The author of this exquisite volume, the finest ever laid on the altar of friendship, is Alfred Tennyson, the most subtle and imaginative of living poets. It derives its title from the circumstance of being written in memory of Arthur Hallam, son of the historian of the Middle Ages, friend of the poet, and lover of his sister. In a hundred and eight short poems, all in one peculiar measure, Tennyson expresses not merely his grief for the loss of his friend, but touches on all those topics of sorrow and consolation kindred to the subject, or which the character of young Hallam suggests. It may be said by some that the object of the volume is unnatural and unmanly; that grief does not express itself in verses but in tears; that sorrow vents itself in simple words not in poetic conceits; and that the surest sign of the deficiency of feeling is a volume devoted to its celebration. But if we study the structure of Tennyson’s mind, we shall find that, however much these objections will apply to many mourners, they are inapplicable to him. The great peculiarity of his genius is intellectual intensity. All his feelings and impressions pass through his intellect, and are steadily scanned and reflected upon. In none of his poems do we find any outburst of feeling, scorning all mental control, or rapidly forcing the intellect into its service of rage or love. He has never written any thing in which emotion is not indissolubly blended with thought. There can be no doubt that he loved the person whom he here celebrates, but he loved him in his own deep and silent manner; his loss preyed upon his mind as well as heart, and stung thought and imagination into subtle activity. The volume is full of beauty, but of beauty in mourning weeds—of philosophy, but of philosophy penetrated with sadness. To a common mind, the loss of such a friend would have provoked a grief, at first uncontrollable, but which years would altogether dispel; to a mind like Tennyson’s years will but add to its sense of loss, however much imagination may consecrate and soften it. This volume, accordingly, contains some of the finest specimens of intellectual pathos, of the mind in mourning, we have ever seen, and, in English literature, it has no parallel. The author is aware, as well as his critics, of the impossibility of fully conveying his grief in verses, and has anticipated their objection in a short poem of uncommon suggestiveness: I sometimes hold it half a sin To put in words the grief I feel, For words, like nature, half reveal And half conceal the soul within. But for the unquiet heart and brain A use in measured language lies; The sad mechanic exercise, Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. In words, like weeds, I’ll wrap me o’er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold; But that large grief which these unfold, Is given in outline and no more.