"You are perhaps unaware, Mr Signet," returned Mr Barlow, "that it is not usual for gentlemen who arc in no way connected with them to make private arrangements with young ladies. If you have anything to say to Miss Thurlow, you will be good enough to do so through me, who have the honour to be her destined husband."

" You are a business man, I understand, Mr Barlow," returned Mr Signet coldly, " and if so, you should know that business matters —when of a confidential kind—as this happens to be—are conducted between principals without tho interference of a third party. You have no locus standi in the matter whatever."

" There he is again !" muttered Uncle Stephen. "I am curious to see, when Barlow pulls his nose (which wiU happen presently), whether he wiU oven tfwtt speak plain English." "Yon are talking of what you dent understand, Mr Signet, and also very im pertinently," said Mr Barlow. '' You shall not see Miss Thurlow alone, cither now or at any other time, I promise you. If you go upstairs at all, it will be in my com pany.' " Then I shall go upstairs to no purpose, since I do not choose to speak what I have to say in your hearing," returned Mr Sig net. Here Amy appeared at the door, like somo sweet divinity of old, to appease the wrath of warring mortals. "If you would'nt mind coming to sec my sister, Mr Signet, sho would take it very kind of you. She is growing im patient to hear your news. I think, Frank,'' added she, as Mr Barlow rose with the obvious intention of forming one of the party, "thattoo many of us at a time op press poor Sabey; it will be better if she and 1 were to sec Mr Signet alone." "It eecms to mo natural enough," ob served Uncle Stephen, as Mr Barlow stood irresolute ; he was ashamed, under circum stances so sad, and in the presence of innocent unconscious Amy, to show his jealousy—nor, indeed, was he jealous of her at all; but he .vas very loath to give up hia point. Poor Matthew's dislike of lur Signet had been as a pin's point to a barbed arrow's in comparisou with the pre judice he himself now entertained against that gentleman." " Would not Sabey prefer to see this—to sec Mr Signet alone'?" he said : a proposi tion manifestly weak even to the suggester of it. . , I once knew an eminent yet perfectly honest country solicitor, who was accused, as a last resource, or rather as a parting stroke of malevolence, by a scoundrel acainstwhom he had been professionally engaged, of forgery. If this thing had happened to a client, he would have laughed it to scorn ; hut since he himself was con cerned, it quite threw him off his mental balance, and he telegraphed to London for the first legal advice procurable, as though a man stung by a nettle should have sent post-haste to the Queen's surgeon. And so it was with prudent, sensible Mr Barlow ; now that his own toes were trodden upon, he lost all his judicial calm, and showed himself as senaitive—and, to say truth, as unreasonable—as though he had been a poet instead of an attorney. " WiU Sabey see Mr Signet alone ?" re peated wondering Amy. "Why, no, Frank I think it very advisable that I should be with her. You can scarcely un derstood the sad state which Bhe is in. Please step this way, Mr Signet;" which Sir Signet did with no little nimblcncss nnd triumph. He felt that he had scored considerably off Mr Frank Birlow, who had moreover given him some useful hints as to his be ll iviour; for, to confess the honest truth, the imputation which the newspaper had male against Matthew Helston had not made much impression on the jeweller. He had come to Cavendish Grove so full of his own grievances and his aff.ction for Amy, that there had not been much room for sympathy upon his assistant's account. But he now understood that under that roof at least the anxiety on this head was very considerable. Moreover, he could not help observing that the effect it had wrought upon Mat thew Helson's wife was great and deplor able. That look of extreme youth which had once been her peculiarity had fled, though not, alas! what had been an accompaniment of it, her appearauce of fragility. ... , It be»ot the same sort of tender sadness in the "beholder that is awakened by the skeleton of a flower, or the dying echo of a song. You said to yourself involuntarily as your eye fell on her, "She is not long for this world," and, indeed, even now she hardly seemed to belong to the world at all It is not, unhappily, a rare case among the lower classes, though seldom among the middle or the very low. You come too often across these sad transparencies; women whjm Fate would seem to have formed to bear Bght burdens, but on whom the heaviest-—poverty, shame, neglect, anxieties, trouble of all sorts—have been imposed ; beings whose delicate frame has been worn away as it were by attrition of the rough world, and through which the very soul shines, about to flee. She held a thin hand out to tbe jeweuer, who took it respectfully,and with _, sudden impulse raised it to his lips. " I am deeply grieved, madam," he said, with a genuine though passing deference for her great sorrow, " for the calamity that has befallen you." "Andyou, sir, also have suffered, she said gently, " though "—and here she sighed in spite of herself—" though in another way." ..-,«. _ „. '' Don't speak of it," said Mr Signet. I am menaced, no doubt, with a senous loss, but at the worst it is not irreparable." " True," she murmured," true, whereas, with the exception of my dear sister and— and—our little one, I have lost my all." " Tut, tut, my dear madam," said Mr Slgnet.cncouragingly : "all is not lost that deems so. Your husband must be some where, you know, and we must find him. That's the point; we must find him and the jewels too. I had some talk with your good sister here—perhaps she told you of it"

"She told me that you had been very good and kind about this matter, Mr Big "' Not at all, my dear madam, not at all ; only common feeling, I assure you; except, of course that 1 feel an interest-I may say a strong personal interest-in whatever concern! her-and you-and of course in Mr Helston himself. That is what I am come about to-day. The accusation directed agaiost him in the newspaper this morn ing " Hitherto, save for the first moment of the ieweUer's entrance, Mrs Helston had leant back in her chair, with her eyes resting upon him, but With scarcely more specula tion in them than in a corpse ; they seemed to look right through him, and fix them selves on vacancy beyond : his words had reached the doorway of her mind-for she had understood their import-bnt had passed away from it without crossing the threshold. But ere he finished his last sentence, the colour had rushed to her wan cheeks, and she was sitting upright in her chair- Bke one whom a miracle had restored to life. "Accusation? What accusation? she inquired with a fierce astonishment. " Well, perhaps I should not say accusa tion, Mrs Helston," said Mr signet

smoothly. "I think inuendo would be tho better word."

"Do you mean that someone has dated to hint anything ill of Matthew—of my husband ?"

" Well.it's only the paragraph in a news paper, after all, observed Mr Signet, not a little alarmed by the effect of his own exor dium. "When incidents of this myster ious kind occur, it is but too usual " "Let me sec the paper—l pray you let mc see it, Mr Signet," she added pleadingly, "with my own eyes." He pulled it out of his pocket, not with out compunction—though he had come to the house with that express purpose—and placing it in her hand, pointed out the offending lines with his stumpy finger. " What it states is tbat I am responsible for the jewels, since tkey were lost while iv my agent's custody, and what it sug gests is that my agent has absconded with them."

"Absconded! Matthew absconded!" exclaimed Sabey, her eyes flashing like the very gems of which he spoke, and ,her clenched lingers tightening as though she would havo struck the slanderer down. " Who dares to say so ? "

"It is no matter who, my dear madam ; ten thousand people, having read this para graph, will have already said so, and to morrow there will be a million. It is out of the miUioiiß that the juries come. Tbat is the object of this infernal woman—to influence the jury." " What woman ?" inquired Sabey. She was all attention now ; not a .word escaped her or lost a shred of its meaning. " lady Pargiter." " A bad woman," ■ murmured Sabey, with her distant look again; " a woman without a heart,"

" Very true, madam ; but unhappily not without a head. She is as deep as a well, though with no truth at the bottom of her. I came here to let you know who are Mr Helston's friends, and who arc hia enemies. This woman is an enemy. I have reason to b-dieve—nay, I know—that she has stated it be her conviction that your hus band and myself have conspired to steal her diamonds. Tho gentlemen below stairs seemed to think I cared for the jewels only; I will only say they have miscon ceived my feelings—and my motives."

" Which I think, —nay, I believe—do you houour," said Amy warmly. She did really believe that Mr Signet had been un justly treated by Frauk, and she resented it.

" I thank you, Miss Thurlow," replied the jeweller. " What I would wish to feel is that Mr Helston and I are in one boat iv this affair. That ho is as blame less as myself I have no doubt. But we must all of us puU together. I will.keep you informed of every step I take, and I must beg of you to do the like. There must be no divided councils."

" My s:stcr aud I arc in your hands," said Amy simply. We havo confidence both in your good will and your ability to help us." She glanced at Sabey for some corrobora tion of this view. "I believe in a just God," she answer, dj^rnvely, "who will not suffer Matthew's memory to be wronged and slandered."

"Quite right," assented Mr Signet ap provingly, "and 1 hope those who do it will be punished ; Lady Pargiter for one. We are going to work at first, of necessity, in the dark, but I think I see daylight somewhere even now. Only, you and 1— and Mrs Helston, here—wo must pull to gether." Miss Thurlow inclined her head, and began to hope the interview was over : for she had been much more discomposed by it —on more than oue account—than she had appeared to be. But Mr Signet had some thing else' to say, though be said it in a very low and confidential tone. " Have you spoken to your sister about that matter of the portrait, Miss Thurlow ?" "No, indeed," said she, with almost a frightened air; for the miniature of Mat thew, to which she had referred with com parative indifference when questioned by the jeweller, was now scaiccly ever out of Sabey's hands, and, when it was so, lay in her bosom. "I hope that will not be in sisted on."

"It will be very desirable to have it/ said Mr Signet doubtfuUy. " What is wanted?" inquired Sabey, un derstanding the drift though not the exact subject of this talk. " I hope that no in convenience, or distress, or pain of any kind that may be caused me wiU be suffered to interfere with doing the best that can be i done." "My dear madam," said Mr Signet, " permit me to congratulate you upon your common sense. In circumstances of this kind it is sometimes necessary to sacrifice one's feeUngs. As to convenience, pub licity, as we have just had occasion to ob serve, is highly inconvenient and—and— even offensive; but then its utility is beyond question. Now, supposing your excellent husband should have been carried away by wicked persons, or if any serious accident (which Heaven forbid) should have incapacitated him from communicating with his friends, or even making known his identity, what a thing it would be if his features were made familiar to the public ! The photographic art can multiply like nes!es indetmitely. The Government itself makes use of it in—in various establish ments, 'lhc dead, the drowned, before interment " "You had better teU my sister what you wish at once, Mr Signet," interrupted Amy; if, indeed she has not already guessed it." " Oh, Amy, must I give up his picture ? pleaded Sabey, drawing tho miniature from her bosom, and gazing on it with passion ate fondness, "He gave it me with his own hands on his last birthday—the last." And with one heart-wrung sob at the thought that he would heve no birthday more, she pressed it to her lips, aud covered her face with her hands." "Let us congratulate ourselves, my dear madam, that it was the last," obsrved Mr fcignet consolingly, "since, the more recent the date, the more accurate will probably be the likeness. It pains me to ask for a memento so dear to you, but the article will be returned, of course, without chip or flaw." Here he found himself slipping into a trade formula, and floundered out of it as well as he could. "In fact, it will not be a penny the worse for being photographed." " I know you will not let them be longer about it than is absolutely necessary," said Amy, " taking tbe miniature from her sister's unresisting hand, and beckoning Mr SigDet from the room. "As to its safe custody, I need not tell you that, with the fate of its original in this terrible doubt, this picture is priceless." " I will guard it, my dear Miss Thur low," returned the jeweller, placing it m his breast-pocket, " more jealously for your sake than if it were set with rubies.' The assurance, perhaps, smacked a little of the shop, but the air and manner with which it was conveyed quite recalled tho age To Mr Barlow, standing in the hall and looking upward, with the fixed resolution of not giving Mr Signet an opportunity of see ing Amy alone when they should leave her sister's presence, they recaßed a good many things :—How this feUow had had the im pudence to present his " intended' with a ring; how he had got up a water-party on her account; how he had "soft-sawdered

her—such, I regret to say, was the expres sion which suggested itself to Mr Barlow— as respected his interest in Mr Matthew; and, finally, how he had contrived to estab lish himself on such terms with her that ho could lay his hand upon his heart—for he had put the picture in his left breast pocket—while wishing her good-bye. Ho felt he could not trust liimsclf to speak with Mr Signet without speaking bis mind ; be therefore measured him from top to toe, as if he had been his tailor with an order for an outfit, and watched him pass out with out a word.

If he could have looked into Mr Signet's heart of hearts he would not, perhaps, have been so discomposed ; for though on plea sure he had been bent (so far as Amy was concerned), the jeweller had bad a frugal mind; he had, in fact, come to Cavendish Grove on business, though it had gratified him to transact it with the object ot his affections ; lie had felt that it was of importance to him that the family and himself should act together in the matter of Helston's disappearance ; that it should be known to the world at large that he had every confidence in his late assistant's integrity, and was on terms of intimacy with his friends. That the news paper writer should have condoled with him was bad ; but far the worst part of the paragraph in his eyes was that which took llelstons complicity in the loss of the diamonds for granted, for the facit per alium facit per se of tbe law was fatally applicable to him. On the other hand, his motive in getting possession of the portrait was entirely different. Mr Brail, as wc have seen, bad frankly revealed to him the imputations so imprudently made against him by Lady Pargiter; nor bad lie con cealed from him certain suspicious cir cumstances in tbat interview—including one downright falsehood—which bad told against tbat lady herself; but.nevertbcless, the impression on the detective's mind was ou the whole what it bad been from the first—namely, that Matthew Helston had absconded with the jewels.

"It's a police case, Mr Signet, and nothing else, that's certain," be bad said ; "and what ia almost as certain, to my thinking, is that your man has walked oil' with the swag. If you can got bis picture, it is only a question of sooner or later as to getting him. But time is priceless in these cases. It should be in every police station in London within twelve hours."

This is what Mr Signet bad euphemisti cally termed '• the advantage of publicity." (To be continued.)

Books Worth Heading.

LOXOFELT.OW'S POEMS,

This week, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, tbe American poet, passed away. He was one of the kings of pure literature happily, though he speaks "with us on earth no more," his spirit, gentle, amiable and manly, lives iv his poems. "The Foot is dead, long live the I'oet." His body is buried in peace, but his soul soul liveili evermore. In Longfellow's works, as in regard to the Bible, Shakespeare, Macaulay, and others, we find sentiments not only "worth read ing," but to read which is a duty, and a constant Bource of pleasure. Few men have so uniformly b .en on the right side, and married to immortal verse, have pro duced so much moral influence, Long fellow's poems breathe an Evangel, so to speak, of love to Nature, to man, and to God; they have a cheery tone, genial warmth, andjreligious f.rtour that make a new psalm of lif-", that prove tbat "life is not an empty dream;" yet, on the other band, he could indite glowing, even scorch ing words, against human wrongs—words which clanged with a force that made American shareholders tremble, and made the death knell of slavery. On a Saturday evening his quiet, beauty of style seems most in harmony with the morrow's rest, nnd suggests his " Hymn for my Brother's Ordination," which ends thus -.— O, holy trust—o, endless sense of rest, Like tne beloved John. To lay his head upon tho Saviour's breast, And thus to journey on. Or the same is seen in the song of the slave singing at midnight: Loud ho sang the Psalm of David ; Ho, a Negro and enslaved, Sang of Israel's victory: . Sang of Zion, bright and free. Or, how s'rong, yet sweet is tho style of "Evangeline," and of her lost love, of her wrecked home and heart, and her final discovery of her Gabriel Lajeunesiio dying in a hospital. How, as a Suter of Mercy, she moves from couch to couch until her eye encounters the lost love of her youth, and suddenly she exclaims, Gabriel ! Oh, my beloycd I and then his early days came back for a mo ment, as Evangeline kissed his dying lips. And laid hia head on her bosom, Sweet was the light of his eyes But it suddenly Bank into darkness. Perhaps none of the modern English-speak ing poets have done more to improve his race and times than Longfellow. His love of women, of children, and of youth come out everywhere. In Hiawatha, iv the "Spanish Student," in that antique gem "The Golden Legend," there is a line word-painting which lands us among men whom we never see and from whom wide gaps of time and space separate us. In re gard to children, the poem called the " Children's Hour," rings like music in countless hearts. Children climb his chair and almost devour him with kisses, and thus the amiable poet defies them :— Do you think, oh, blue-eyed banditti Because you have scaled my wall Such an old moustache as I am Is not a match for you all. I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart. But put you down into the dungeon, In the ronnd-tower of my heart. And there I will keep you forever. Yes, forever and a day. Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away. It is something to write poetry in our own language, but to translate and put into charming and readable poetry (who.c rhyme and rhythm are all good), poemi from the Latin. Spanish, German aud Portugese marked him for all ages as a highly gifted man If we may so write, his works, like himself, were filled with the be.<t quali ties of the Ang o-sax'-n race. An Eng lish student in feeling and style, an Ameri can patriot, philanthropist, ano Christian gentleman, he was, to use his own word--, one ot those poeta Whoso songs gushed from tee heart As rain from clouds of summer,

Or tears from the eyelids start.

Mr Tennyson:

REMARKS EXPLANATORY AND CRITICAL ON HIS SHORTER .'OB-IS, Br J. I). Davis.

The poet has a far higher and more im portant office than the general public is willing to admit. Because he does nothing, j produces nothing which can be handled and felt like a plough, or a bouse, or a ship, lie ; falls under popular contempt and is icck- I 01 led at a very cheap rate. The populace j have not sense enough to see that be fulfils his proper end by being a saycr, and not a doer. When man was young on tho earth, the poet made language ; he was the naiucr, , whose insight pitched upon some prominent j characteristic of things both aniiiiate and . inanimate, and thence derived a dis tinguishing name. The poet is the nnmcr still. He names things which other people cannot sec, for he is also the seer whose vision is clearer and more penetrating than that of others. By an innate power he is able to divine tbe inner meaning of things ; lie can lift or rend the veil which to the vulgar gaze seems to surround nature ; lie revives in hearts which have become sordid and callous with too long-continued associ ation with business and politics a recollec tion of the beautiful, and raises that heart to a height where it can pcreeivo that there arc noblci objects to be achieved than driving bargains and heaping up money. The greater the poetic faculty, the more completely can the possessor pi it displace that affection for the ugly and deformed, which seems to be common to the majority, and place us in unison with what compose the universe, viz., beauty and order. The poet's love of harmony is able to put us out of conceit for a time with chaos and con fusion. Thus bis primary duty is by no means merely to amuse, but to instruct He has not only to tickle the car with jingling rhymes and smoothly - flowing numbers, but to share with outsiders some of tbe ennobling thoughts which bis keener vision and wider experience make him master of. He must convey the thoughts in poetic form, and laboriously rau'ack bis vocabulary to render that as effective and complete as possible ; but still the thoughts stand first, and tbe mode of expression is secondary. Though a man's diction bo most curiously devised and elaborated, though his measures be abso lutely correct, the rhythm faultless, yet, if ideas be wanting, it is not poetry. Mr Tennyson has not escaped the general neglect into which poets are allowed to fall, indeed he has perhaps come in for a larger share than some Illustrious contemporaries. This is owing to two facts chiefly, ceitaiu obscurities of manner, and his subjective ncss. Much of what Mr Tennyson bus written demauds close attention, not to say study, for its thorough comprehension, and therefore he is less likely to be taken up during leisure evenings when the cares of business have been left behind, than, for example, the poems of Burns or Longfellow The last named (though his thoughts are always worthy, and often original and elevated, they are yet conveyed in a style simple and uiicoinplicatcd.and arc moreover usually within the easy grasp of the average reader) is beyond question more popular with those who dip into a volume of poems merely as a pastime. Seated in their easy chairs,thoy desire to be quietly amused,and ate in no humour to puzzle their brains in unravelling intricate sentences to discover perhaps thoughts considerably beyond their ready comprehension. Again, the subjec tive form of much that Mr Tennyson lias given to the world i-i distasteful to a wide circle of readers. It is nccesssry tbat a poet be, to a vory large extent, subjective ; ho must give utterance to bis own personal experiences ;bo is compelled to. describe the stirrings of his own soul—bis joys, bis sorrows ; his loves, his bates—but it is possible, as Shakspere did, to throw them into an objective or dramatic form, and fit them ioto the mon lis of the different characters he depicts, Mr Tennyson, how ever, is often intensely subjective, as for instance in his "In Monioriam." Here, through six or seven hundred stanzas, the poot relates in the first person the senti ments and feelings of his own heart etm«c qucnt on a severe bereavement; and the fact tbat the poem is esteemed as widely as it i. affords in i.self plaiu proof tiat the author is no ordinary sinner. For the comin n-placc narrator of subjective experiences ia justly reckoned a liteiary nuisance. When v man talks much about himself he must have something to say, and say th ,t well, in order to attract any audience at all. Mr Tennyson's earliest poems convinced a large number that a true poet had arisen ; and it becaue clear to a certainty that tbe poet was one of great power, sweetness, and versatility when, iv 1832, " The Lady of Shalott" appeared. The very first stanza of it gave evidence that the author w.s a per fect master ot melodious verse. What could be more smoothly rhyinithical than : On either side the river He Long llelds of barley and of rye. That clothe tho wold and meet the sky ; And thro' the Hold tho road runs by To many-towcr'd Camelot. If there is a meaning and a purpose below the surface of this poem, what is it ? The Lady, sick of b.holding shadows in a mirror, when she sees the reflection of Sir Launcelot there, looks down to Camelot, to gaze on the world itself and not a mere image of it. The mirror cracks, and the Lady straightway feels the ,cur.c upon her. Does this convey the idea that cloistered sec v.ion is best for woman, and that when fatigued with insipid convent experiences she comes in contact with the rougher life outside, she is lose and undone ? If so, the fundamental notion is ials", a medi aeval misconception which the growing wisdom and good sense of later generations have dissipated. But a poet of Mr Tenny son r calibre would not be guilty of such an untruth; and presumably in the quaint poem before us he only followed the Arthu rian legend whence the story is derived. In " The Two Voices" Mr Tennyson approaches those mysteries of life and death which received fuller treatment at bis hands in after years. Thus early they had begun to make their influence felt. Some bitter experiences were embodied in this poem; for the solemn argument is too vivid and energetic to have been the mere product of imagination. In the-se earlier poems are described two women quite uulike those whom Mr Tennyson preferred to introduce to his readers in subsequent years. We refer to the very unloveable pair, Lady Clara Vere de Vere and the revengeful damsel who slew the _ arl for ruiniug her sister. Mr Tenny son afterwards gave his attention to those of a more homely stamp. Ho created the truthful and genuine Lady Clare ; the con stant Edith Aylmer; the obedient Dora; Annie, the wife of Enoch Arden ; and a crowd of others, for nearly all of whom it is possible t- entertain kindly feelings of sympathy and good-will. If some of them are frail, their sins arc made apparent with remarkable delicacy and an entire absence of offence. It is one of Mr Tennyson's most marked characteristics to be absolutely pure. We do not mention this by way of eulogy, for surely it is a poor compliment to a writer to say that what he has pro duced is free from impurities, and may be safely read by all virtuous maidens and wives. Still after the nauseous stuff which disfigures the pages of Dante Gabriel Bossetti, and Algernon Swinburne, Mr Tennyson's avoidance of a like quagmire

cannot but furnish an additional motive for respect. Another woman depicted in the earlier poems is (Etioiie, whom fickle Paris so basely deserted. Choosing a subject from the Homeric legend Mr Tennyson treated it with such freshness and truth that one cannot but share the sorrow of the poor girl as she complains to " mother Ida, many fountain'd Ida" of her husband's treachery in leaving her for the Greek woman. There is a noticeable touch of nature in tho [concluding verses : (Enone will not die alone and unavenged : — ... I will arise and go Down to Troy, nnd ere tlio stars como forth Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says A fire dances beforo her, and a souud Rings evor in her cars of armed men, The " Lotos Eaters " was suggested by the tendency which now and auafn invades tbe spirit of men the most active and busy, viz,, to escape the everlasting unrest and labour of life. The mariners d:_e-. - *bat blissful haven for which David sighed when he said :—•' O that I had wings like adove ; then would 1 fly away and ;be at rest"—a land where it seemed always afternoon. Most weary seem'tl tho sea, weary the oar, Weary the wandering Holds of barren foam. Then someone said " We will return no more," The early poems we may call tho pro ducts of the spring time of Mr Tennyson's genius. The flowers which burst into full splendour in late years and secured the ad miration of the English-speaking race, were already budding and affording indications of [the supreme beauty which was to be. Many different styles of poetry have worthy representatives. In the "May Queen" (and its sister pieces) we see the Idyll," a favourite, vehicle of expression with Mr Tennyson. " (Eiione" is one of the first specimens of that blank-verse which, though blemished with mannerisms and cold artificialities in after years, is by far the best blank-verse written since Milton's. Tbe difficult, and to Fnglish ears, novel metre in which " In Mcino riam" was afterwards written, Mr Tenny son had already trieu hi-* band at with con siderable success— A land of settled government, A land of just and old renown, Where Freedom broadens slowly down From precedent to precedent. In the trifle, "The Goose," one sees fore shadowed the humour of our poet, for, despite the general opinion to the contrary, he possesses genuine humour. He does not often make it evident, but bad he none he could not have written "The Northern Farmer." There is not much of it, perhaps, but what there is, arises not from satire or caricature, but from truthful repre sentation. Humour indeed is only one out of the many moods of which Mr Tennyson has been the successful exponent. The nineteenth century pott . tu-ics manat sec ond hand, through the literature and high nrt scattered everywhere in such profusion, and the danger is that he becomes unable to put himself in tbe places of other men. But Mr Tennyson lias escaped this danger. He wrote :—" Enoch Arden," and " The Northern Farmer," "Lock'ley Hall." and "The Lotos Eaters,'' "Iliz._ah,"and "The Brook " We pass on to a number of poems pub lished a decade later than those we have been noticing hitherto. A brilliant appren ticeship bad ended; and the cunning craftsman was everyway master of his tools. From the pen|of one thus skilled in all the mysteries of bis divine craft the world looked for all the former sweetness, with access of power ; for the thoughts of a strong man expressed in noble appropriate verse. The world was not disappointed. One poem alone " Morte d'Arthur " (Death of Arthur) was sufficient to confer an im mortality on the writer. Such sustained majesty, verse so sonorous, pictures so splendid, the century had not yet beon witness of. From whatever point of view it was regarded, all was admirable, tbe set ting of the weird sad story in appropriate surroundings, tbe stateliness of the verse, tbe grand simplicity as well as tho minute fidelity of the descriptions. Could any thing' be truer to Nature t than these expressions. Sir Bedivere, in answer to Arthur's question as to what be had beard or seen on throwing the brand Exealibur into the mere, replies :— I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, And the wild water lapping on the crags. A superficial reader might consider this mere tautology, a distinction without a difference introduced to balance the knight's answer, but observation shows the poet right. In the description of Sir Bedi verc's carrying the wounded king down to the edge of the lake where the dusky barge awaited him, the passage occurs :— But tho other swift'y strode from ridge to ridge Clothed with hia breath, nnd looking, as he walked, ' Larger than human on the frozen hills. Here, again, anyone who lias had the requisite experience will perceive im mediately the truth of the incident. Of 'he numerous terse, and at the the same time, vigorously graphic pictures of the poem the following are examples :— Then drew he forth the brand Excalibur, And o'er him drawing it, the winter moon, Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forthi And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt. Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged Among the bullrush bed., and clutch'a the 8 word, And strongly whoel'd and threw it. The great brand Made lightnings in tho splendour of the moon And flashing round and round, and whirl'd i» an arch. Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, Seen whore "the moving isles of winter shock By night, with noises of tho northern sea. In the last nine lines is compressed a des cription and a simile which a poetaster could not make so plain in thrice the number. The harmony between the scenery and the subject of this poem is complete. It narrates the death of King Arthur, and shows how tho world-famed institution called the Bound Table was thus dissolved to make way for other and more perfect systems, by which God's purposes were to be carried out. The dying monarch is quite aware that the need for his band of knights is over:— And slowly answered Arthur from the barge; The old order changeth. yielding placo to new, And God fulfils himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. This story the poet takes in hand, and pro vides for it a suitable, appropriate setting. Its environment is in perfect fitness. The King dies in the bleak, bare winter time j genial spring and new life are coming. It is night too, and a pale " witlier'd" moon is shining. Night and moon must give way to day and sunlight, of which there is the promise in the concluding words; the swarthy hull on whose deck the dying king lies, looks "one black dot against the verge of dawn." Merlin sware that Arthur should come again, and so he has many times since, but in other and fur different guise; in the shapes that God knew were necessary for the carrying on of His work. That work continues ; it never rests; though it may seem to flag, and though the work men one after another die and are buried.

(To be continued.)

STAR SATURDAY SUPPLEMENT, APRIL 8, 1882.

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