I see the wealthy miller yet, His double chin, his portly size, And who that knew him could forget The busy wrinkles round his eyes? The slow, wise smile, that round about His dusty forehead daily curled, Seemed half within and half without, And full of dealings with the world. In The Day Dream, from which we have already quoted, the following lines will suggest to the reader’s mind the story of Rip Van Winkle, or Sleepy Hollow: And last of all the king awoke, And in his chair himself uprear’d, And yawn’d, and rubb’d his face, and spoke, “By holy rood, a royal beard! How say you? we have slept, my lords. My beard has grown into my lap.” The barons swore, with many words, ’Twas but an after-dinner’s nap. Tennyson frequently exhibits a rare sense of the beautiful, “a spirit awake to fine issues,” and, in his own language, does love Beauty only In all varieties of mould and mind, And Knowledge for its beauty, or if Good, Good only for its beauty. Yet this sense is sometimes dead in him, and he exhibits as little taste as is possessed by ante-diluvian McHenry. A critic for whose judgment we have great respect, and who seems determined to believe Mr. Tennyson “the first original English poet since Keats, perhaps the only one of the present race of verse writers who carries with him the certain marks of being remembered hereafter with the classic authors of his language,” points to St. Simeon Stilites as the finest of his productions. It is not his worst, but if he had not written better we should desire none of his companionship. In the opening lines a devotee prays, in the very language of old cloister legends— Altho’ I be the basest of mankind, From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin, Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet For troops of devils, mad with blasphemy, I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold Of saintdom, and to clamor, mourn and sob, Battering the gates of heaven with storms of prayer, Have mercy, Lord, and take away my sin. Recounting his mortifications, he says—