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Page 1
On one side lay the ocean, and on one
Lay a great water, and the moon was full.
Here is no taint of manner, no pretty posture or habit, but the
simplicity of poetry and the simplicity of Nature, something on the
yonder side of imagery. It is to be noted that this noble passage is
from Tennyson's generally weakest kind of work--blank verse; and should
thus be a sign that the laxity of so many parts of the "Idylls" and other
blank verse poems was a quite unnecessary fault. Lax this form of poetry
undoubtedly is with Tennyson. His blank verse is often too easy; it
cannot be said to fly, for the paradoxical reason that it has no weight;
it slips by, without halting or tripping indeed, but also without the
friction of the movement of vitality. This quality, which is so near to
a fault, this quality of ease, has come to be disregarded in our day.
That Horace Walpole overpraised this virtue is not good reason that we
should hold it for a vice. Yet we do more than undervalue it; and
several of our authors, in prose and poetry, seem to find much merit in
the manifest difficulty; they will not have a key to turn, though closely
and tightly, in oiled wards; let the reluctant iron catch and grind, or
they would even prefer to pick you the lock.
But though we may think it time that the quality once over-prized should
be restored to a more proportionate honour, our great poet Tennyson shows
us that of all merits ease is, unexpectedly enough, the most dangerous.
It is not only, with him, that the wards are oiled, it is also that the
key turns loosely. This is true of much of the beautiful "Idylls," but
not of their best passages, nor of such magnificent heroic verse as that
of the close of "A Vision of Sin," or of "Lucretius." As to the question
of ease, we cannot have a better maxim than Coventry Patmore's saying
that poetry "should confess, but not suffer from, its difficulties." And
we could hardly find a more curious example of the present love of verse
that not only confesses but brags of difficulties, and not only suffers
from them but cries out under the suffering, and shows us the grimace of
the pain of it, than I have lighted upon in the critical article of a
recent quarterly. Reviewing the book of a "poet" who manifestly has an
insuperable difficulty in hacking his work into ten-syllable blocks, and
keeping at the same time any show of respect for the national grammar,
the critic gravely invites his reader to "note" the phrase "neath cliffs"
(apparently for "beneath the cliffs") as "characteristic." Shall the
reader indeed "note" such a matter? Truly he has other things to do.
This is by the way. Tennyson is always an artist, and the finish of his
work is one of the principal notes of his versification. How this finish
comports with the excessive ease of his prosody remains his own peculiar
secret. Ease, in him, does not mean that he has any unhandsome slovenly
ways. On the contrary, he resembles rather the warrior with the pouncet
box. It is the man of "neath cliffs" who will not be at the trouble of
making a place for so much as a definite article. Tennyson certainly
_worked_, and the exceeding ease of his blank verse comes perhaps of this
little paradox--that he makes somewhat too much show of the hiding of his
art.
In the first place the poet with the great welcome style and the little
unwelcome manner, Tennyson is, in the second place, the modern poet who
withstood France. (That is, of course, modern France--France since the
Renaissance. From medieval Provence there is not an English poet who
does not own inheritance.) It was some time about the date of the
Restoration that modern France began to be modish in England. A ruffle
at the Court of Charles, a couplet in the ear of Pope, a _tour de
phrase_ from Mme. de Sevigne much to the taste of Walpole, later the
good example of French painting--rich interest paid for the loan of our
Constable's initiative--later still a scattering of French taste, French
critical business, over all the shallow places of our literature--these
have all been phases of a national vanity of ours, an eager and anxious
fluttering or jostling to be foremost and French. Matthew Arnold's essay
on criticism fostered this anxiety, and yet I find in this work of his a
lack of easy French knowledge, such as his misunderstanding of the word
_brutalite_, which means no more, or little more, than roughness. Matthew
Arnold, by the way, knew so little of the French character as to be
altogether ignorant of French provincialism, French practical sense, and
French "convenience." "Convenience" is his dearest word of contempt,
"practical sense" his next dearest, and he throws them a score of times
in the teeth of the English. Strange is the irony of the truth. For he
bestows those withering words on the nation that has the fifty religions,
and attributes "ideas"--as the antithesis of "convenience" and "practical
sense"--to the nation that has the fifty sauces. And not for a moment
does he suspect himself of this blunder, so manifest as to be
disconcerting to his reader. One seems to hear an incurably English
accent in all this, which indeed is reported, by his acquaintance, of
Matthew Arnold's actual speaking of French. It is certain that he has
not the interest of familiarity with the language, but only the interest
of strangeness. Now, while we meet the effect of the French coat in our
seventeenth century, of the French light verse in our earlier eighteenth
century, and of French philosophy in our later, of the French revolution
in our Wordsworth, of the French painting in our nineteenth-century
studios, of French fiction--and the dregs are still running--in our
libraries, of French poetry in our Swinburne, of French criticism in our
Arnold, Tennyson shows the effect of nothing French whatever. Not the
Elizabethans, not Shakespeare, not Jeremy Taylor, not Milton, not Shelley
were (in their art, not in their matter) more insular in their time.
France, by the way, has more than appreciated the homage of Tennyson's
contemporaries; Victor Hugo avers, in _Les Miserables_, that our people
imitate his people in all things, and in particular he rouses in us a
delighted laughter of surprise by asserting that the London street-boy
imitates the Parisian street-boy. There is, in fact, something of a
street-boy in some of our late more literary mimicries.
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