TENNYSON, ALFRED.
The birthplace of Alfred Tennyson, Poet-Laureate, is described as an old
white rectory, standing on the slope of a hill, the winding lanes
shadowed by tall ashes and elms, with two brooks meeting at the bottom
of the glebe field. One who has written of the poet says: "In the early
beginning of this century the wind came sweeping through the garden of
this old Lincolnshire rectory, and as the wind blew, a sturdy child of
five years old, with shining locks, stood opening his arms upon the
blast and letting himself be blown along, and as he travelled on he made
his first line of poetry, and said, 'I hear a voice that's speaking in
the wind;' and ever since that hour voices have been speaking to him and
he has given to us the thoughts borne on winds and waves and by
circumstances and surroundings, in language that we can understand.
Through his poems we catch glimpses of babbling brooks, and gardens, and
ivied walls; of Italian skies and summer mornings, of peaceful homes and
of battle crash, and as we read we may take in the pure and grand
sentiments which cannot fail to have an elevating and inspiring
influence upon our hearts and lives."
Alfred Tennyson first saw the light in Lincolnshire, England, in the
year 1809. His father was a clergyman, and a man of great abilities, who
carefully educated his children, and from whom his sons may have
inherited their poetical genius. Of their mother it has been said that
"she was intensely and fervently religious, as a poet's mother should
be."
The story of Alfred's first attempt at verse-making is this: one Sabbath
all the elders of the family were going to church, leaving the child
alone. An older brother gave him a slate and a subject, "The Flowers in
the Garden," and when the family returned from service he handed the
slate to his brother covered over with blank verse, then waited while
the critic read! Imagine his satisfaction when the slate was handed back
with, "Yes, you can write."
It is also said that the first money he earned by his pen was upon the
occasion of his grandmother's death, when he wrote an elegy, at his
grandfather's request, for which the old gentleman paid him ten
shillings, saying, "There, that is the first money you have earned by
your poetry, and, take my word for it, it will be the last."
_That_ must have been rather discouraging. If the old grandfather could
know of the honors and the money which have come to his grandson through
his writings, he would doubtless be astonished.
He began to write for the press when quite young, and has written much,
and I have no doubt his poems are familiar to you all. He was made
Poet-Laureate in 1850.
A boy who lived in the neighborhood of Tennyson's home in the Isle of
Wight, gave his definition of Poet-Laureate to a lady who asked him if
he knew Mr. Tennyson.
"He makes moets for the Queen," was the boy's reply.
"What do you mean?" asked the lady.
"I don't know what they means," said the boy, "but p'licemen often seen
him walking about a-making of 'em under the stars."
After Mr. Tennyson's marriage he settled at Freshwater, in the Isle of
Wight. This home of the poet is described as "a charmed palace, with
green walls without, and speaking walls within. There hung Dante with
his solemn nose and wreath; Italy gleamed over the doorways; friends'
faces lined the way, books filled the shelves, and a glow of crimson was
everywhere; the great oriel drawing-room window was full of green and
golden leaves, and the sound of birds and the distant sea. Beautiful in
spring-time when all day the lark trills overhead, and when the lark has
flown out of our hearing the thrushes begin and the air is sweet with
scents from many fragrant shrubs.
"Later, when the health of Mrs. Tennyson required a more quiet place,
for Freshwater had become a fashionable summer resort, the family made
for themselves a new home on the summit of a high lonely hill in
Surrey."
Now I might copy for you some bits out of the poems I like the best; or,
I might gather here a cluster of bright gems, but I think you will enjoy
the search if you each try this for yourselves instead.
Once I had occasion to select for a literary exercise "Gems from
Tennyson," and I found it a delightful task, only it was hard to choose,
and harder to find a stopping place. I will give the boys just one
extract:
"Not once or twice in our fair island story,
The path of duty was the way to glory;
He that ever following her commands,
On with toil of heart and knees and hands,
Through the long gorge to the far light has won
His path upward and prevail'd,
Shall find the toppling crags of duty scaled
Are close upon the shining table-lands
To which our God himself is moon and sun."