'O darling room, my heart's delight; Dear room, the apple of my sight; With thy two couches, soft and white, There is no room so exquis_ite_; No little room so warm and bright, Wherein to read, wherein to write.' We entreat our readers to note how, even in this little trifle, the singular taste and genius of Mr. Tennyson break forth. In such a dear _little_ room a narrow-minded scribbler would have been content with _one_ sofa, and that one he would probably have covered with black mohair, or red cloth, or a good striped chintz; how infinitely more characteristic is white dimity!--'tis as it were a type of the purity of the poet's mind. He proceeds-- 'For I the Nonnenwerth have seen, And Oberwinter's vineyards green, Musical Lurlei; and between The hills to Bingen I have been, Bingen in Darmstadt, where the _Rhene_ Curves toward Mentz, a woody scene. 'Yet never did there meet my sight, In any town, to left or right, A little room so exquis_ite_, With _two_ such couches soft and white; Nor any room so warm and bright, Wherein to read, wherein to write.'--p. 153. A common poet would have said that he had been in London or in Paris--in the loveliest villa on the banks of the Thames, or the most gorgeous chateau on the Loire--that he has reclined in Madame de Staël's boudoir, and mused in Mr. Roger's comfortable study; but the _darling room_ of the poet of nature (which we must suppose to be endued with sensibility, or he would not have addressed it) would not be flattered with such common-place comparisons;--no, no, but it is something to have it said that there is no such room in the ruins of the Drachenfels, in the vineyard of Oberwinter, or even in the rapids of the _Rhene_, under the Lurleyberg. We have ourselves visited all these celebrated spots, and can testify in corroboration of Mr. Tennyson, that we did not see in any of them anything like _this little room so exquis_ITE. The second of the lighter pieces, and the last with which we shall delight our readers, is a severe retaliation on the editor of the Edinburgh Magazine, who, it seems, had not treated the first volume of Mr. Tennyson with the same respect that we have, we trust, evinced for the second. 'To CHRISTOPHER NORTH. You did late review my lays, Crusty Christopher; You did mingle blame and praise Rusty Christopher. When I learnt from whom it came I forgave you all the blame, Musty Christopher; I could _not_ forgive the praise, Fusty Christopher.'--p. 153. Was there ever anything so genteelly turned--so terse--so sharp--and the point so stinging and _so true_? 'I could not forgive the _praise_, Fusty Christopher!'