One judge, or juryman, has made up his mind that prose was your true province, and that your letters will out-live your lays. I know not whether it was the same or an equally well-inspired critic, who spoke of your most perfect lyrics (so Beau Brummell spoke of his ill-tied cravats) as “a gallery of your failures.” But the general voice does not echo these utterances of a too subtle intellect. At a famous University (not your own) once existed a band of men known as “The Trinity Sniffers.” Perhaps the spirit of the sniffer may still inspire some of the jurors who from time to time make themselves heard in your case. The “Quarterly Review,” I fear, is still unreconciled. It regards your attempts as tainted by the spirit of “The Liberal Movement in English Literature;” and it is impossible, alas! to maintain with any success that you were a Throne and Altar Tory. At Oxford you are forgiven; and the old rooms where you let the oysters burn (was not your founder, King Alfred, once guilty of similar negligence?) are now shown to pious pilgrims. But Conservatives, ’tis rumoured, are still averse to your opinions, and are believed to prefer to yours the works of the Reverend Mr. Keble, and, indeed, of the clergy in general. But, in spite of all this, your poems, like the affections of the true lovers in Theocritus, are yet “in the mouths of all, and chiefly on the lips of the young.” It is in your lyrics that you live, and I do not mean that every one could pass an examination in the plot of “Prometheus Unbound.” Talking of this piece, by the way, a Cambridge critic finds that it reveals in you a hankering after life in a cave—doubtless an unconsciously inherited memory from cave-man. Speaking of cave-man reminds me that you once spoke of deserting song for prose, and of producing a history of the moral, intellectual, and political elements in human society, which, we now agree, began, as Asia would fain have ended, in a cave. Fortunately you gave us “Adonais” and “Hellas” instead of this treatise, and we have now successfully written the natural history of Man for ourselves. Science tells us that before becoming a cave-dweller he was a Brute; Experience daily proclaims that he constantly reverts to his original condition. _L’homme est un méchant animal_, in spite of your boyish efforts to add pretty girls “to the list of the good, the disinterested, and the free.”