Let it be admitted that "In Memoriam" has certain lapses in all that meed
of melodious tears; that there are trivialities which might deserve (here
is an example) "to line a box," or to curl some maiden's locks, that
there are weaknesses of thought, that the poet now speaks of himself as a
linnet, singing "because it must," now dares to approach questions
insoluble, and again declines their solution. What is all this but the
changeful mood of grief? The singing linnet, like the bird in the old
English heathen apologue, dashes its light wings painfully against the
walls of the chamber into which it has flown out of the blind night that
shall again receive it.

I do not care to dwell on the imperfections in that immortal strain of
sympathy and consolation, that enchanted book of consecrated regrets. It
is an easier if not more grateful task to note a certain peevish egotism
of tone in the heroes of "Locksley Hall," of "Maud," of "Lady Clara Vere
de Vere." "You can't think how poor a figure you make when you tell that
story, sir," said Dr. Johnson to some unlucky gentleman whose "figure"
must certainly have been more respectable than that which is cut by these
whining and peevish lovers of Maud and Cousin Amy.

Let it be admitted, too, that King Arthur, of the "Idylls," is like an
Albert in blank verse, an Albert cursed with a Guinevere for a wife, and
a Lancelot for friend. The "Idylls," with all their beauties, are full
of a Victorian respectability, and love of talking with Vivien about what
is not so respectable. One wishes, at times, that the "Morte d'Arthur"
had remained a lonely and flawless fragment, as noble as Homer, as
polished as Sophocles. But then we must have missed, with many other
admirable things, the "Last Battle in the West."

People who come after us will be more impressed than we are by the