[1] But the loveliest lyrics of Tennyson do not suggest labor. I do not
say that, like Beethoven’s music, or Heine’s songs, they may not be the
result of it. But they, like all supreme artistic work, “conceal,” not
obtrude Art; if they are not spontaneous, they produce the effect of
spontaneity, not artifice. They impress the reader also with the power,
for which no technical skill can be a substitute, of sincere feeling,
and profound realization of their subject-matter.
[2] Mr. Alfred Austin, himself a true poet and critic, has long ago
repented of _his_ juvenile escapade in criticism, and made ample amends
to the Poet-Laureate in a very able article published not long since in
_Macmillan’s Magazine_.
[3] I have just read the Laureate’s new plays. They are, like all his
best things, brief: “dramatic fragments,” one may even call them.
“The Cup” was admirably interpreted, and scenically rendered under
the auspices of Mr. Irving and Miss Ellen Terry; but it is itself a
precious addition to the stores of English tragedy—all movement and
action, intense, heroic, steadily rising to a most impressive climax,
that makes a memorable picture on the stage. Camma, though painted only
with a few telling strokes, is a splendid heroine of antique virtue,
fortitude, and self-devotion. “The Falcon” is a truly graceful and
charming acquisition to the repertory of lighter English drama.