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and still be Sir Galahad; and the last tall son of Bellicent and Lot might speak like the first and still remain the last to the last. It would be quite impossible for Iago to speak like Othello and still be Iago; and no one could ever confuse Goneril with Cordelia, or Portia with Juliet. On the other hand, what difference is there more than the name which distinguishes Guinevre from Elaine or either from Lynette? Mr Tennyson's touches are few; but he is neither Milton nor Dante, and therefore his touches fail to give individuality. Coolness and calmness of mind are admirable qualities for a philosopher or historian; but a soulless poet is always allowed to extinguish himself. Shakespeare is at his greatest in Hamlet. Milton adds beauty to passion in his splendid declamation in Samson Agonistes. Burns, through the intensity of his feelings, makes us love his Highland Mary and his bonnie Jean almost as fondly as himself. These poets were not afraid of having it known that they had passions. They never set up for being past desire, of being as spirituel as Madamoiselle Baptistine, who was only, "une peu de matiere contenant un lueur." Even Cowper can grow warm when he denounces sordidness and oppression. But Mr Tennyson is more enamoured of Horatio than ever Hamlet was. The effect of all this is, that his audience is introduced to a wax-work, in which all the figures, after having been suitably attired according to rank and fashion by the poet, are made to dance to the same monotonous tune. The spectacle soon becomes weariesome, and no one ever discovers an inclination to renew his acquaintance with it. Had Mr Tennyson not forgotten,
he would have made Arthur more like a man, and more like a
