It can easily be understood that during the interval between their leaving Louth Grammar School and entering College, very little restraint was exercised over Dr Tennyson's sons. They were sturdy, spirited lads, and appear to have been left to their own devices. We can imagine them wandering about the Lincolnshire Uplands, taking long journeys across the wolds, exploring knoll and copse, and occasionally walking as far as the sea. Now and then they visited Boston, where a relative lived, and in the summer they spent a few days at Mablethorpe in the "lowly" white cottage, whence they could see Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enormous marsh, Like emblems of infinity, The trenched waters run from sky to sky. All these scenes were knowledge and inspiration to the young poets, nor was it long before their thoughts found expression. It was Charles Tennyson who declared how good were all things in the poet's eyes, and who, while still a youth, felt that he and his kin were marked off from the common race. In his exquisite Book of Sonnets we read : No trace is left upon the vulgar mind By shapes which form upon the poet's thought Urging such spirits on to mock and to deny ? The love of Lincolnshire was deeply rooted in the hearts of these poets, and in truth there is no wonder that it should be. For Somersby is an enchanted spot, bright, luxurious, and beautiful. Wooded hills rise before it and lie behind it; a merry brook gleams in the glen, and ❝ swerves to left and right through meadowy curves," as it draws Into [its] narrow earthen urn, In every elbow and turn, The filter'd tribute of the rough woodland. All the air is melodious with the songs of birds-the rapturous lark, the trilling linnet, the joyous thrush, and the wrangling daw; and the long lonely lanes, like avenues, are cool and shady, and odorous with many flowers. How all these scenes and sounds influenced the mind of Alfred Tennyson, and suggested to him story and song has already been told. "What oftenest he viewed He viewed with the first glory," as every poet has done; and like a necromancer he has ever caused to pass before our eyes the lovely tints and golden hues of a glorious vanished past. It was during this somewhat unsettled and aimless period that Alfred and Charles Tennyson composed those poems which were afterwards to be published as the work of "Two Brothers." There may be some truth in the curious story related to me that publication was decided upon in order that a little money might be obtained to enable the boys. to carry out a long-cherished project of visiting the Lincolnshire churches. Suffice it that a selection of the compositions was made and taken to Jackson of Louth, who sometimes risked the printing of books. The Tennysons would be acquainted with Mr Jackson, or would know him well by repute, on account of their occasional visits to Louth, and they could scarcely fail to remark his superior establishment in the centre of the town. Mrs Tennyson and her sons had resided for some time in Harvey's Alley, now known as Westgate Place, the little domicile being situated close to the church in which the Rev. Stephen 1 Frederick Tennyson was responsible for one poem, The Oak of the North. Fytche preached. Alfred and Charles Tennyson found Mr Jackson kind-hearted and sympathetic. Not only did he arrange to bring out the poems in book form, but he offered them £10 for the copyright. To this the boys agreed, but, with the confidence of youth, afterwards informed the publisher that £10 was "none too high a price," whereupon that excellent person considerately doubled it. Twenty pounds was the sum actually received by the two lads for their poems. Already, therefore, they had proved the falseness of that disastrous prophecy of their uncle, who, on giving Alfred a half-sovereign for some verses, declared that that was the last money he would ever receive for a like reason. The original manuscript of this interesting work was sold for £480 last December (1892). The Poems by Two Brothers made their appearance in a small drab volume, priced at seven and sixpence, in 1827. The "copy" had been put into the printer's hands early in the year, so that Alfred was only seventeen when the last of his contributions to the pages was made. It was originally intended that the two brothers' initials, " C. T." and "A. T.,” should appear upon the title-page; but while the work was passing through the press the authors changed their minds, and told Mr Jackson that this was no part of the agreement, and would "not assist the sale of the book any more than if there was no signature at all." Thus it happened that when the book appeared there was no indication of who the two intrepid poets were. "Hæc nos novimus esse nihil" was the motto modestly chosen by the brothers for their first work; and their "Advertisement" was written in the same vein. "The following poems," the public were informed, "were written from the ages of fifteen to eighteen, not conjointly, but individually, which may account for their difference of style and matter. To light upon any novel combination of images, or to open any vein of sparkling thought untouched before, were no easy task; indeed, the remark itself is as old as the truth is clear; and, no doubt, if sub mitted to the microscopic eye of periodical criticism, a long list of inaccuracies and imitations would result from the investigation. But so it is. We have passed the Rubicon, and we leave the rest to fate, though its edict may create a fruitless regret that we ever emerged from 'the shade,' and courted notoriety." Then follow some forty introductory lines of no great merit as a whole, though with here and there a striking line or a flashing image. We are told that When the mind reflects its image trueSees its own aim-expression must ensue ; If all but language is supplied before, She quickly follows, and the task is o'er. Then, with a recollection of November the Fifth festivities, the youthful poet illustrates his meaning as follows: Thus when the hand of pyrotechnic skill A rhapsody on poetic pleasures is better. I know no joy so well deserves the name, Even at this early period we find that the boys, instead of dashing off their verses in a frenzy, were accustomed to pace the study "in a dreaming mood," and form "with much toil the lab'ring lines," a confession which does them great credit. Such are the sweets of song-and in this age, And they who now would fain awake the lyre, May swell this supernumerary choir : But ye, who deign to read, forget t' apply The searching microscope of scrutiny : Few from too near inspection fail to lose, Which throws his failures into welcome shade? I judge this Introduction to be the work of Charles Tennyson, being more in conformity with his style. It is true that the line, "Distance on all a mellowing haze bestows," finds its echo in In Memoriam, but Campbell had already given currency to the idea in the well-known "Distance lends enchantment to the view." Of the hundred and two poems which follow it is difficult to say much either in praise or blame. They are not commonplace, stilted, or ill-conceived; but, at the same time, they reach no great height and excite little real emotion. Above all, they never seem to come direct from the heart. Whatever power they possess, and whatever grace they display, are purely of the intellectual kind, and the cold, carefullymeasured lines are strangely unlike most boyish outbursts into verse. How curious it is to hear these lads between fifteen and eighteen gravely discoursing on philosophy, and from the depths of their experience teaching mankind the severe duties of life. It is scarcely natural to be tutored by youth and told that "life is but a scene of fallacy and woe," that "mortal man" should not "complain of death," and that "never from a wither'd heart The consciousness of ill shall part." The subjects of the poems are always sombre. Death, sorrow, pain, exile, rage, remorse, and despair are the most constant of themes. We are told by these artless juveniles that 'T is a fearful thing to glance Back on the gloom of misspent years; and at another time one of them, as if that gloom could never be dissipated, devotes a whole poem to explaining how he "wanders in darkness and sorrow." He asks In this waste of existence, for solace |