry are absolutely necessary, in addition to the mere benevolent desire to relieve suffering. many of our average alms-givers are willing to give this self-denying effort, in order to make sure that they are really relieving distress rather than encouraging vicious imposture? How does the case usually stand? Are not the following pictures nearer the truth? How To a kindly disposed, but busy materfamilias, engrossed with the concerns of her own household-enter Bridget. A poor woman wants to see you, ma'am.' Materfamilias-'Ask her what she wants, Bridget, I'm too busy to see her.' Bridget returns with a sufficiently pitiable tale of privation of food and clothing. The good materfamilias feels impelled by kindness and conscience to do something in the matter, and as the easiest solution, in the circumstances, sends out a five or ten cent piece, which, it is altogether likely, will, before night, be reposing in a tavernkeeper's till, only too familiar with such charitable coins. Or, it may be, our materfamilias does take the time from her sewing or planning, to go out and hear the applicant's story for herself. The tale seems sad enough -half-a-dozen starving children; no food; no clothes; no fuel! The lady wonders what the charitable societies can be about to allow such distress to be unrelieved; never dreaming that perhaps two or three charitable societies are only too well acquainted with this particular 'case.' She cannot let the woman go unaided, but as for taking down her address and making a domiciliary visit-such an idea never occurs to her-in fact, she 'would not have time.' So the poor woman's basket is filled with a bountiful contribution of cold provisions and castoff clothing, and she speedily departs, invoking profuse blessings on her bene factress. The clothing is speedily disposed of, and its proceeds invested in a new supply of whiskey, and next day, in precisely the same destitution of clothes and food, the inveterate beggar makes a descent upon some other promising house, to repeat the same operation-being absolutely maintained in her wretched career of degradation and vice, by the easy credulity of kindly ladies, who will give freely, but will not take trouble.' But it is not only the 'softer sex which is thus imposed upon. On some bitterly cold evening, when paterfamilias is enjoying his fireside comfort, tired with business, and luxurious in dressing-gown and slippers-a loud ring announces a tramp,' who has just arrived, a stranger in a strange place has walked an incredible distance, looking for work, has no money to buy food or a night's lodging. What can paterfamilias do? He cannot receive the stranger into his own house, 'and spread the couch of rest.' Even if he were disposed to do so himself, for obvious reasons it would be impossible. He cannot send the man away, penniless and homeless, while he sits down again at his comfortable fireside. So bread and money are bestowed, and paterfamilias returns with a good conscience to his newspaper. Perhaps the case was a case of real distress, and the charity true charity. But more probably, the bread was scornfully thrown away outside, and the money pocketed, while the object of charity, with as lamentable a story as before, goes to repeat his game so long as doors will open to receive his appeal. This, it may be added, is no fancy picture; it is drawn from actual observation. Now it is not asserted that there should be no individual giving, especially in cases of immediate urgency. People cannot, happily, harden their hearts against the direct appeal which, if it is not that of real distress, looks so very much like it; and, especially in times of exceptional hardship like the present, most people would rather risk imposition by any number of impostors, than turn away unaided one case of genuine need. But what is meant to be pressed is this, that giving without enquiry is a thing so hazardous that it should be by all means avoided in every case where this is possible, without the risk of permitting real suffering to go unrelieved. And nothing can be more thoughtlessly irrational than the conduct of those who refuse to give to societies organized for the purpose of enquiring into and relieving real need, on the ground that they give 'so much at the door;' in other words, that they do their best to keep up the abject and vicious pauperism which it is the very object of or |