Without doubt the Laureate deserves his hard-won glory. In his hale old age, he has disarmed the critics of years ago who sneered at his empty lays and feminine ways. The question--_Cui bono?_ could be asked as to many of Tennyson's earlier efforts, such as "Oriana," "The Lady of Shalott," "Audley Court," "Edwin Morris," "Amphion," "Lady Clare," "The Lord of Burleigh," "The Beggar Maid" and others. These lyrics and idyls are made up of ornate commonplaces which show the artistic instinct rather than the poetic. They abound with the ephemeral conceits of drawing-room poetry. They contain nothing that resembles vivacity or sublimity. They have not the interest which is general and universal as distinguished from the private or the unusual. They are not representative of human nature, but of individual peculiarities. They are ideal pictures, not transcripts from experience. With a few exceptions, the minor poems published in 1855 and 1864 are of similar character; and it may be said that "The Princess," "Maud," "Enoch Arden," and most of the Arthurian stories are in much the same vein. None of these works, when viewed as an organic whole, can be called great. In all of them, manliness is at a discount, and there is withal a dearth of ideas. Sentiment and ornament are overdone, and there is not enough of life. They can be described as a chaos of pretty fancies and idle reveries. Such are not the strains that shape a nation's destiny and are treasured in its heart. In the centuries agone, such a songster would have been a first-class troubadour, much sought and praised in princely circles. But former estimates of Tennyson must be revised. The slurs at the euphonious jingler and effeminate Alfred are in place no more. He has abandoned the domain of the legendary and the fantastic. Romance has given way to history, and dreams to reality. Sensuous effects are now subordinate. His verse no longer cloys with sweetness. It is simple, natural, impassioned.