e following critique of Tennyson, which, again, may be most
profitably compared with Gladstone's. It proves that he loved poetry for
its own sake.

The notice of Macaulay's Lays further illustrates his interesting
_theories_ of poetry.

JOHN STERLING

(1806-1844)

It is the remarkable fate of Sterling, leaving behind him no work of
permanent distinction--to have been the subject of two biographies by
persons of far greater importance than his--Archdeacon Hare and Thomas
Carlyle. The editorial foot-note affixed to the following review, in
which Mill describes him as "one of our most valued contributors"
provides further evidence of what his contemporaries expected of "Poor
Sterling." "A loose, careless looking, thin figure," says Carlyle, "in
careless dim costume, sat, in a lounging posture, carelessly and
copiously talking. I was struck with the kindly but restless
swift-glancing eyes, which looked as if the spirits were all out coursing
like a pack of merry eager beagles, beating every bush.... A smile, half
of kindly impatience, half of real mirth, often sat on his face."

Sterling wrote poetry, essays, and stories, largely inspired by
capricious enthusiasms. The son of an editor of _The Times_, he was, for
a short time owner of _The Athenaeum_, and also a curate under Hare.

Since Carlyle's "extraordinary elegy, apology, eulogium" is itself a
classic, particular interest attaches itself to Sterling's generous
estimate of the man destined to make him immortal.

J.S. MILL ON TENNYSON

[From _The Westminster Review_, January, 1831]

_Poems, chiefly Lyrical._ By ALFRED TENNYSON. Wilson, 12 mo. 1830.

It would be a pity that poetry should be an exception to the great law
of progression that obtains in human affairs; and it is not. The
machinery of a poem is not less susceptible of improvement than the
machinery of a cotton mill; nor is there any better reason why the one
should retrograde from the days of Milton, than the other from those of
Arkwright....

The old epics will probably never be surpassed, any more than the old
coats of mail; and for the same reason; nobody wants the article; its
object is accomplished by other means; they are become mere
curiosities....

Poetry, like charity, begins at home. Poetry, like morality, is founded
in the precept, know thyself. Poetry, like happiness, is in the human
heart. Its inspiration is of that which is in man, and it will never
fail because there are c