It is difficult at the present time, when Tennyson's poetry has become
a part of the air we breathe, to look back into the world of
literature as it existed before he came.
There is a keen remembrance, lingering ineradicably with the writer,
of a little girl coming to school once upon recitation day, with a
"piece" of her own selection safely stored away in her childish
memory. It was a new poem to the school, and when her turn came to
recite her soul was full of the gleam and glory of Camelot. She felt
as if she were unlocking a treasure-house, and it was with unspeakable
pleasure to herself that she gave, verse after verse, the entire poem
of "The Lady of Shalott." Doubtless the child's voice drifted away
into sing-song, as her whole little self seemed to drift away into the
land of faery, and doubtless also the busy teacher, who was more
familiar with Jane Taylor and Cowper, was sadly puzzled. When the
child at length sat down, scarcely knowing where she was in her sudden
descent from the land of marvel, she heard the teacher say, to her
amazement and discouragement, after an ominous pause, "I wonder if any
young lady can tell me what this poem means?" There was no reply.
"Can _you_ tell us?" was the next question, pointed at the poor
little girl who had just dropped out of cloudland. "I thought it
explained itself," was the plaintive reply. With a slight air of
depreciation, in another moment the next recitation was called for,
and the dull clouds of routine shut down over the sudden glory.
"Shades of the prison-house" then and there began to close over the
growing child. One joy had for the present faded from her life, that
of a sure sympathy and understanding. Not even her teacher could see
what she saw, nor could feel what lay deep down in her own glowing
heart. Nevertheless Tennyson was henceforth a seer and a prophet to
this child and to the growing world; but for some, who could never
learn his language, he was born too late.
The picturesqueness of Scott and Byron, the simple piety of Cowper,
had satisfied the poetic and religious nature of the world up to that
time. Shelley and Keats had indeed lived, but men had scarcely then
learned generally to read them. Tennyson may be looked upon as their
interpreter, in a measure, to the common world. Even Wordsworth, the
mountain-top of poetry, the leader, whom Tennyson called his master--
even he failed to give the common mind, which looks for drama, any
long poem which he who runs may read. This humanity in poetry is
distinctly, first of all, Shakespearian; but if this quality should
seem to any reader not also Tennysonian, let him re-read "Guinevere,"
in the "Idylls of the King," and reverse his decision.
The hearts of men were largely attuned by Tennyson, and taught to
understand the affinities and symbolisms of nature. This new era in
literature opened about the year 1830, when Tennyson gave a few poems
to the world, which were chiefly canceled by his later judgment. A
small book in green paper covers lies before me as I write, "privately
printed" in 1862, containing his poems printed between 1830 and 1833,
and giving the first readings of some which have been sanctioned in
his later editions. The volume "privately printed" has been most
privately treasured lest anything should appear from it to "vex the
poet's mind." For thirty years it has lain in a secret drawer, with
these words inscribed upon the cover: "Not to be lent; not to be
stolen; not to be given away."
Some of these poems have been wrought over until we are reminded of
his own line,
"Laborious orient ivory sphere in sphere,"
and incorporated in his later editions; others seem to have been
gathered up and published without permission by an American publisher,
who in some way gained possession of the book. The present perfected
edition, however, published by Macmillan, evidently contains all the
poems Tennyson wished to have remembered. The chief interest in the
small green book is in the early readings, which are a good study for
those who pursue the art of poetry. We see in them the sure integrity
of the master-hand.
"Isabel" was not, perhaps, one of the very earliest poems, although it
stands among the early poems of character in the perfected edition. It
does not appear in the green book, yet the title already stands in the
table of contents. In his own revised editions it has always appeared
unchanged from the first. There is a flawless loveliness in this poem
which makes it especially worthy of admiration. "Isabel" possesses a
peculiar interest, because it is understood to be the poet's tribute
to his wife, and indeed even his imaginative eye could hardly
elsewhere have found another to whom this description would so
properly fit:--
"The intuitive decision of a bright
And thorough-edged intellect to part
Error from crime; a prudence to withhold
The laws of marriage character'd in gold
Upon the blanched tablets of her heart;
A love still burning upward, giving light
To read those laws; an accent very low
In blandishment, but a most silver flow
Of subtle-paced counsel in distress,
Right to the heart and brain, tho' undescried,
Winning its way with extreme gentleness
Thro' all the outworks of suspicious pride
A courage to endure and to obey;
A hate of gossip parlance and of sway,--
Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life,
The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife."
The relation of Tennyson's life to that of other men has been but
imperfectly understood. There was indeed a natural sublimity in his
character which gave him, as he has himself said of the poet's mind, a
power for scorn of things fit to be scorned; but his capacity for
friendship has been proved again and again. The tree, as of old, is
known by its fruits, and we need only recall the poems to James
Spedding, to F. D. Maurice, to Mary Boyle, to Lord Dufferin, his
correspondence with Edward Fitzgerald, and the great note of grief and
consolation in "In Memoriam," to know a man capable of friendship, and
one who has drawn to himself the noble lovers of his time.
There was an unconsciousness of outward things, of the furniture of
life, which left him freer than most men to face the individual soul
that approached him. There was also a fine consistency in his
personality,--no tampering with the world; no trying to serve two
masters. The greatness of his presence was felt, we believe, by all
who approached him; he seemed to be invested by a strange remoteness
from the affairs of the world. Yet it was easy for the spirits to draw
near to him who really wanted what he could give. His hospitality was
large and sincere. In his own words of the "Great Duke" we read his
perfect likeness:--
"As the greatest only are,
In his simplicity sublime."
A friend who knew him wrote once: "Tennyson found out in the golden
season of his life, his youth, just what kind of work he was fitted to
do, and he never squandered an hour in search of his primary
bearings.... There is always a gravity about him, a becoming
nobleness, which reminds one of what St. Simon said of Fénélon, 'When
he is present it requires an effort to cease looking at him.'"
When this friend returned after his first interview with Tennyson,
many years ago, we can well recall the eagerness with which we
listened. His excitement as he described the hours they had passed
together was hardly less than that of his hearer. Every minute detail
of the interview was impatiently demanded. "How did he look?" was
asked immediately in the first pause, and "What did he say?" followed
before there was quite time to speak. In reply came a full description
of the tall figure, clad in a long gray dressing-gown, presenting
itself in the half-opened doorway of his chambers in the Temple, and
looking cautiously out at the new comer.
"'Oh! it is you,' he said, drawing his visitor in through the narrow
space with a most cordial welcome. He was sitting before the fire,
with his books about him, which he put aside, and while he talked he
began to toast sundry slices of bread for our repast. As for his
looks, his head is a very grand one, and his voice has a deep swelling
richness in it. He had just received from the printers some proof
sheets of the 'Idylls of the King,' and then and there he chanted the
story of Enid and Elaine: chanted is the true word to apply to his
recitations. He had a theory that poetry should always be given out
with the rhythm accentuated, and the music of the verse strongly
emphasized, and he did it with a power that was marvelous."
The next recollection, and one that sweeps vividly across my memory,
is that of going to Farringford for the first time, and seeing
Tennyson among the surroundings so admirably suited to his tastes and
necessities. The place was much more retired than at present; indeed,
there was neither sight nor sound of any intrusion during those summer
days. The island might have been Prospero's own, it seemed so still
and far away.
Beyond the gardens and the lawn the great downs sloped to the sea, and
in the distance on either hand could be seen the cliffs and shores as
they wound away and were lost in the dim haze that lay between us and
the horizon. We found ourselves suddenly walking as in a dream,
surrounded with the scenery of his poems.
It is still easy to distinguish with perfect clearness to the "inward
eye" two figures rambling along the downs that lovely day, and pausing
at a rude summer-house, a kind of forgotten shelter, a relic of some
other life. The great world was still as only the noon of summer knows
how to be; the air blew freshly up from the sea, and the figures
stopped a moment to look and rest. The door of the shelter hung idly
on rusted hinges, and the two entered to enjoy the shade. Turning,
they saw the whole delicious scene framed in the rude doorway. "Ah,"
the lady said, "I have found one of your haunts. I think you must
sometimes write here." Tennyson looked at her with a smile which said,
"I can trust my friends;" and putting his hand up high over the door,
he took from the tiny ledge a bit of pencil and paper secreted there,
held them out to her for one moment, and then carefully put them back
again. There was not much said, but it was an immediate revelation,
and a cherished bit of confidence. Perhaps on that sheet was already
inscribed,
"Ask me no more; the moon may draw the sea,
The cloud may stoop from heaven and lake the shape,
With fold on fold, of mountain or of cape;"
or perhaps the page was waiting for "The Sailor-Boy," or glimpses of
the great "Tyntagel," or "Lyonesse."
I could not know, nor did he, what he was yet to do. I only felt--all
who knew him felt--that he knew his work demanded from him the
sacrifice of what the world calls pleasure. He endeavored to hold his
spirit ready, and his mind trained and responsive.
His constant preoccupation with the business of his life rendered him
often impatient of wasting hours in mere "personal talk." He was
always eager and ready to hear of large matters of church or state
from those who were competent to inform him; but it was his chief joy,
when his friends were gathered about him, to read from other poets or
from his own books.
In this same visit there was much talk of Milton, of whom he spoke as
"the great organist of verse, who always married sound to sense when
he wrote." Surely no one ever gave the lines of that great poet as he
did. It was wonderful to hear. It would be impossible to forget that
grand voice as he repeated:--
"The imperial ensign which full high advanced
Shone like a meteor streaming to the wind,
With gems and golden lustre rich emblazed,
Seraphic arms and trophies; all the while
Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds."
Tennyson's chanting of his own "Boädicea" was very remarkable.
"Thine the liberty, thine the glory, thine the deeds to be
celebrated,
Thine the myriad-rolling ocean, light and shadow illimitable."
But nothing could excel the effect of his rendering of "Guinevere,"
his voice at times tremulous with emotion, and his face turned from
the light as he read,
"Let no man dream but that I love thee still,"
and all the noble context glowing with a white heat. It was easy then
to find that his own ideal,
"Flos regum Arthuris,"
was not a legend to him alone, but a vision of the Holy Grail toward
which he aspired.
It were easy, indeed it is a temptation, to record every detail,
stamped as they all are on the memory after several visits at
Farringford and at Aldworth; but the beautiful paper printed only a
few years ago by Mrs. Anne Thackeray Ritchie, now given to the world
in a volume, where Tennyson stands as one of "The Light-Bearers,"
would make any repetition of the history of his family life worse than
unnecessary. Mrs. Ritchie's friendship with the members of that
household, and her familiarity with the houses and scenery which
surrounded them, have given her the opportunity to do what her genius
has executed.
Summer was again here, with a touch of autumn in the air--this autumn
in which we write--when we last saw Lord Tennyson at Aldworth. He was
already unwell and suffering from a cold. He sat, however, on his
couch, which was drawn across the great window, where he could look
off, when he turned his head, and see the broad green valley and the
hills beyond, or, near at hand, could watch the terrace and his own
trees, and catch a glimpse of the garden.
The great frame had lost its look of giant strength; the hands were
thinner; but the habit of his mind and spirit was the same. Again we
heard the voice; again we felt the uplift of his presence. He was
aware that he was not to stay here much longer, and when we bent over
him to say good-by, we knew and he knew it was indeed "farewell." He
was surrounded with deep love and tenderness and the delightful
presence of his little grandchildren, and when, shortly after, his
weakness increased, he doubtless heard the words sounding in his
mind:--
"Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages,
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages."
He asked for "Cymbeline" that he might carry the noble lines clearly
in remembrance. Later the moon shone full into the room, and in that
dim splendor, and to the music of the autumn wind, his spirit passed.