Gliding, and every day she tended him,

:

And likewise many a night and Lancelot
Would, tho' he call'd his wound a little hurt
Whereof he should be quickly whole, at times
Brain-feverous in his heat and agony, seem
Uncourteous, even he : but the meek maid
Sweetly forbore him ever, being to him
Meeker than any child to a rough nurse,
Milder than any mother to a sick child,
And never woman yet, since man's first fall,
Did kindlier unto man, but her deep love
Upbore her; till the hermit, skill'd in all
The simples and the science of that time,
Told him that her fine care had saved his life.
And the sick man forgot her simple blush,
Would call her friend and sister, sweet Elaine,
Would listen for her coming and regret
Her parting step, and held her tenderly,
And loved her with all love except the love
Of man and woman when they love their best,
Closest and sweetest, and had died the death
In any knightly fashion for her sake.
And peradventure had he seen her first

She might have made this and that other world
Another world for the sick man; but now
The shackles of an old love straiten'd him,
His honour rooted in dishonour stood,

And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.

We do not care to linger in the company of wily Vivien or haughty Ettarre-representatives of the Camelotian demimonde. The story of Vivien and Merlin points the same moral as the authentic history of Samson and Dalila; but it was not, therefore, necessary to tell it, and it is told, we think, a little too plainly. It is rather a matter of surprise to us that, out of the five women of the Arthurian period with whom the poet occupies himself, three are of damaged reputation. This seems to us too large a proportion, whether regard be had to the possible conditions of society then, or to its conceivable conditions in a poetical point of view. In the former case, the Britons of the time would have made short work of such offenders. In the latter case, Mr. Tennyson might have paid his countrywomen a better compliment than to suppose that they would be particularly interested in such types of female character. But he has only fallen in with a fashion which has unhappily gained much ground; and we fear it is too late to wish that our fictionists in prose and verse would

leave that style of heroine, with or without camellias, at the other side of Dover Straits. These remarks, however, are not intended to apply to the character of Guinevere, as the poet has drawn and developed it. In that, and indeed in the general tone of these poems, there breathes a spirit of high and, we might say, of Catholic morality. Sin is not depicted in false and seductive colours. It is the blight that withers what would else have been lovely and admirable. It is the taint that diffuses the poison of death through a frame seeming full of life and vigour. We are never in danger of forgetting the fall of Lancelot, amid all his chivalrous characteristics. We are never permitted to lose sight of Guinevere's guilt, though she is presented to us in all the charms of womanly grace and queenly dignity. In the scene at the Convent of Almesbury, where Arthur sees her for the last time, there is in that "all through thee!" the summing-up of the fatal indictment in which the worth and purity of his Court as he designed it, and as it was before he wedded her, is contrasted with what it afterwards became. His tone is full of pity and forbearance, but he spares her no reproach that could awaken conscience and turn her to repentance. And what can be truer to nature, as affected by the influences of our holy faith, than the spirit of her contrite appeal to the sisterhood?

So let me, if you do not shudder at me,
Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with you;
Wear black and white, and be a nun like you;
Fast with your fasts, not feasting with your feasts;
Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at your joys,
But not rejoicing; mingle with your rites;
Pray and be pray'd for; lie before your shrines ;
Do each low office of your holy house;

Walk your dim cloister, and distribute dole

To poor sick people, richer in His eyes

Who ransom'd us, and haler too than I ;

And treat their loathsome hurts and heal mine own;

And so wear out in almsdeed and in prayer

The sombre close of that voluptuous day

Which wrought the ruin of my lord the King.

The characters of the "Idylls" are now so well known that gentlemen of the turf have for some time been calling their racehorses after them, and we should seem to be assuming in our readers a degree of ignorance, the mere suspicion of which would be offensive, if we were to dwell upon them longer. The volume now before us, however, though to most of those who

have leisure and inclination to cultivate English literature it has ceased to be a novelty, demands a fuller notice at our hands. The poem of the "Holy Grail" is its principal feature, and the chief one that enters into our present design. Passing by questions of etymology, it is sufficient to explain that the Holy Grail is the cup used by Our Lord at the Last Supper, which, according to the legend, was brought by S. Joseph of Arimathæa to Glastonbury, where for a season it was the cause of many miraculous blessings, but whence when the times grew evil it was caught away to heaven. The story of the expeditions undertaken in quest of it by the Knights of the Round Table is told by one of them, Sir Percivale, called the Pure, who had quitted the court for the cloister, to his fellow monk, Ambrosius. The teller of the tale, its hearer, and all the personages introduced into it are well and distinctly drawn. The commonplace qualities of the worthy Ambrosius serve as a foil to the wonderful adventures of the Knights. He is most at home among the humble neighbours of the monastery, the depositary of their secrets, the confidant of their cares; it is his business, as he says of himself, to

Delight myself with gossip and old wives,
And ills and aches, and teethings, lyings-in,
And mirthful sayings, children of the place,
That have no meaning half a league away :
Or lulling random squabbles when they rise,
Chafferings and chatterings at the market-cross,
Rejoice, small man, in this small world of mine,
Yea, even in their hens and in their eggs-

and the marvellous incidents of the Quest excite his constant amazement. The vision of the Grail was vouchsafed to Sir Percivale's sister, a holy nun, whom long years of prayer and penance had purified from stains of no deep dye, and fitted for such a revelation. It was heralded by strains of an unearthly music:

"And then

In obedience to her exhortations the knights enter on a

course of prayer and fasting, in the hope that the vision may be granted to them also. In consequence of this it is partially and for a moment revealed to them, and the sight so inflames their desire to see it again and more fully that several take a vow to journey in search of it for a year and a day. All this had happened in the King's absence, and, on his return, he rebukes their precipitancy in entering on an enterprise for which few of them were fitted, and which would divert their energies from grave and urgent service at home. After a great tourney held at the King's desire before the knights set out, at which Galahad and Percivale especially distinguished themselves, the Quest begins. Sir Percivale relates his own adventures first: how that his heart was elate with pride at the thought of his recent prowess in the lists, and the confident expectation of success in his enterprise; how that, at different stages of his journey, he was mocked by bright phantoms, now of pleasant and refreshing lawns, now of scenes of domestic peace, again of the dazzling presence of a knight in golden armour set all round with jewels, lastly of a city on a hill, in which there was but one inhabitant, a man of exceeding age; how that they all at the first touch turned to dust, and left him in dejection, till he begins to fear that the vision of the Grail, even should he find it, would be fleeting and unreal as the rest. At last he comes to a chapel, where he meets with a holy hermit, who tells him the cause of his failure:

O son, thou hast not true humility,

The highest virtue, mother of them all;

For when the Lord of all things made Himself
Naked of glory for His mortal change,

"Take thou my robe," she said, "for all is Thine,"
And all her form shone forth with sudden light,
So that the angels were amazed, and she
Follow'd Him down, and like a flying star
Led on the gray-hair'd wisdom of the East;
But her thou hast not known for what is this
Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy sins?
Thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself
As Galahad.

Suddenly Galahad himself comes in. The Knights join in worship, and, "at the Sacring of the Mass," while Percivale sees only the holy elements, the Grail appears to Galahad, who also sees (in a manner, however, somewhat savouring of the Impanation heresy) the Presence itself. He recounts that, for his part, the Holy Grail had accompanied him throughout his journey, seen faintly by day, but ever clearly visible at night

with a blood-red glow. In the strength of its companionship he has everywhere shattered evil customs, conquered pagan realms, and overthrown hostile hordes; but the time is at hand when he is to pass away from earth to the "spiritual city," there to be crowned king. He promises, however, that when he departs Percivale shall see the vision too. Immediately follows the description of Galahad's ascent to the spiritual city, and Percivale's sight of the Grail, which is picturesque and striking, but which would be better in its way if the word "and" did not occur twenty-four times in fifty-one lines, in nine of which it begins a line. Such signs of weakness occur too often in this volume, and almost suggest the caution, Solve senescentem.

The next adventure told is that of Sir Bors, the kinsman and devoted friend of Sir Lancelot :

He had been well content

Not to have seen, so Lancelot might have seen,
The Holy Cup of healing; and, indeed,

Being so clouded with his grief and love,
Small heart was his after the Holy Quest:

If God would send the vision, well if not,

The Quest and he were in the hands of Heaven.

This meritorious spirit of resignation and indifference is rewarded. Riding through a wild and remote part of the kingdom, he falls among a party of Druids. In the religious controversy in which they engage with him, he lets fall some words with which their people are incensed. He is seized, plunged into a cell of great piled stones, and left lying there in bonds, till by miracle one of the huge stones is loosed from its place, leaving a gap, through which he sees the seven tutelary stars of Arthur's Table, and then, beyond his hopes, the Holy Grail itself. Afterwards a Christian maid, of kin to his heathen persecutors, secretly enters, looses, and lets him go. Of the other principal knights, Sir Gawain, the king's nephew, light and voluptuous, soon finds his vow too weighty for him; is quite pleased with the advice of his spiritual director that the Quest was not for him; having got which advice (which, like those who go for a dispensation at the beginning of Lent, was all his business with the holy man), he amuses himself according to his taste until the year and day are at an end. Sir Lancelot's story Sir Lancelot's story is treated with great judgment and skill. The king asks him to tell his adventures; not doubting of his success, as one whom he deemed the very flower of his chivalry. The task is a painful one for Lancelot. Beginning with a groan of anguish, he tells that,