ART. III.-TENNYSON AND HIS TEACHINGS.

It is always timely to discuss great poetry. For, however much may have been already said about it, a fresh mind approaching it from its own independent standpoint may fairly be expected to contribute something which has not been hitherto heard, and there will always be those to listen who were not present on previous occasions. Tennyson, it cannot be denied, has been much talked of; but we do not believe that all has been said about him which may with profit be uttered, and we are quite sure that not all who read have become as conversant as they might with his contribution to the mental and spiritual wealth of the world. Hence this new attempt to illuminate a somewhat familiar theme.

But was it really great poetry which the late laureate furnished? And is he so clearly one of the immortals that this frequent recurrence to his productions is called for? A significant and difficult question, involving some consideration of the essentials of true poetry. The topic is too large to be adequately treated in this brief introduction, for great differences of opinion upon it exist, and the definitions of poetry are exceedingly numerous. This, however, we think, may justly be said: Genuine poetry has substance, form, and spirit, these three, and the best poetry will show high excellence in all three of these directions. In other words, it will convey important truth in melodious language so constructed as to thrill the soul. That the idea to be conveyed is great, or at least serious and dignified, is not enough; that the words flow smoothly, or have rhythm and meter, is not enough; the creative imagination must be in exercise, and deep feeling must be aroused as the result. It is not sufficient to have "great thoughts clothed in splendor," or "the beautiful in sight wedded to the beautiful in sound;" there must be a stimulating power as well, so that the spirit is aroused and uplifted. To make high poetry there must be indeed "a body of beauty and a soul of truth." But not all truth will do; the truth must be not simply intellectual, but moral or emotional. A great poet puts great life into his work; puts into it the passion and the helpfulness of an

overflowing vitality. He is intense and concise, going at once by a sure instinct to the heart of his theme. He is not simply a maker of pretty phrases, one who can run off rhymes glibly or tickle the ear with musical speech. He has something of consequence to say, and he so says it as to inspire noble emotions and sublime purposes. He is one by whom, as Tennyson has himself said, "the deeps of the world are stirred." "Born in a golden clime" is he, seeing "through life and death, through good and ill," "threading secretest walks," "the viewless arrows of his thoughts headed and winged with flame.” His mind, "bright as light and clear as wind," has a quality of its own, and stands apart. His songs nerve the hearts of nations. His voice rings down the ages.

It will readily be seen from these principles how difficult, or practically how impossible, it is to obtain any universal or even general agreement as to the relative rank of poets, since these distinctive elements, substance, form, spirit, characterize the work of different poets in varying degrees—one being superior in subject matter, another in manner of expression, while still a third has intenser passion and keener thrill; and since there is no authoritative adjustment of relative values in these things, the assignment of positions must be mainly a question of individual taste. Since poetry is neither wholly art nor wholly prophecy, but partakes of both, the man who worships beauty will find valid reason to claim first place for him that makes beauty preeminent in his verse, while others, who esteem more highly strength of thought or ardor of feeling, will easily make out a good case for their special favorites. It is in this way that disputes arise. Of English poets, by almost unanimous agreement, Shakespeare and Milton stand at the head. There are some who would give Tennyson third place. Others would put Browning there; still others, Wordsworth. Tennyson himself said: "Wordsworth's very best is the best thing in its way that has been sent out by the moderns. He seems to me, at his best, the greatest English poet since Milton." The future alone can decide this interesting point. But if Tennyson should eventually be ranked below both Browning and Wordsworth, as may be the case, his fame is none the less secure. To have won a place among the first

six poets of the English-speaking race is extremely high distinction. And though he comes not within the proudest, innermost circle, where sit Homer, Virgil, and Dante, we need not hesitate to account him a great poet. His influence has been far-reaching upon the thought and feeling of the age. His verse has brought new comfort and courage to many thousands of both young and old. While there are poets that move us more, and that impress us more profoundly with their powers of intellect and imagination, none have been a source of more genuine enjoyment to such large numbers.

An analysis of the sources of Tennyson's command over the sympathies of men would doubtless disclose several elements well deserving the attention of the student. In the forefront must be put the artistic perfection and elaborate finish of his lines. No one has excelled him here. He had almost a mania for revision. He spent, like Virgil, more years in improving than in writing his poems. He rewrote "Come into the garden, Maud," more than fifty times. The changes which he introduced into "In Memoriam " and into "The Palace of Art" are extremely numerous and most instructive. He often doubles the value of a verse by the alterations made. Hours and hours were frequently devoted to the smallest details, the result of this painstaking process being that he has left us some exquisite gems, polished with scrupulous care, unsurpassable models of poetic form. He was a consummate artist in the use of words. His diction was well-nigh perfect. He had an ear for verbal elegancies and brilliancies-partly natural, partly acquired by long practice-a command of melody in language, of musical combinations in syllables that no poet, of our time at least, has equaled. His words furnish their own music, and need no tunes to set them off. He was a master of harmonious speech as well as of imaginative description, with a marvelous gift of felicitous expression and a witchery in his way of putting things that casts a puissant spell upon all perusers. There is never any roughness in his verse; all is refined, graceful, smooth. He had an unerring delicacy and subtlety of touch. His lines are lucid to the last degree, and run as limpidly as the babbling brooks of which he loved to sing. He studied well the arts

of pleasing utterance. Alliteration, assonance, the due succession of long vowels and short, the proper juxtaposition or correspondence of consonants, the imitation of sense by sound, the cadence of syllables, the concord of sweet speech, the aroma and color of words-all that goes to make the most delicate, airy charm of style-he understood completely and practiced without flaws. In the technique of poetry he has had no superior. He is probably the greatest example of pure beauty in English poetical literature. Whoever wishes the highest delight that verse can give must read the lovely lyrics of this great laureate; must read and reread, for a single perusal in no way satisfies. They will draw him back again and again by their enchantment till they are fastened in his memory and added to his permanent treasures. How exquisite, for example, this song from "The Princess:"

Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums
That beat to battle where he stands;

Thy face across his fancy comes,
And gives the battle to his hands.
A moment, while the trumpets blow,
He sees his brood about thy knee;
The next, like fire he meets the foe,

And strikes him dead for thine and thee.

What can surpass the melody in this stanza:

The splendor falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story;

The long light shakes across the lakes,

And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

To cite but one more illustration out of multitudes, what other poet could have written this matchless verse from the in "Maud: song

There has fallen a splendid tear

From the passion-flower at the gate.

She is coming, my dove, my dear;

She is coming, my life, my fate.

The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"

And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"

The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"

And the lily whispers, "I wait."

Second among the elements of his power may, perhaps, be put his choice of everyday topics, easy of comprehension to the ordinary mind and coming close home to the heart of the

people. He has indeed been called, quite often, "the people's poet," "the poet of daily life," "the poet of organized society" -in distinction from Browning, who was the poet of the individual soul-and also called-by no less an authority than Gladstone-"the poet of woman." It has been frequently said of him, and we think truly, that more than any other writer, in poetry at least, he reflected the inmost spirit of the time, represented the Victorian age, embodied wonderfully well its main drift, so that its aims and aspirations can best be seen and studied in his pages. If this be so it explains his popularity, while at the same time revealing his limitations. He was readily accepted and widely admired because he wrote for the most part along the level of very ordinary thinking. He discoursed about common things. He furnished people an imaginative version of their daily life. He dealt in those sights and sounds that were familiar, and threw the halo of his genius over well-known matters, lighting them up with a new radiance and giving them an altogether fresh interest. The scenery that he put into his pictures, and the very names interwoven with his stories, are typically English. We do not once hear of Dorinda and Florizel and Amaryllis; it is always Edith, Alice, Clara, Ida, Dora, Amy, Maud, Ellen, Emma, Edward, Enoch, Lawrence. His words are generally AngloSaxon. He is no cosmopolite, nor does he depart very far from plain conventional lines of thought and sentiment. It is the realm of the commonplace in which he mainly dwells. The meadow, the wood, the mountain, the sky, the stream, the tree, the flower, the cottage home, the country squire, the rustic laborer, the fisherman, the farmer, the sailor, the miller, the gardener these are the chief topics and personages treated. He does not analyze and philosophize, he depicts and narrates. Instead of discussing profundities, and delving in the depths to bring up curious treasures, he delineates and decorates what is on the surface-level. The experiences he describes have been felt by the many rather than by the few. He ranges through the primitive passions of human nature, the everlasting facts of life and death, loss and gain, hope and fear, joy and sorrow; hence his words take firm hold on the masses of mankind and will not easily pass away.