VII SOME MODERNS Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! O well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! That he sings in his boat on the bay! To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead 10 all of us the verses T were familiar as household words; but when the Professor read them aloud on that Sunday afternoon, I do not think there was one of us who did not discover in them a deeper beauty and pathos, a loftier note of music than we had found in them before. His intonation in uttering the words, "Break, break, break," was to me a revelation; it was one of those "illuminations" that so often flood a own subject with a new light as we listen to one great mind interpreting the work of another. We try to explain to others our experience of such a moment, and we miserably fail "the heart knoweth his bitterness; and a stranger doth not intermeddle with his joy." To the lover of poetry there can be no greater infliction than to hear others read it- as a rule. The worst offenders are the clergy, who have endless opportunities, under the most favourable conditions, for thrilling their congregations by an efficient rendering of some of the grandest poetry that has ever been penned. Men from our great universities have a peculiar method of reading aloud, which is deplorably successful in obliterating from poetry all its beauty. When, therefore, the Professor, after some appreciative remarks on Tennyson, opened the book to quote an example, I trembled for the poet's reputation. It was : fortunately in safe keeping. The effect was magical the reader's voice, as Elia said of Mrs. Jordan's, sank into the heart, and we all remained strangely silent, until the Professor, after a long pause, said quietly, “That is poetry." The incident sent me to Tennyson again. I had neglected him for some years; but that night, when all in the house had retired to rest and that is the time to read poetry -I took down the volumes and had a delightful hour of browsing. I hope to see my Pilot face to face The lines recalled those fateful days when the world seemed to pause with bated breath while the old poet's life trembled in the balance. I recalled the descriptions I had read of the moonlight streaming over the silent Blackdown into the death chamber of the house on the side of that glorious Surrey hill. I had not been there since Tennyson's death, and an irresistible desire came over me to see the place once again. There were other personal memories that made Blackdown very dear to me. I had climbed the hill more than once with one in whom a generous and sympathetic heart is combined with profound knowledge and a power of expression that has been rarely equalled. We had stood side by side on the hill-top, and from revelling in the lovely scene before us had fallen into a discussion on those deep and appalling problems of our civilisation which must ever be haunting men who have hearts to feel and brains to contrive. I would go over the old familiar ground and dream those days. back again. When the next holy day came-—and what holy days holidays are to the gentle cyclist-I was up betimes, for there were at least fifty-two miles of cycling, over two hours' railway travelling, and as much time as possible to be crowded in for loafing all to be done before nightfall. A contemptible task to any of the gentry who curl themselves over the handle-bars and ride against time; but a full day's work for one who wants to have "a look around" on the way. The weather-that subject of undying interest to cyclists was decidedly unpromising. A south-westerly wind was blowing freshly and not an inch of blue sky was to be seen; but the man whose holidays are few and far between must run some risk. Time being precious, and Kensington, Clapham, Battersea-rise, and Wandsworth not being particularly interesting, I took train to Kingston, from whence in a few minutes I was taking a peep at the river at Thames Ditton. Then came that glorious mile and a half of dead-level road, and a splendid surface to boot, on towards Esher. It is a long but gentle ascent to the pretty race-course and the village beyond, which begins to look as if it were fast becoming a London suburb. Pope and Thomson both praised the beauties of Esher, a unique honour for so unpretentious a place, for Esher displays no egotism regarding its association with the great Cardinal Wolsey, nor have I ever heard an Esher man boast of the fact that the sisters Jane and Anna Maria Porter lived there for many years. Yet our grandmothers and grandfathers devoured the sisters' novels ravenously, quite oblivious of the fact that they contained no problems and had no particular purpose beyond encouraging a love of courage and virtue. Does any one now read The Scottish Chiefs, Thaddeus of |