BOOKS.

TENNYSON'S IDYLLS OF THE KING.* " ARTHUR is come again: he cannot die !" The Laureate has x

insured to him the immortality which prophecy had made his due. ' That noblest ideal of royal chivalry had been slowly fading out from human memory, when Tennyson came,

" And culled the grey legend that long had been sleeping, Where oblivion's dull mist o'er its beauty was creeping,"

and entwined it in his own undying verse. What nurture fork—

manly thought and feeling would Englishmen have lost, had the spirit of the Arthurian Iromaunt, for ages a household influence amongst them, been left to languish obscurely in an obsolete book. Sir Thomas Mallory's compilation can never be restored to its lost popularity ; but it is a precious storehouse from which a great poet may draw forth lovely things that never can grow old. All in it," says Professor Masson, "is ideal, elemental, .per- fectly and purely imaginative ; and yet all rests on a basis of what is eternal and general in human nature, and in man's spi- ritual and social experience, so that to use Caxton's very happy enumeration, herein may be yen noble chovalrye, curtosye, humanyte, frendlynesse, hardynesse, love, frendshyp, cowardyse, murdre, hate, virtue, synne.' " The problemlhow to work this rich vein of poetry was pondered by Milton and Dryden • but they abstained from the design, deterred perhaps by the difficulty of giving epic unity to the multifarious episodes of the romaunt. Mr. Tennyson has judiciously evaded this difficulty by foregoing the attempt to construct an epos out of materials not naturally conformable to such a mode of treatment, but each too beautiful in his eyes to allow of his marring its fair proportions for the purpose of fitting it into an arbitrary plan. He has done much better in taking them one by one for subjects of so many distinct poems ; so that when he has completed his work, the whole cycle of the Arthurian legends will come from his hands an image of the Round Table itself, no member of it made subordinate to another, but all equally free to assert their individual claims to honour for intrinsic worth.

The present volume consists of four poems, why called Idylls we are at a loss to say. They are of a much higher strain than the idyllic, having little in common with it except the exquisite grace and melody essential to that form of composition, whilst with these qualities of style they unite an epic dignity to which the idyll proper can hardly aspire. "Enid," the first and longest of the poems, relates the history of Prince Geraint's marriage with a noble maid of fallen fortunes, his groundless jealousy, and its perfect cure. He has set out in quest of a malapert knight to punish him for his insolence to the queen, and enters the court- yard of a ruinous castle.

" And while he waited in the castle court, The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter rang Clear thro' the open casement of the Hall, Singing ; and as the sweet voice of a bird, Heard by the hinder in a lonely isle, Moves him to think what kind of bird it is That sings so delicately clear, and make Conjecture of the plumage and the form ; So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint ; And made him like a man abroad at morn When first the liquid note beloved of men Comes flying over many a windy wave To Britain, and in April. suddenly Breaks from a coppice gemm'd with green and red, And he suspends his converse with a friend, Or it may be the labour of his hands, To think or say, There is the nightingale ; ' So fared it with Geraint, who thought and said, Here, by God's grace, is the one voice for me.' "

Having vanquished the insolent knight he was in quest of, who was also Earl Yniol's despoiler, Prince Geraint weds Enid, and retrieves her father's broken fortunes. Before the marriage, the gentle Enid, who is dressed in an old faded silk gown, feels a natural reluctance to appear at court in attire so ill according with her husband's rank. She longs for a certain gold em- broidered dress, lost in the sack of the castle three years before.

" She wish'd The Prince had found her in her ancient home ; Then let her fancy flit across the past, And roam the goodly places that she knew ; And last bethought her how she used to watch, Near that old home, a pool of golden carp ; And one was patch'd and blurr'd and lustreless Among his burnish'd brethren of the pool; And half asleep she made comparison Of that and these to her own faded self And the gay court, and fell asleep again ; And dreamt herself was such a faded form Among her burnish'd sisters of the pool ;

But this was in the garden of a king;

And though she lay dark in the pool, she knew That all was bright ; that all about were birds Of sunny plume in gilded trellis-work ; That all the turf was rich in plots that look'd Each like a garnet or a turkis in it ; And lords and ladies of the high court went In silver tissue talking things of state; And children of the king in cloth of gold Glanced at the doors or gambol'd down the walks ; And while she thought they will not see me,' came A stately queen whose name was Guinevere, And all the children in their cloth of gold Ran to her, crying, If we have fish at all

• Idylls of the King. By Alfred Tennyson, D.C.L., Poet Laureate. Published by Mozon.

Let them be gold ; and charge the gardeners now To pick the faded creature from the pool, And east it on the mixen that it die.

And therewithal one came and seized on her, And Enid started waking, with her heart All overshadow'd by the foolish dream, And lo! it was her mother grasping her To get her well awake ; and in her hand A suit of bright apparel, which she laid Flat on the couch, and spoke exultingly."

Geraint, however, desiring to prove the unquestioning devotion of his bride, puts her to the hard test of requiring her to resume the old faded gown; and she bears it so well that Geraint feels certain "that never shadow of mistrust can cross between" them. After some stay at court Geraint is alarmed by a rumour of the Queen's guilty love for Lancelot, and retires with his wife to his princedom, on leave granted from the King, to defend his marches against the neighbouring marauders. But he neglects every knightly duty for Enid's society, and she is made wretched by knowing that people jeer at her husband, as one whose manhood was " molten down in mere uxoriousness."

"And day by day she thought to tell Geraint, But could not out of bashful delicacy ; While he that watched her sadden, was the more Suspicious that her naature had a taint.

" At last,. it chanced that on a summer morn (They sleeping each by other) the new sun Beat throe the blindless casement of the room, And heated the strong warrior in his dreams ; Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside

And bared the knotted column of his 'throat, The massive square of his heroic breast,

And arms on which the standing muscle sloped, As slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone, Running too vehemently to break upon it. And Enid woke and sat beside the couch, Admiring him, and thought within herself, Was ever man so grandly made as he ? Then, like a shadow, past the people's talk And accusation of uxoriousness Across her mind, and bowing over him, Low to her own heart piteously she said :-

Her soliloquy runs into self-accusation for not daring to tell her husband what she thinks, and ends with the utterance of her fear that she was " no true wife." Geraint " by great mischance" hears these last words only, and misconceives their meaning.

" Then tho' he loved and reverenced her too much To dream she could be guilty of foul act, Right throe his manful breast darted the pang That makes a man, in the sweet face of her Whom he loves most, lonely and miserable. At this he hurl'd his huge limbs out of bed, And shook his drowsy squire awake and cried, My charger and her palfrey,' then to her, ' I will ride forth into the wilderness ; For tho' it seems my spurs aro yet to win, I have not fallen so low as some would wish. And you, put on your worst and meanest dress And ride with me.' And Enid asked, amazed, If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault.' But he ' I charge you, ask not but obey.'

Enid puts on the faded silk gown and mantle which she had carefully preserved ; they depart, and Geraint

" Perhaps because he loved her passionately, And felt that tempest brooding round his heart, Which, if he spoke at all, would break perforce Upon a head so dear in thunder, said : Not at my side ! I charge you ride before, Ever a good way on before ; and this I charge you, on your duty as a wife, Whatever happens, not to speak to me, No, not a word !' and Enid was aghast."

Again and again Enid discovers caitiff knights in ambush, and breaks the silence imposed on her to warn her lord, who slays all assailants, takes their horses and arms, and makes Enid drive them on before her. In the last encounter he is wounded, and after riding a little while falls senseless from his horse. While Enid is watching beside him, the bandit Earl Doorm passes that way with his followers, and struck with her beauty and the stal- wart frame of the wounded man, who may do him service as one of his band if he recovers, has them both conveyed to his castle. There Enid is subjected to the Earl's brutal wooing, whilst her husband lies on the table of the great hall, restored to conscious- ness but still feigning death. At last the incensed ruffian strikes her on the cheek.

" Then Enid, in her utter helplessness And since she thought, he had not dared to do it, Except he surely knew my lord was dead,' Sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter cry, As of a wild thing taken in the trap, Which sees the trapper coming through the wood.

" This heard Geraint, and grasping at his sword, (It lay beside him in the hollow shield,)

Made liut a single bound, and with a sweep of it Shore through the swarthy neck, and like a ball The russet-bearded head roll'd on the floor.

So died Earl Doorm by him he counted dead. And all the men and women in the hall Rose when they saw the dead man rise, and fled Yelling as from a spectre, and the two Were left alone together, and he said : Enid, I have used you worse than that dead man ; Done you more wrong : we both have undergone That trouble which has left me thrice your own : Henceforward I will rather die than doubt.

And here I lay this penance on myself, Not, though mine own ears heard you yester-morn- You thought me sleeping, but I heard you say, I heard you say, that you were no true wife : I swear I will not ask your meaning in it : I do believe yourself against yourself, - And will henceforward rather die than doubt.'

" And Enid could not say one tender word, She felt so blunt and stupid at the heart : She only prayed him, Fly, they will return And slay you ; fly, your charger is without, My palfrey lost . ' Then Geraint upon the horse Mounted, and reached a hand, and on his foot She set her own and climb'd ; he turn'd his face And kissed her climbing, and she cast her arms About him, and at once they rode away.

" And never yet, since high in paradise: O'er the four rivers the first roses blew, Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind Than lived.through her, who in that perilous hour Put hand to hand beneath her husband's heart, And felt him hers again : she did not weep, But o'er her meek eyes came a happy mist Like that which kept the heart of Eden green Before the useful trouble of the rain."

In "Vivien " the tale is told of how Merlin succumbed to the wiles of a malignant wanton, who, in spite of his wisdom and the contemptuous coldness with which he regards her, at last extracts from hmi the secret of a spell which she at once uses for his destruc- tion. This is the only poem of the series in which the supernatural element is directly introduced, and here no more is made of it than is absolutely required by the nature of the legend. The arts to which Merlin falls a victim belong to that natural magic against which the science of the nineteenth century is no better a protection than the mystic lore of the wizard of Camelot. Merlin is sitting before a huge old hollow oak in the forest with the tempter at his feet.

"There lay she all her length and kissed his feet,

As if in deepest reverence and in love. A twist of gold was round her hair ; a robe

Of samite without price, that more exprest Than hid her, clung about her lissome limbs, In colour like the satin-shining palm On sallows in the windy gleams of March : And while she kissed them, crying, Trample me, Dear feet, that I have followed through the world, And I will pay you worship ; tread me down And I will kiss you for it ;' he was mute : So dark a forethought rolled about his brain, As on a dull day in an Ocean cave The blind wave feeling round his long sea-hall In silence : wherefore, when she lifted up A face of sad appeal, and spake and said, ' 0 Merlin, do you lore me ?' and again,

' 0 Merlin, do you love me ? ' and once more,

Great master, do you love me ? ' he was mute. And lissome Vivien, holding by his heel, Writhed towards him, elided up his knee and sat, Behind his ankle twined her hollow feet Together, curved an arm about his neck, Clung like a snake ; and letting her left hand Droop from his mighty shoulder, as a leaf; Made with her right a comb of pearl to part The lists of such a beard as youth gone out Had left in ashes."

The colloquy is a long one, and the contest for mastery between wisdom and womanly guile is exhibited with consummate dra- matic art. At last Vivien imprecates instant death by lightning if she purposes treachery.

Scarce had she ceased, when odt of heaven a bolt (For now the storm was close above them) struck, Furrowing a giant oak, and javelining With darted spikes and splinters of the wood

The dark earth round. He mis- ' " eyes and saw

The tree that shone white-listed t. he gloom.

But Vivien, fearing heaven had heard ner oath, And dazzled by the livid-flickering fork, And deafened with the stammering cracks and claps That followed, flying back and crying out, 0 Merlin, tho' you do not love me, alive, Yet save me !' clung to him and hugged him close ; And called him dear protector in her fright, Nor yet forgot her practice in her fright, But wrought upon his mood and hugged him close.

The pale blood of the wizard at her touch Took gayer colours, like an opal warm'd. She blamed herself for telling hearsay tales : She shook from fear, and for her fault she wept Of petulancy ; she called him lord and liege, Her seer, her bard, her silver star of eve, Her God, her Merlin, the one passionate love Of her whole life ; and ever overhead Bellowed the tempest, and the rotten branch Snapt in the rushing of the river-rain Above them ; and in change of glare and gloom Her eyes and neck glittering went and came ; Till now the storm, its burst of passion spent, Moaning and calling out of other lands, Had left the ravaged woodlands yet once more To peace ; and what should not have been had been, For Merlin, overtalk'd and overworn, Had yielded, told her all the charm, and slept.

" Then, in one moment, she put forth the charm Of woven paces and of waving hands And in the hollow oak he lay as dead, And lost to life and use and name and fame.

" Then crying ' I have made his glory mine,' And shrieking out 0 fool !' the harlot leapt • Adown the forest, and the thicket closed Behind her, and the forest echoed 'fool.' "

We must pass over the beautiful tale of Elaine, "the lily maid of Astolat," who died of unrequited love for Lancelot, and left him stricken with remorse for his secret sin, and conscious that the " simple heart and sweet" he had broken had loved him " surely with a love far tenderer than the Queen's." The discovery of his treason and Guinevere's, and its fatal consequences, are related in the last idyll. All the bonds of the realm are rent asunder; the Saxon " Lords of the White Horse" are overrunning it, and Lancelot, the king's mightiest and most beloved knight, is in his kingdom across the sea, defending himself in arms against his sovereign. Meanwhile the Queen has taken refuge in a nunnery where she is unknown, her only companion a simple novice, who tortures her with talk of the desolation brought upon the realm by " the sinful Queen." Guinevere's remorseful thoughts wander back to the happy days when she made her first journey with Lancelot, who came as Ambassador to bring her to the King, and

" While she brooded thus And grew half-guilty in her thoughts again, There rode an armed warrior to the doors.

A murmuring whisper through the nunnery ran, Then on a sudden a cry, the King.' She sat Stiff-stricken, listening; but when armed feet Through the long gallery from the outer doors Rang coming, prone from off her seat she fell, And grovell'd with her face against the floor : There with her milkwhite arms and shadowy hair She made her face a darkness from the King : And in the darkness heard his armed feet Pause by her; then came silence, then a voice, Monotonous and hollow like a ghost's Denouncing judgment, but though changed the ICng's."

The voice is still that of " the blameless King," of " the selfless man and stainless gentleman ; " the words such as beseemed God's highest creature, "the highest and most human too." He tells the prostrate Queen that a remnant of his knights still adhere to him.

"And of this remnant will I leave a part, True men who love me still, for whom I live, To guard thee in the wild hour coming on, Lest but a hair of this low head be harm'd. Fear not : thou shalt be guarded till my death. Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies Have crr'd not, that I march to meet my doom. Thou host not made my life so sweet to me, That I the King should greatly care to live ; For thou hest spoilt the purpose of my life."

That purpose had been to restore the rule of law, which was overthrown " when the Roman left us," and to this end he had gathered together the knighthood-errant of the realm-

"' In that fair order of my Table Round,

A glorious company, the flower of men, To serve as model for the mighty world, And be the fair beginning of a time.

I made them lay their hands in mine and swear

To reverence the King, as if he were Their conscience, and their conscience as their King, To break the heathen and uphold the Christ, To ride abroad redressing human wrongs, To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it, To lead sweet lives in purest chastity, To love one maiden only, cleave to her, And worship her by years of noble deeds, Until they won her ; for indeed I knew Of no more subtle master under heaven Than is the maiden passion for a maid, Not only to keep down the base in man, But teach high thought, and amiable words, And courtliness, and the desire of fame, And love of truth, and all that makes a man.

And all this throve until I wedded thee!

Believing, ' lo mine helpmate, one to feel My purpose and rejoicing in my joy.' Then came thy shameful sin with Lancelot ; Then came the sin of Tristram and holt ; Then others, following these my mightiest knights, And drawing foul ensample from fair names, Sinn'd also. . .

"Yet think not that I come to urge thy crimes, I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, I, whose vast pity almost makes me die To see thee, laying there thy golden head, My pride in happier summers, at my feet. The wrath which forced my thoughts on that fierce law, The doom of treason and the flaming death, (When first I learnt thee hidden here,) is past. The pang—which while I weigh'd thy heart with one Too wholly true to dream untruth in thee, Made my tears burn—is also past, in part. And all is past, the sin is sinn'd, and I, Lo! I forgive thee, as Eternal God Forgives : do thou for thine own soul the rest. But how to take last leave of all I loved ? 0 golden hair, with which I used to play Not knowing ! 0 imperial-moulded form, And beauty such as never woman wore,

Until it came a kingdom's curse with thee—

I cannot touch thy lips, they arc not mine, But Lancelot's. . . . .

Let no man dream but that I love thee still. Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul, And so thou lean on our fair father Christ,

Hereafter in that world where all are pure

We too may meet before high God, and thou Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and know

I am thine husband—not a smaller soul,

Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that,

I charge thee, my last hope.' "

Arthur departs, and Guinevere tries to catch a glimpse of his face from the casement.

" And lo, he sat on horseback at the door ! And near him the sad nuns with each a light Stood, and he gave them charge about the Queen, To guard and foster her for evermore. And while he spake to these his helm was lower'd, To which for crest the golden dragon clung Of Britain ; so she did not see the face, Which then was as an angel's, but she saw, Wet with the mists and smitten by the lights, The Dragon of the great Pendragonahip Blaze, making all the night a steam of fire. And even then he turn'd; and more and more The moony vapour rolling round the King, Who seem'd the phantom of a Giant in it, Enwound him fold by fold, and made him gray And grayer, till himself became as mist Before her, moving ghostlike to his doom."