to have some one of the noble thoughts, I have so learned to love, in
your own handwriting. I have felt a delicacy in asking this, but the
wish is so earnest with me that I will venture this first and last
request.... I crave some tangible proof that my "hero-worship" has
some sympathetic, human foundation. Could I choose a couplet?... They
spring to my memory in legions. The wild melody of "Blow, bugle,
blow," etc. etc. ... They have helped to make my life beautiful,
earnest and true, and I am grateful for it all. If I might be once
more your debtor it would be a real joy to me, but if it _feels_ like
a burden, do not give it another thought.
* * * * *
(1891)
... In behalf of _Charity Circle_, a non-sectarian organization of the
order of King's Daughters, we are making a collection of autographs of
prominent men and women to be used in a souvenir banner: which when
finished will be sold and the proceeds devoted to charity work. We
feel as if the banner will not be complete without Lord Tennyson's
autograph.
(1891)
BELOVED SIR--I feel awkward and abashed, as I thus come before you,
who are so great, so honored, so crowned with earthly fame and glory;
and, so worthy to be thus crowned, and known to fame: but, I know,
that in the midst of all these honors, which might spoil one, of the
common sort of souls; you are a poet, _born_, _not_ made; and
therefore, you have the essential gift of the poet [sympathy] and can
feel for the imprisoned soul, beating against the stifling walls of
silence: and longing, fainting, to come forth into the glad sunshine,
the sweet, fresh air of _utterance_, so strangely withheld from it....
From [youth] till now, Beloved Sir, you have been my friend, my
soother; the dear angel, whose kindly office it has been, ever and
anon, to speak _for_ me ... and thus to give me the _sweet sense_ of
having been led forth from prison for a while into the blessed light
and freedom of utterance.
I will never forget the relief afforded by those lines:
My very heart faints and my soul grieves
Etc. etc.
* * * * *
(1891)
A lady writes to the honored Poet-Laureate of England, and the beloved
world-renowned verse-maker.
Knowing the value of even one verse and your autograph I write to you
and make my request, which if granted will be beyond my anticipations.
I want a dedicatory poem so much, but if I get only a line from you I
should be happy. I always loved your poetry. Now please, do send me
the coveted verse. I, a beggar-maid at the throne of poetry, kneel and
beg of the monarch a crumb. Have you any grandchildren? I wish I
could get one of their photos for my book. Hoping you will act like
the good king in the fairy kingdom and grant the request--I remain
etc. etc.
(1885)
DEAR LADY TENNYSON--It is one of the glorious privileges of our
government that the "first ladies of the land" may be courteously
addressed without the formalities of an introduction, and why not the
same rule in your country? Therefore, without the semblance of an
apology, I request you will do me the honor to grant a small favor. I
am engaged in collecting souvenirs from celebrated writers, and you
being the wife of England's Poet Laureate, I would prize beyond
measure a contribution from you: a _scrap_ of silk or velvet from one
of _your dresses_, and also a scrap of one of your husband's
_neckties_.... There is no one who loves his works as myself ... he
reaches further down into the human heart and touches its tender cords
(sic) as no man has since the days of Shakespeare.... My husband, who
has won an enviable reputation as a writer hopes soon to produce his
work on _The Lives of English and American Poets_. Hoping you will not
refuse me, etc. etc.
A few miscellaneous oddities follow.
(1883)
DEAR SIR--May I ask you as a favour where I could find a "wold," to
illustrate the following verse:
Calm and deep peace on this high wold,
And on these dews that drench the furze,
And all the silvery gossamers
That twinkle into green and gold:
("In Memoriam," XI.)
which is the subject given this year for a painting (for the Gold
Medal), to the Students of the Royal Academy of Arts?
(1840)
A young girl, writing from America, asks a natural question.
We have your book of poems, and I have read "Enoch Arden." So I
thought I would write and see if it is true. Was there a girl whose
name was Anna Lee, and two boys named Enoch Arden and Philip Ray?
I felt very sorry for Philip at first and afterward for Enoch, when
he came home and found his wife had married Philip and he saw her
children grown up, but could not go to see them....
I have a pet rooster, and it is very cunning. I hold it and pet it and
I love it _lots_.
Well, I must close, hoping to hear from you soon, for I want to know
if the story of Enoch is true.
(1891)
U.S.A. again supplies the following _naïveté_:
DEAR SIR--I intrude a line on your notice, to ask a little favor.
I am in my fourteenth year; am considered fairly advanced for my age,
by older heads. I _wish your opinion_ of the _best line of books_ for
me to read at leisure hours, aside from novels or fiction. I attend
the high school, and on Saturdays, clerk in the store, of which my
father is senior partner.
_P.S._--You will find five cents for return postage.
_2nd P.S._--My mother says you are not living, but I say to her, I
believe she is mistaken; in other words, I am glad one time to differ
with her.
(1888)
MY DEAR LORD TENNYSON--I once met you....
You will think it strange indeed, my Lord, when I assure you that I am
often supposed to be your noble self, once in Scarborough, often in
Town at the great exhibitions and elsewhere. I wear a large Tyrolese
felt hat.
There is to be a grand summer party here, my Lord, gentlemen to appear
in character, I having been requested to appear as "Lord Tennyson."
Could your Lordship kindly lend me any outer clothing, by Thursday
morning at latest? a cloak, etc.? Then I should feel so thankful and
fulfil the character better.
* * * * *
America characteristically supplies the following:
Permit me to call your special attention to a pamphlet I mail you
herewith, of an address to the _New Shakespere Society_, containing
the announcement of a momentous discovery which I have made in the
"Shakespeare" plays.
My unveiling therein of the allegory of _Cymbeline_ is but a sample of
what I have similarly discerned in the other dramas, and in which I
find the same conclusions consistently to be reached.
* * * * *
The fair writer's answers to objections and discourse on her discovery
unhappily throw no light upon the subject. She proceeds:
I would add that it is singular to myself there should be so strong a
prejudice against the acceptance of Bacon's authorship of these
dramas, investing them, as it does, with such additional interest both
of a historical and an autobiographical kind, in the light of his
concealment of it.
The value of truth, and the interests of literature, constitute my
apology for this intrusion upon your valuable time.
* * * * *
[The acceptance of Bacon's authorship of Shakespeare's dramas and the
attack on Shakespeare's character made my father register his opinion
thus:
Not only with no sense of shame
On common sense you tread,
Not only ride your hobby lame,
But make him kick the dead. ED.]
(1882)
RIGHT HONORABLE SIR--The editor of a Bohemian literary journal takes
the liberty of applying, in a very delicate matter, to you the most
renowned poet of the first literature in the world. Yet this liberty I
draw from having a great belief in the generous character of the
English nation.
What I do venture to impress on your mind is this, that a poem of
yours written on, and dedicated to the poor descendants of Bohemia's
happier ancestors, would as a mighty missionary go the round all over
their fair country evoking everywhere loud echoes out of the graves of
their heroes!
(1892)
The following is a letter from an hysterical Irishman:
EMINENT SIR--I send you the inside poem to show you what the American
people think of your lives of tyranny, and may the day come when your
infernal land may be torn to a million pieces. Curse you for your
highway robbery of Ireland, and then holding her down in such misery,
and also for your cowardly war with Napoleon. You could fight him
alone, could you? I wish that every Englishman was in the hottest
place of hell--their bones made into gridirons to roast their hearts
on. * * *
(1888-1892)
A French chemist, hearing that "Monsieur" suffers from gout, has a certain
secret cure. If he could, he would come over to England, "et ... je vous
guérirais complètement."
He is assured that this remedy will rapidly make him rich. But it should
be known beyond France.
On m'a dit que je pouvais trouver quelques-uns à l'étranger qui
sauraient l'apprécier et le faire valoir que cela vaut une petite
fortune pour moi; ne serai-je que pour l'humanité, je me tacherai de
la vendre.
Je vous le répète, Monsieur, c'est bien regrettable que je ne sois pas
plus près de chez vous, car je vous soulagerois et, Monsieur, on peut
se renseigner sur moi; je ne suis pas riche mais honnête et d'une
bonne famille, et en faisant mon chimisterie je m'occupe un peu
d'antiquités.
Two of the latest letters amused my father much, one from Canada from a
little boy who said that his mother liked cheeses, and he would like
Tennyson to send him money to buy a good cheese: the other from an English
artist who said that his speciality was drawing cows, but that he must
have a cow of his own to live with and make proper studies of, would
therefore Tennyson give him a cow?
APPENDIX D
TENNYSON'S ARTHURIAN POEM[119]
By SIR JAMES KNOWLES, K.C.V.O.
[This letter was written after a talk with my father, and no doubt Sir
James Knowles has caught much of the meaning of "The Idylls of the
King." About this poem my father said to me, "My meaning was
spiritual. I only took the legendary stories of the Round Table as
illustrations. Arthur was allegorical to me. I intended him to
represent the Ideal in the Soul of Man coming in contact with the
warring elements of the flesh."--ED.]
The fine and wholesome moral breeze which always seems to blow about the
higher realms of Art comes to us fresh as ever from this great poem, and
more acceptably than ever just now. A constant worship of Purity, and a
constant reprobation of Impurity as the rock on which the noble projects
of the "blameless king" are wrecked, appear throughout upon the surface of
the story.
But besides this, there doubtless does run through it all a sort of
under-tone of symbolism, which, while it never interferes with the clear
_melody_ of the poem, or perverts it into that most tedious of riddles, a
formal allegory, gives a profound _harmony_ to its music and a prophetic
strain to its intention most worthy of a great spiritual Bard.
King Arthur, as he has always been treated by Tennyson, stands obviously
for no mere individual prince or hero, but for the "King within us"--our
highest nature, by whatsoever name it may be called--conscience; spirit;
the moral soul; the religious sense; the noble resolve. His story and
adventures become the story of the battle and pre-eminence of the soul and
of the perpetual warfare between the spirit and the flesh.
For so exalting him there is abundant warrant in the language of many old
compilers, by whom "all human perfection was collected in Arthur"; as
where, for instance, one says,--"The old world knows not his peer, nor
will the future show us his equal,--he alone towers over all other kings,
better than the past ones, and greater than those that are to be"; or
another, "In short, God has not made, since Adam was, the man more perfect
than Arthur."
How and why Arthur ever grew to so ideal a height we need not now inquire,
it is sufficient here to note the fact, and that Tennyson is
archæologically justified thereby in making him the type of the soul on
earth, from its mysterious coming to its mysterious and deathless going.
In the "Idylls of the King," the soul comes first before us as a conqueror
in a waste and desert land groaning under mere brute power. Its history
before then is dark with doubt and mystery, and the questions about its
origin and authority form the main subject of the introductory poem.
Many, themselves the basest, hold it to be base-born, and rage against its
rule:
And since his ways are sweet,
And theirs are bestial, hold him less than man;
And there be those who deem him more than man,
And dream he dropt from heaven.
Of those who recognize its claim, some, as the hoary chamberlain, accept
it on the word of wizards who have written all about it in a sacred book
which, doubtless, some day will become intelligible. Others, as Ulfius,
and Brastias, standing for commonplace men with commonplace views, are
satisfied to think the soul comes as the body does, or not to think at all
about it. Others, again, as Bedivere, with warmer hearts, feel there is
mystery, where to the careless all is plain, yet seek among the dark ways
of excessive natural passion for the key, and drift towards the scandalous
accordingly. Then comes the simple touching tenderness of the woman's
discovery of conscience and its influence given by Queen Bellicent in the
story of her childhood; and this, again, is supplemented and contrasted by
the doctrine of the wise men and philosophers put into Merlin's mouth. His
"riddling triplets" anger the woman, but are a wonderful summary of the
way, part-earnest, part-ironical, and all-pathetic, in which great wit
confronts the problem of the soul.
The inscrutableness of its origin being thus signified, we see next the
recognition of its supremacy, and its first act of kinghood,--the
inspiration of the best and bravest near it with a common enthusiasm for
Right. The founding of the Order of the Round Table coincides with the
solemn crowning of the soul. Conscience, acknowledged and throned as king,
binds at once all the best of human powers together into one brotherhood,
and that brotherhood to itself by vows so strait and high,
That when they rose, knighted from kneeling, some
Were pale as at the passing of a ghost,
Some flush'd, and others dazed, as one who wakes
Half-blinded at the coming of a light.
At that supreme coronation-moment, the Spirit is surrounded and cheered on
by all the powers and influences which can ever help it--earthly servants
and allies and heavenly powers and tokens--the knights, to signify the
strength of the body; Merlin, to signify the strength of intellect; the
Lady of the Lake, who stands for the Church, and gives the soul its
sharpest and most splendid earthly weapon; and, above all, three fair and
mystic Queens, "tall, with bright sweet faces," robed in the living
colours sacred to love and faith and hope, which flow upon them from the
image of our Lord above. These, surely, stand for those immortal virtues
which only will abide "when all that seems shall suffer shock," and
leaning upon which alone, the soul, when all else falls from it, shall go
towards the golden gates of the new and brighter morning.
As the first and introductory idyll thus seems to indicate the coming and
the recognition of the soul, so the ensuing idylls of the "Round Table"
show how its influence fares--waxes or wanes--in the great battle of life.
Through all of these we see the body and its passions gain continually
greater sway, till in the end the Spirit's earthly work is thwarted and
defeated by the flesh. Its immortality alone remains to it, and, with
this, a deathless hope.
From the story of "Geraint and Enid," where the first gust of poisoning
passion bows for a time with base suspicion, yet passes, and leaves pure a
great and simple heart, we are led through "Merlin and Vivien," where,
early in the storm, we see great wit and genius succumb,--and through
"Lancelot and Elaine," where the piteous early death of innocence and hope
results from it,--to "The Holy Grail," where we find religion itself
under the stress of it, and despite the earnest efforts of the soul, blown
into mere fantastic shapes of superstition. It would be difficult to find
a nobler and manlier apology for pure and sane and practical religion, fit
for mighty men, than the verdict of the King at the end of this wonderful
poem.
In "Pelleas and Ettarre" the storm of corruption culminates, whirling the
sweet waters of young love and faith (the very life-spring of the world)
out from their proper channels, sweeping them into mist, and casting them
in hail upon the land. A scarcely-concealed harlot here rides splendid to
the Court, and is crowned Queen of Beauty in the lists; the lust of the
flesh is all but paramount. Then comes in "Guinevere" the final lightning
stroke, and all the fabric of the earthly life falls smitten into dust,
leaving to the soul a broken heart for company, and a conviction that if
in this world only it had hope, it were of all things most miserable.
Thus ends the "Round Table," and the story of the life-long labour of the
soul....
There remains but the passing of the soul "from the great deep to the
great deep," and this is the subject of the closing idyll. Here the "last
dim, weird battle," fought out in densest mist, stands for a picture of
all human death, and paints its awfulness and confusion. The soul alone,
enduring beyond the end wherein all else is swallowed up, sees the mist
clear at last, and finds those three crowned virtues, "abiding" true and
fast, and waiting to convey it to its rest. Character, upheld and formed
by these, is the immortal outcome of mortal life. They wail with it awhile
in sympathy for the failure of its earthly plans; but at the very last of
all are heard to change their sorrow into songs of joy, and departing,
"vanish into light."
Such or such like seems to be the high significance and under-meaning of
this noble poem,--a meaning worthy of the exquisite expression which
conveys it and of the wealth of beauty and imagery which enfolds it.
But nothing is more remarkable than the way in which so much symbolic
truth is given without the slightest forcing of the current of the
narrative itself. Indeed, so subtle are the touches, and so consummately
refined the art employed, that quite possibly many readers may hold there
is no parable at all intended. It is most interesting, for instance, to
note the thread of realism which is preserved throughout, and which,
whether intentionally or not, serves the double purpose of entirely
screening any such symbolic under-meaning from all who do not care to seek
it, and also of accounting naturally for all the supernatural adventures
and beliefs recorded in the story itself.
Thus, in "The Holy Grail," the various apparitions of the mystic vessel
are explicable by passing meteors or sudden lightning flashes seen in a
season of great tempests and thunderstorms--first acting on the hysterical
exaltation of an enthusiastic nun, and then, by contagion from her faith,
upon the imaginations of a few kindred natures.
Again, in the "Coming of Arthur," the marvellous story of his birth, as
told by Bleys, might simply have been founded on a shipwreck when the sea
was phosphorescent, and when all hands suddenly perished, save one infant
who was washed ashore.
Or, again, in the same poem, the three mystic Queens at the
Coronation--who become, in one sense, so all-important in their
meaning--derive their import in the eyes of Bellicent simply from the
accident of coloured beams of light falling upon them from a stained-glass
window.
May I, in conclusion say how happily characteristic of their English
author, and their English theme, seems to me the manner in which these
"Idylls of the King" have become a complete poem? It brings to mind the
method of our old cathedral-builders. Round some early shrine, too
precious to be moved, were gathered bit by bit a nave and aisles, then
rich side chapels, then the great image-crowded portals, then a more noble
chancel, then, perhaps, the towers, all in fulfilment of some general plan
made long ago, but each produced and added as occasion urged or natural
opportunity arose. As such buildings always seem rather to have _grown_
than been _constructed_, and have the wealth of interest, and beauty, and
variety which makes Canterbury Cathedral, for instance, far more poetical
than St. Paul's--so with these "Idylls." Bit by bit the poem and its
sacred purport have grown continually more and more connected and
impressive. Had Tennyson sat down in early youth to write the symbolic
epic of King Arthur which he then projected, his "Morte d'Arthur" is
enough to show how fine a work might have resulted. But, for once, at any
rate, the interposing critics did art good service, for they deferred
till the experience of life had given him, as it were, many lives, a poem
which could not have been produced without wide acquaintanceship with the
world and human nature. We should never otherwise have had the parable
"full of voices" which we now fortunately possess.
THE END
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Henry Sellwood.
[2] Sister of Sir John Franklin.
[3] [EXTRACT from a LETTER from my MOTHER to Mrs. GRANVILLE BRADLEY, April
23, 1873.
"To think of your having been among our Aldworth giants (the monuments in
Aldworth Church)! Pibworth belonged to my grandmother, a Rowland from
Wales. I am glad you did not go there, for all the grand pine grove, which
backed it, was cut down as soon as it was bought, some years ago, by some
London man, and I hear it has sunk into a mere commonplace house. The
little estate, in which were the ruins of Beche Castle, was ours. The
tombs are those of the 'de la Beches.' Their pedigree was said to have
been taken down to show to Queen Elizabeth--when she came to look at the
old yew tree, the remains of which, I hope, still exist--and never to have
been replaced, so that no more is known of the giants than that they were
'de la Beches.' Neither do we know if they were really our ancestors, as
they have been reported to be, or whether the report came from our having
owned the remains of the castle."--ED.]
[4] Rev. Drummond Rawnsley.
[5] This is written of the Lincolnshire coast.
[6] This taken from what he saw from the cliffs over Scratchell's Bay near
the Needles in the Isle of Wight.
[7] Afterwards married to Judge Alan Ker, Chief Justice of Jamaica.
[8] At Mablethorpe there was no post at all, and Alfred tells how he was
indebted to the muffin man for communication with the outer world.
[9] His wife.
[10] Mother of Lady Boyne.
[11] [The unpublished letters from Frederick Tennyson, quoted throughout
the chapter, were written either to my father, or to my father's friend,
Mary Brotherton, the novelist. The lives of my uncles Frederick and
Charles were so much interwoven with the lives of some of my father's
friends that I have ventured to insert this account of them here.
Moreover, these two brothers represent "the two extremes of the Tennyson
temperament, the mean and perfection of which is found in Alfred."--ED.]
[12] Unpublished letter to Alfred Tennyson.
[13] Alfred was always telling his brother that Spiritualism was a subject
well worthy of examination, but not to be swallowed whole. He had a great
admiration for certain passages in Swedenborg's writings.
[14] Alfred used to say of the Sonnets that many of them had all the
tenderness of the Greek epigram, while a few were among the finest in our
language.
[15] The other three were Franklin, Harry, and Tom.
[16] She often used to sing to us "Elaine's song" which she had set to
music.
[17] [My father was devoted to Henry Lushington, and pronounced him to be
the best critic he had ever known. To him he dedicated "In
Memoriam."--ED.]
[18] There are also the fine "beardless bust" by Tennyson's friend, Thomas
Woolner, R.A., and the earliest "beardless portrait" of him by his
sister-in-law, Mrs. Weld.
[19] This was a misunderstanding on the part of FitzGerald.
[20] This account of the talk in the Woodbridge garden has been taken from
a letter to me from the present Lord Tennyson.
[21] Sophocles, _Ajax_, 674-5.
[22] This old French paraphrase of Horace, _Odes_, I. xi., FitzGerald was
very fond of, and quotes more than once in his letters.
[23] Of the _Conversations with Eckermann_, he said, "almost as repeatedly
to be read as Boswell's _Johnson_--a German Johnson--and (as with Boswell)
more interesting to me in Eckermann's Diary than in all his own famous
works."--_Letters to Mrs. Kemble._
[24] [Some of these sayings appeared in my Memoir of my father.--ED.]
[25] See _Tennyson: a Memoir, by his Son_, p. 373.
[26] See _Tennyson: a Memoir, by his Son_, p. 352.
[27] "I suppose the worship of wonder, such as I have heard grown-up
children tell of at first sight of the Alps."--_Euphranor_, by E. F. G.
[28] Arthur Hallam, Harry Lushington, and Sir John Simeon.
[29] "The Death of Oenone."