He paints graphically, not only the mystery of the lot of mankind, but the
further sense of bewilderment which arises when we contemplate the
aimlessness of this vast universe of which our earth is such an
inappreciable fragment. Logically the poem asks only the question: "Great
or small, grand or ignoble, what does anything matter if we are but
creatures of the day with no eternal destiny?" But its grandeur consists
in the manner in which it sweeps from end to end of human experience and
knowledge, from thoughts overwhelming in their vastness, from ideas
carrying the mind over the length and breadth of space and over visions of
all eternity, to pictures of this planet, with its microscopic details,
the hopes, anxieties, plans, pleasures, griefs which make up the immediate
life of man. The imagination vacillates between a keen sense of the
importance of all, even the smallest, and the worthlessness of all, even
the greatest. At one moment comes the thought that one life out of the
myriads of lives passed on this tiny planet, if it be lived and given up
for righteousness, is of infinite and eternal value, and the next moment
comes the sense that the whole universe is worthless and meaningless, if,
indeed, the only percipient beings who are affected by it are but
creatures who feel for a day and then pass to nothingness. Each picture of
the various aspects of human life rouses an instinctive sympathy, and a
feeling in the background, "it can't be worthless and meaningless," and
yet the poet relentlessly forces us to confess that it is only some far
wider view of human nature and destiny than this world alone can justify,
which can make the scenes he depicts of any value. What Mill called "the
disastrous feeling of 'not worth while'" threatens the reader at every
turn; though the pictures of life in its innumerable aspects of happiness,
misery, sensuality, purity, selfishness, self-devotion, ambition,
aspiration, craft, cruelty, are so intensely real and rivet the
imagination so strongly, that he refuses to yield to the feeling. I
subjoin some of the couplets where good and bad, great and small,
alternate:
Many a hearth upon our dark globe sighs after many a vanish'd face,
Many a planet by many a sun may roll with the dust of a vanish'd race.
Raving politics, never at rest--as this poor earth's pale history runs,--
What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of
suns?
* * * * *
Faith at her zenith, or all but lost in the gloom of doubts that darken
the schools;
Craft with a bunch of all-heal in her hand, follow'd up by her vassal
legion of fools.
* * * * *
Wealth with his wines and his wedded harlots; honest Poverty, bare to the
bone;
Opulent Avarice, lean as Poverty: Flattery gilding the rift in a throne.
* * * * *
Love for the maiden, crown'd with marriage, no regrets for aught that has
been,
Household happiness, gracious children, debtless competence, golden mean;
National hatreds of whole generations, and pigmy spites of the village
spire;
Vows that will last to the last death-ruckle, and vows that are snapt in
a moment of fire;
He that has lived for the lust of the minute, and died in the doing it,
flesh without mind;
He that has nail'd all flesh to the Cross, till Self died out in the love
of his kind;
Spring and Summer and Autumn and Winter, and all these old revolutions of
earth;
All new-old revolutions of Empire--change of the tide--what is all of it
worth?
What the philosophies, all the sciences, poesy, varying voices of prayer?
All that is noblest, all that is basest, all that is filthy with all that
is fair?
What is it all, if we all of us end but in being our own corpse-coffins
at last,
Swallowed in Vastness, lost in Silence, drown'd in the deeps of a
meaningless Past?
What but a murmur of gnats in the gloom, or a moment's anger of bees in
their hive?
The thought which seems to oppress the seer is the insignificance of
everything when compared to a standard--ever conceivable and ever
actual--above it. The ruts of a ploughed field may seem to the diminutive
insect as vast and overcoming as the Alps seem to us. Then contrast the
thought of Mont Blanc with that of the whole globe; proceed from the globe
to the solar system, and from that to the myriads of systems lost in
space. All that is great to us is relatively great, and becomes small at
once when the mind rises higher. So, too, in the moral order, all those
aspects of human life which sway our deepest emotions are but "a murmur of
gnats in the gloom," if regard be had to our comparative insignificance.
The ground yields at every step, and the mind looks for some _terra
firma_, some absolute basis of trust, and this is only to be found in the
conception of man as possessing an eternal destiny. The infinite value of
all that concerns an immortal being stands proof against the thoughts that
bewildered our vision. "He that has nailed all flesh to the cross till
self died out in the love of his kind" may be but a speck in the universe,
but faith measures him by a standard other than that of spacial vastness.
The idea of the _eternal worth of morality_ steps in to calm the
imagination, and this idea in its measure justifies the conception of the
value and importance of all the phases of human existence which make up
the drama of life. Human Love is the side of man's nature which the poet
looks to as conveying the sense of his immortal destiny. The undying union
of spirit with spirit is a union which the grave cannot end. The
bewildering nightmare of the nothingness and vanity of all things is
abruptly cut short, as the sense of what is deepest in the human heart
promptly gives the lie to what it cannot solve in detail:
Peace, let it be! for I loved him and love him for ever.
The dead are not dead but alive.
[Illustration: THE SOUTH SIDE OF ENTRANCE FROM BELOW THE TERRACE,
ALDWORTH. Drawn by W. Biscombe Gardner.]
TENNYSON AND ALDWORTH
By SIR JAMES KNOWLES, K.C.V.O.
Farringford he never forsook, though he added another home to it; and
assuredly no poet has ever before called two such residences his own.
Both of them were sweetened by the presence there, so graciously
prolonged, of her to whom the lovers of song owe so deep a debt of
gratitude. The second home was as well chosen as the first. It lifted
England's great poet to a height from which he could gaze on a large
portion of that English land which he loved so well, see it basking in
its most affluent summer beauty, and only bounded by "the inviolate
sea." Year after year he trod its two stately terraces with men the
most noted of their time; statesmen, warriors, men of letters,
science, and art, some of royal race, some famous in far lands, but
none more welcome to him than the friends of his youth. Nearly all of
those were taken from him by degrees; but many of them stand
successively recorded in his verse. The days which I passed there
yearly with him and his were the happiest days of each year. They will
retain a happy place in my memory during whatever short period my life
may last; and the sea-murmurs of Freshwater will blend with the
sighing of the woods around Aldworth, for me, as for many more worthy,
a music, if mournful, yet full of consolation.
_MS. Note, Aubrey de Vere._
When I was "little more than a boy" I made, accidentally, my first
acquaintance with Tennyson as a poet, long before I knew him as a man. I
came by chance upon a copy of "In Memoriam," then just published
anonymously. I was quite entirely ignorant and indifferent in those days
about all poetry, and did not in the least know or guess who had written
it, but, opening it haphazard at the Geological Stanzas, was so impressed
and riveted by them,--for I was a student of Geology at the time,--that I
could not put the book down until I had read it all through and from end
to end. I was caught up and enthralled by its spirit, and my eyes seemed
suddenly opened on a whole new world. It made an epoch in my life and an
ineffaceable impression. I soon came to know my Tennyson almost by heart,
and was taunted by my friends for my worship of the "divine Alfred," as I
reverently called him. In this frame of mind it was that I made the bold
venture of asking his leave to dedicate to him my little book on King
Arthur and his Knights, his kind acceptance of which homage I have already
mentioned in my former article.[66]
My first personal acquaintance with him was in the autumn of 1866, when I
was staying at Freshwater. I felt that I must call upon him and offer him
my respects and thanks before I left, but put it off through shyness until
the day before my holiday was to end. Then I took my courage in both hands
and went to Farringford. "Mr. Tennyson was out walking, but Mrs. Tennyson
was at home and would be happy to see me." It was a disappointment, but
Mrs. Tennyson received me most kindly and graciously, and begged me to
return later in the evening if I could, and see her husband who would like
to meet me. When I did return I was shown upstairs to the top of the house
and into an attic which was the Poet's own study, and presently, with my
heart in my mouth, I heard his great steps as he climbed up the little
wooden stairs. His bodily presence seemed as kingly as I felt it ought to
be, though a little grim and awful at first; but he made me very welcome,
and then groped about for and lighted a pipe, and sat down and began to
speak of King Arthur as being a subject of common interest and sympathy.
This soon thawed the chill of my spirits and I began to feel more at home,
until I felt I could make the request I was longing to do--would he read
to me one of his Poems, as I desired earnestly to hear from his own lips
what I already knew and loved? Then came a great surprise and delight, for
it was not reading as usually understood, but intoning on a note, almost
chanting, which I heard, and which brought the instant conviction that
this was the proper vehicle for poetry as distinguished from prose. I was
so enchanted that I begged for more and more; and then I suppose may have
begun a personal sympathy which grew and lasted always afterwards till his
death. For when I made to go he took me all about the house, showing me
the pictures and drawings with which his walls were lined, peering into
them so closely with a lighted candle that I thought he would set them or
himself on fire. This was, perhaps, another common ground,--I having been
all my life interested in art and in a small way a collector of drawings
and pictures.
Before I left he told me to come and claim acquaintance if ever we met
before I came to Farringford again, for if not his short sight would
prevent his knowing me. On this friendly request I acted in the spring of
the following year, 1867, when my wife and I were going to pay a visit at
Haslemere. At Haslemere station, to my surprise, I saw him standing on the
platform, and went up and spoke to him, reminding him of his desire that I
should do so. I then introduced my wife to him, and he explained how he
came to be there--namely, because he was in search of a site where he
might build a cottage to take refuge in from the tourists who made his
life a burden to him in the Isle of Wight. He added, "You are an
architect, why should you not make the plans of it for me?" I said, "With
the greatest possible pleasure, upon one condition that I may act
professionally without making any professional charge; for I cannot be
paid twice over, and you, Mr. Tennyson, have over-paid me already long
ago--in the pleasure and delight your works have given me--for any little
work I could do for you." He protested, but in the end accepted my terms.
The cottage, as he first proposed it, was to be a small square,
four-roomed house, with a door in the middle, like one in which he was
then staying near Haslemere. I went there to see him and to describe plans
and the question of a site. After inspecting several with him, he took me
secretly to one which a friend had found out as being possibly procurable,
and on which Aldworth was finally built. It was a natural terrace, formed
just below the summit of Black Down, and was known as Green Hill. There
was a potato-patch where the house now stands,--a little flat clearance in
the midst of sloping coppices that covered all the southern side of the
hill; and it was a spot of ideal seclusion, just wide enough and no more
for a moderately sized house, quite perfect for his objects,--almost too
perfect in the way of inaccessibility, for it took years of negotiation
and trouble to obtain a practicable road to it. The view from it was
simply perfect, extending over the whole of woody Sussex to the South
Downs and the sea. "It wants nothing," he said as he gazed at it, "but a
great river looping along through the midst of it." "Gloriously crimson
flowers set along the edge of the terrace would burn like lamps against
the purple distance"--as presently was realized.
The plans for a four-roomed cottage gave way somewhat as I talked the
matter over with Mr. and Mrs. Tennyson, the latter giving me certain rough
ideas which she could not quite express by drawing, but which I understood
enough to put into shape; and presently I went to Farringford with designs
for a less unimportant dwelling. It grew and grew as it was talked over
and considered, the details being all discussed with Mrs. Tennyson, while
he contented himself by pretending to protest against any addition and
improvement.
At last, one day, when I brought sketches for an arcaded porch to
complete the design, he put his foot down and said he would have nothing
to do with it--that he would have no more additions--that it would ruin
him and could not be entertained for a moment. He walked to and fro,
coming back from time to time to the table where the drawing lay and
looking at it. He admitted that he liked it more and more the more he
looked at it, but presently cried out with simulated fury, "Get thee
behind me, Satan," and ran out of the room. Then I knew that the porch was
won. When it was built he got to be very fond of it, and used to call
attention to the way in which the landscape was framed by the arches of
it. He even had a picture of it made by a friend to show this effect.
He laid the foundation-stone of it on Shakespeare's birthday, April 23,
1868, few being there besides his great friend, Sir John Simeon, myself,
and my wife, whom he dragged up the steep hillside in the blazing
sunshine. He interfered very little about the progress of the work, except
as to various little accidental things which moved his fancy. For
instance, a stone shield in the gable of one of the dormer windows had
remained blank when all the rest were carved--simply because of a
hesitation how best to fill it up. But when the time came at which it must
be finished, if done at all, he stood spying up at it through his eyeglass
for a long while, and then decided to leave it blank,--so that the last
touch to the work might be decided hereafter by Fate, accident having kept
it open so long.
He was reminded by it of the blank shield in his own Idylls, of which
Merlin asks, "Who shall blazon it?--when and how?" and adds, "Perchance
when all our wars are done the brand Excalibur will be cast away." In a
similar way he would not let the figure of a stone Falcon be removed which
had been set up as a model for approval at one corner of the parapet, but
was never intended to stay there. He looked at it long and curiously, and
laughed and said it seemed to grow queerer, that it was a pity to take it
down; and there it remained ever after in its original solitariness, to
his great content and amusement, which had a touch of seriousness in it.
He made a great point of his favourite motto, _Gwyr yn erbyn y byd_
("Truth against the world"), being prominently emblazoned in tile mosaic
at the threshold of the front door and in the pavement of the Hall. The
text, "Gloria Deo in Excelsis," in the carved band which surrounds the
house was the selection of Mrs. Tennyson. The formation of the terrace
lawn in front of the house, with its boundary balustrade, interested him
extremely; and when the vases were filled with splendid blossoms, standing
out against the blue landscape, the vision he had foreseen from the
potato-patch was realized to his full satisfaction. The invariable and
tormenting delays in finishing the house, however, annoyed him greatly;
for he longed to get into it away from the tourists, and used to say he
should never live to enjoy it long enough. When he did move in, he said he
wanted to have each room for his own, and at first adopted for sleeping
in, the central top attic on the south front, which opened on to the lead
flat of the large bay window on the first floor. He called it his
balcony-room, and loved to stand out on the flat and watch the changes in
the great prospect spread out before him. He ultimately gave this up for a
guest's room, and took to the finer room below, which was always flooded
with light, and was filled with bright moonshine when he died in it. On
one occasion, when I was sleeping in the balcony-room, I was suddenly
waked up by a thundering at the door and his great voice calling out, "Get
up and look out of the window." I jumped out of bed accordingly, and saw
the whole wide aspect turned into a flat white billowy ocean, with no
trace of land at all, but with waves beginning to move and roll in it. The
sun was just rising, and I stood to watch the gradual creation of a world
as it were. From moment to moment the vast ocean broke up and rose away
into clouds, uncovering the landscape bit by bit--the hills first and the
valleys last, until the whole great prospect came together again into its
normal picture. It was delightful to see his enjoyment of everything in
the new house, from the hot-water bathroom downwards, for at first the hot
bath seemed to attract him out of measure. He would take it four or five
times a day, and told me he thought it the height of luxury "to sit in a
hot bath and read about little birds."
The following notes of a visit paid to him at Aldworth show the usual
manner of his daily life there.
He usually dined rather early, at 7 or 7.30 o'clock, and Mrs. Tennyson
would generally carve (or in later times Hallam), according to the
old-fashioned custom. He talked freely, with an abundance of anecdote and
story, and full of humour, and "chaff" (no touch of pedantry or priggism
could live in his presence); and always when at home made a move for
dessert to another room--the morning room at Aldworth--where he would
begin his bottle (pint) of port, and with the exception of a glass or so,
would finish it, talking all the time with entire geniality and abandon,
and full of reminiscences of men and things. Sometimes he would recur to
his grievances at the hands of his publishers, and pour out his complaints
about them, until finally landed, to his entire satisfaction, with
Macmillan.
After dessert he would retire to his study and his after-dinner pipe,
which he took quite by himself; and would then come into the drawing-room,
whither the others had repaired some time, and join in general talk again
and perhaps read, at some one's request, some of his own poems, till the
ladies left for bed.[67] Then he would invite some favoured guest or
guests to his study, and begin the confidential discussions and
soliloquies which it was a priceless privilege--the most valued and
treasured of privileges--to share and to listen to. At such times all his
inmost thoughts and feelings, recollections and speculations of his life
came out with the open simplicity of a child and the keen insight and far
sight of a prophet; and one had glimpses into the mystery of things beyond
one's own power of seeing, and as if seen through a telescope.
* * * * *
I have before stated how he more than once summed up his personal religion
in the words: "There's a Something That watches over us, and our
Individuality endures." On one occasion he added, "I do not say endures
for ever, but I say endures after this life at any rate.[68]" When in
answer to the question, What was his deepest desire of all? he said, "A
clearer vision of God," it exactly expressed the continued strivings of
his spirit for more light upon every possible question, which so
constantly appear in his poems, which led him to join in founding the
Metaphysical Society, and induced him to write the introductory sonnet in
the _Nineteenth Century_. Out of all such talks, at many times and places
repeated, I came to know his actual personal position, in those years at
any rate of the growth of old age, concerning the most vital problems of
this world and this life. Many scores of such times have fallen to my
happy lot, and my life has been all the richer for them.
THE FUNERAL OF DICKENS
I remember, when he went with me to Westminster Abbey to hear Dean Stanley
preach Dickens's funeral sermon, we sat within the rails of the Sacrarium
so as to be near the pulpit, and when we came away he told me the story of
the Oriental traveller who mistook the organ for the Church's God. He was
very fond of the story, and often repeated it. As he told it, the
traveller was made to say: "We went into one of their temples to see their
worship. The temple is only opened sometimes, and they keep their God shut
up in a great gold box at one end of it. When we passed inside the doors
we heard him grumbling and growling as if out of humour at being disturbed
in his solitude; and as the worshippers came in they knelt down and seemed
to supplicate him and try to propitiate him. He became quieter for a
while, only now and then grumbling for a few moments, but then he got
louder again and the whole body of the people stood up and cried to him
together, and after a while persuaded him to be still. Presently he began
once more and then, after praying all together several times, they deputed
one of their number to stand up alone and address him earnestly on their
behalf, deprecating his anger. He spoke so long without an interruption
that it seemed the God had either fallen asleep or been finally persuaded
into a better temper; but suddenly at last he broke out into a greater
passion than ever, and with such tremendous noise and roarings that all
the worshippers rose from their seats in fright and ran out of the
temple."
There was an immense congregation that day in the Abbey--and when the
service was over--we stood up waiting a long time to pass out through the
rails. But instead of dispersing by the outer door the people all turned
eastward and flocked towards the altar, pressing closer and closer up to
the Sacrarium. The chances of getting out became less and less, and I
turned to Tennyson and said, "I don't know what all this means, but we
seem so hemmed in that it is useless to move as yet." Then a man, standing
close by me whispered, "I don't think they will go, sir, so long as your
friend stands there." Of course I saw at once what was happening--it had
got to be known that Tennyson was present, and the solid throng was bent
on seeing him. Such a popularity had never occurred to me or to him, and
justified his nervous unwillingness to be seen in crowded places. I was
obliged to tell him what was going on, upon which he urgently insisted on
being let out some quiet way and putting an end to the dilemma.
FRAGMENTARY NOTES OF TENNYSON'S TALK
By ARTHUR COLERIDGE
But for the suggestion of the present Lord Tennyson, I should shrink from
the presumption of posing as a friend of his illustrious father, who for
three Easters made of me a companion, sometimes for two, more often three
hours daily, for three weeks at a time together. I should be safe in
saying that the most gifted men I have ever known, Tennyson, Browning, and
Cory, were in the realms of thought, philosophy, and imagination foremost
in an age which in two instances acknowledged their supremacy whilst they
lived, and in the third has ungrudgingly admitted him as one taking high
rank amongst the English poets of the second order. I link his name with
that of the two great men, for I have abundant materials for forming my
opinion of him in the shape of three volumes of correspondence, begun in
my boyhood and continued for years during my friend's lifetime.