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attachment. Something of what we now call Eastern manners at one time marked the treatment of women, in the West. Unnatural means contrary to nature, even irrespectively of time or place; but time and place explain, and warrant, the picture of the treatment of Enid by Geraint.

34. Vivien, which follows Enid, is perhaps the least popular of the four Books. No pleasure, we grant, can be felt from the character cither of the wily woman, between elf and fiend, or of the aged magician, whose passion is allowed to travel whither none of his esteem or regard can follow it and in reading this poem we miss the pleasure of those profound moral harmonies, with which the rest are charged. But we must not on such grounds proceed to the conclusion that the poet has in this case been untrue to his aims. For he has neither failed in power, nor has he led our sympathies astray. And, if we ask why he should introduce us to those we cannot love, there is something in the reply that Poetry, the mirror of the world, cannot deal with its attractions only, but must present some of its repulsions also, and avail herself of the powerful assistance of its contrasts. The example of Homer, who allows Thersites to thrust himself upon the scene, in the debate of heroes, gives a sanction to what reason and all experience teach, namely, the actual force of negatives in heightening effect; and the gentle and noble characters, and beautiful combinations, which largely predominate in the other poems, stand in far clearer and bolder relief when we perceive the dark and baleful shadow of Vivien lowering from between them.

35. Vivien exhibits a well-sustained conflict between the wizard and, in another sense, the witch. On this side is the wit of woman, on that are the endowments of the

prophet and magician, at once more and less than those of nature. She has heard from him of a charm, a charm "of woven paces, and of waving hands," which paralyses its victim for ever and without deliverance; and her object is to extract from him the knowledge of it, as a proof of some return for the fervid and boundless love that she pretends. We cannot but estimate very highly the skill with which Mr. Tennyson has secured to what seemed the weaker vessel the ultimate mastery in the fight. Out of the eater comes forth meat. When she seems to lose ground with him, by her slander against the Round Table which he loved, she recovers it by making him believe that she saw all other men, the knights, the Court, the King, dark in his light:" and when, in answer to her imprecation on herself, a fearful thunderbolt descends and the storm rages, then, nestling in his bosom, part in fear but more in craft, she overcomes the last remnant of his resolution, wins the secret she has so indefatigably wooed, and that instant uses it to close in gloom the famous career of the over-mastered sage.

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36. In subtlety and richness of fancy, as well as in the skill of handling, this poem is indeed remarkable even when matched with any of the four; and, to bring our assertion to a test, we quote from it the description of Vivien's witchery when she makes her first approaches (p. 105):

"And lissome Vivien, holding by his heel,

Writhed toward him, slided 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

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* then adding all at once

'And lo! I clothe myself with wisdom,' drew
The vast and shaggy mantle of his beard
Across her neck and bosom to her knee,
And called herself a gilded summer-fly
Caught in a great old tyrant spider's web,
Who meant to eat her up in that wild wood
Without one word. So Vivien called herself,
But rather seemed a lovely baleful star
Veiled in gray vapour."

37. Nowhere could we more opportunely, than at this point, call attention to Mr. Tennyson's extraordinary felicity and force in the use of metaphor and simile. This gift appears to have grown with his years, alike in abundance, truth, and grace. As the showers descend from heaven to return to it in vapour, so Mr. Tennyson's loving observation of Nature, and his Muse, seem to have had a compact of reciprocity well kept on both sides. When he was young, and when 'Enone' was first published, he almost boasted of putting a particular kind of grasshopper into Troas, which, as he told us in a note, was probably not to be found there. It is a small but yet an interesting and significant indication that when, some years after, he retouched the poem, he omitted the note, and generalised the grasshopper. Whether we are right or not in taking this for a sign of the movement of his mind, there can be no doubt that his present use of figures is both the sign and the result of a reverence for Nature alike active, intelligent, and refined. Sometimes applying the metaphors of Art to Nature, he more frequently draws the materials of his analogies from her unexhausted book, and, however often he may call for some new and beautiful vehicle of illustration, she seems never to withhold an

answer. With regard to this particular and very critical gift, it seems to us that he may challenge comparison with almost any poet, either of ancient or modern times. We have always been accustomed to look upon Ariosto as one of the greatest among the masters of the art of metaphor and simile: and it would be easy to quote from him instances which in tenderness, grace, force, or all combined, can never be surpassed. But we have rarely seen the power subjected to a greater trial than in the passages just quoted from Mr. Tennyson, where metaphor lies by metaphor as thick as shells upon their bed; yet each individually with its outline as well drawn, its separateness as clear, its form as true to nature, and with the most full and harmonious contribution to the general effect.

38. The Maid of Astolat' is the next figure in the great procession: and this poem has deservedly won very general favour. The framework of it is adopted, with less of variation than in any other case, from the old romance: indeed it was hardly possible to add to the simplicity and pathos of the tale as it stands in the pages of Sir Thomas Mallory. The most important alteration, which the poet has made, is in the form of the request which the maiden proffers to Sir Lancelot, when she learns that she cannot be his wife: and he has made it with excellent taste and sense. But while he has preserved its general form, he has broadened and deepened its features, and lengthened those avenues which it opens into the destinies and heart of man.

39. The opening of the narrative is described in the heading of one of Sir Thomas Mallory's chapters: "How Sir Lancelot rode to Astolat, and received a sleeve to bear upon his helm at the request of a maid." He rides on to

the tournament with a borrowed shield; and leaves the maid behind him, smitten with an absorbing fondness for the great warrior. We extract the scene in which her heart receives the seal indelible (p. 160):

"He spoke and ceased: the lily maid Elaine,
Won by the mellow voice before she looked,
Lifted her eyes, and read his lineaments.
The great and guilty love he bare the Queen,
In battle with the love he bare his lord,
Had marred his face, and marked it ere his time.
Another, sinning on such heights with one,
The flower of all the west and all the world,
Had been the sleeker for it: but in him

His mood was often like a fiend, and rose
And drove him into wastes and solitudes

For agony, who was yet a living soul.
Marred as he was, he seemed the goodliest man
That ever among ladies ate in hall,
And noblest, when she lifted up her eyes.
However marred, of more than twice her years,
Seamed with an ancient sword-cut on the cheek,
And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes

And loved him, with that love which was her doom."

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He wins

40. She keeps his shield, a precious token, and by it "lives in fantasy" on the recollection of him. the prize of valour, as is his wont. But is wounded, and is brought unto an hermit for to be healed of his wound." The maid repairs to him; and, by her tender and constant nursing, he is cured. Her love ever grows in intensity, and she prays to be his wife, or, when she finds that may not be, yet to remain with him, and to wait constantly upon him. This refused, she pines and dies; and her body, by her own prayer, is floated in a barge, with only a steerer old and dumb, and bearing in

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