[From _The Quarterly Review_, October, 1859]
1. _Tennyson's Poems_. In Two Volumes. London, 1842.
2. _The Princess: a Medley_. London, 1847.
3. _In Memoriam_. London, 1850.
4. _Maud, and other Poems_. London, 1855.
5. _Idylls of the King_. London, 1859.
Mr. Tennyson published his first volume, under the title of "Poems
Chiefly Lyrical," in 1830, and his second, with the name simply of
"Poems," in 1833. In 1842 he reappeared before the world in two volumes,
partly made up from the _débris_ of his earlier pieces; and from this
time forward he came into the enjoyment of a popularity at once great,
growing, and select. With a manly resolution, which gave promise of the
rare excellence he was progressively to attain, he had at this time
amputated altogether from the collection about one-half of the contents
of his earliest work, with some considerable portion of the second; he
had almost rewritten or carefully corrected other important pieces, and
had added a volume of new compositions.
The latter handiwork showed a great advance upon the earlier; as,
indeed, 1833 had shown upon 1830. From the very first, however, he had
been noteworthy in performance as well as in promise, and it was plain
that, whatever else might happen, at least neglect was not to be his
lot. But, in the natural heat of youth he had at the outset certainly
mixed up some trivial with a greater number of worthy productions, and
had shown an impatience of criticism by which, however excusable, he was
sure to be himself the chief sufferer. His higher gifts, too, were of
the quality which, by the changeless law of nature, cannot ripen fast;
and there was, accordingly, some portion both of obscurity and of
crudity in the results of his youthful labours. Men of slighter
materials would have come more quickly to their maturity, and might have
given less occasion not only for cavil but for animadversion. It was yet
more creditable to him, than it could be even to the just among his
critics, that he should, and while yet young, have applied himself with
so resolute a hand to the work of castigation. He thus gave a remarkable
proof alike of his reverence for his art, of his insight into its
powers, of the superiority he had acquired to all the more commonplace
illusions of self-love, and perhaps of his presaging consciousness that
the great, if they mean to fulfil the measure of their greatness, should
always be fastidious against themselves.
It would be superfluous to enter upon any general criticism of this
collection, which was examined when still recent in this Review, and a
large portion of which is established in the familiar recollection and
favour of the public. We may, however, say that what may be termed at
large the classical idea (though it is not that of Troas nor of the
Homeric period) has, perhaps, never been grasped with greater force and
justice than in "Oenone," nor exhibited in a form of more consummate
polish. "Ulysses" is likewise a highly finished poem; but it is open to
the remark that it exhibits (so to speak) a corner-view of a character
which was in itself a _cosmos_. Never has political philosophy been
wedded to the poetic form more happily than in the three short pieces on
England and her institutions, unhappily without title, and only to be
cited, like writs of law and papal bulls, by their first words. Even
among the rejected pieces there are specimens of a deep metaphysical
insight; and this power reappears with an increasing growth of ethical
and social wisdom in "Locksley Hall" and elsewhere. The Wordsworthian
poem of "Dora" is admirable in its kind. From the firmness of its
drawing, and the depth and singular purity of its colour, "Godiva"
stood, if we judge aright, as at once a great performance and a great
pledge. But, above all, the fragmentary piece on the Death of Arthur was
a fit prelude to that lordly music which is now sounding in our ears. If
we pass onward from these volumes, it is only because space forbids a
further enumeration.
The "Princess" was published in 1847. The author has termed it "a
medley": why, we know not. It approaches more nearly to the character of
a regular drama, with the stage directions written into verse, than any
other of his works, and it is composed consecutively throughout on the
basis of one idea. It exhibits an effort to amalgamate the place and
function of woman with that of man, and the failure of that effort,
which duly winds up with the surrender and marriage of the fairest and
chief enthusiast. It may be doubted whether the idea is one well suited
to exhibition in a quasi-dramatic form. Certainly the mode of embodying
it, so far as it is dramatic, is not successful; for here again the
persons are little better than mere _personae_. They are _media_, and
weak _media_, for the conveyance of the ideas. The poem is,
nevertheless, one of high interest, on account of the force, purity and
nobleness of the main streams of thought, which are clothed in language
full of all Mr. Tennyson's excellences; and also because it marks the
earliest effort of his mind in the direction of his latest and greatest
achievements.
* * * * *
With passages like these still upon the mind and ear, and likewise
having in view many others in the "Princess" and elsewhere, we may
confidently assert it as one of Mr. Tennyson's brightest distinctions
that he is now what from the very first he strove to be, and what when
he wrote "Godiva" he gave ample promise of becoming--the poet of woman.
We do not mean, nor do we know, that his hold over women as his readers
is greater than his command or influence over men; but that he has
studied, sounded, painted woman in form, in motion, in character, in
office, in capability, with rare devotion, power, and skill; and the
poet who best achieves this end does also most and best for man.
In 1850 Mr. Tennyson gave to the world, under the title of "In
Memoriam," perhaps the richest oblation ever offered by the affection of
friendship at the tomb of the departed. The memory of Arthur Henry
Hallam, who died suddenly in 1833, at the age of twenty-two, will
doubtless live chiefly in connection with this volume; but he is well
known to have been one who, if the term of his days had been prolonged,
would have needed no aid from a friendly hand, would have built for
himself an enduring monument, and would have bequeathed to his country a
name in all likelihood greater than that of his very distinguished
father. There was no one among those who were blessed with his
friendship, nay, as we see, not even Mr. Tennyson,[1] who did not feel
at once bound closely to him by commanding affection, and left far
behind by the rapid, full, and rich development of his ever-searching
mind; by his
All comprehensive tenderness,
All subtilising intellect.
[1] See "In Memoriam," pp. 64, 84.
It would be easy to show what, in the varied forms of human excellence,
he might, had life been granted him, have accomplished; much more
difficult to point the finger and to say, "This he never could have
done." Enough remains from among his early efforts to accredit whatever
mournful witness may now be borne of him. But what can be a nobler
tribute than this, that for seventeen years after his death a poet, fast
rising towards the lofty summits of his art, found that young fading
image the richest source of his inspiration, and of thoughts that gave
him buoyancy for a flight such as he had not hitherto attained?
It would be very difficult to convey a just idea of this volume either
by narrative or by quotation. In the series of monodies or meditations
which compose it, and which follow in long series without weariness or
sameness, the poet never moves away a step from the grave of his friend,
but, while circling round it, has always a new point of view. Strength
of love, depth of grief, aching sense of loss, have driven him forth as
it were on a quest of consolation, and he asks it of nature, thought,
religion, in a hundred forms which a rich and varied imagination
continually suggests, but all of them connected by one central point,
the recollection of the dead. This work he prosecutes, not in vain
effeminate complaint, but in a manly recognition of the fruit and profit
even of baffled love, in noble suggestions of the future, in
heart-soothing and heart-chastening thoughts of what the dead was and of
what he is, and of what one who has been, and therefore still is, in
near contact with him is bound to be. The whole movement of the poem is
between the mourner and the mourned: it may be called one long
soliloquy; but it has this mark of greatness, that, though the singer is
himself a large part of the subject, it never degenerates into egotism--
for he speaks typically on behalf of humanity at large, and in his own
name, like Dante on his mystic journey, teaches deep lessons of life and
conscience to us all.
* * * * *
By the time "In Memoriam" had sunk into the public mind, Mr. Tennyson
had taken his rank as our first then living poet. Over the fresh hearts
and understandings of the young, notwithstanding his obscurities, his
metaphysics, his contempt of gewgaws, he had established an
extraordinary sway. We ourselves, with some thousands of other
spectators, saw him receive in that noble structure of Wren, the theatre
of Oxford, the decoration of D.C.L., which we perceive he always wears
on his title-page. Among his colleagues in the honour were Sir De Lacy
Evans and Sir John Burgoyne, fresh from the stirring exploits of the
Crimea; but even patriotism, at the fever heat of war, could not command
a more fervent enthusiasm for the old and gallant warriors than was
evoked by the presence of Mr. Tennyson.
In the year 1855 Mr. Tennyson proceeded to publish his "Maud," the least
popular, and probably the least worthy of popularity, among his more
considerable works. A somewhat heavy dreaminess, and a great deal of
obscurity, hang about this poem; and the effort required to dispel the
darkness of the general scheme is not repaid when we discover what it
hides. The main thread of "Maud" seems to be this:--A love once
accepted, then disappointed, leads to blood-shedding, and onward to
madness with lucid alternations. The insanity expresses itself in the
ravings of the homicide lover, who even imagines himself among the dead,
in a clamour and confusion closely resembling an ill-regulated Bedlam,
but which, if the description be a faithful one, would for ever deprive
the grave of its title to the epithet of silent. It may be good frenzy,
but we doubt its being as good poetry. Of all this there may, we admit,
be an esoteric view: but we speak of the work as it offers itself to the
common eye. Both Maud and the lover are too nebulous by far; and they
remind us of the boneless and pulpy personages by whom, as Dr. Whewell
assures us, the planet Jupiter is inhabited, if inhabited at all. But
the most doubtful part of the poem is its climax. A vision of the
beloved image (p. 97) "spoke of a hope for the world in the coming
wars," righteous wars, of course, and the madman begins to receive light
and comfort; but, strangely enough, it seems to be the wars, and not the
image, in which the source of consolation lies (p. 98).
No more shall Commerce be all in all, and Peace
Pipe on her pastoral hillock a languid note,
And watch her harvest ripen, her herd increase.
... a peace that was full of wrongs and shames,
Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to be told ...
For the long long canker of peace is over and done:
And now by the side of the Black and the Baltic deep,
And deathful grinning mouths of the fortress, names
The blood-red blossom of war with a heart of fire!
What interpretation are we meant to give to all this sound and fury? We
would fain have put it down as intended to be the finishing-stroke in
the picture of a mania which has reached its zenith. We might call in
aid of this construction more happy and refreshing passages from other
poems, as when Mr. Tennyson is
Certain, if knowledge brings the sword,
That knowledge takes the sword away.[1]
[1] "Poems," p. 182, ed. 1853. See also "Locksley Hall," p. 278.