TENNYSON The Speaker, October 8th, 1892 Y the death of Lord Tennyson at a green old age English literature has been robbed. Bold of its brightest luminary. Thousands of hearts are clad in mourning, for it was the glory of Tennyson to be at once consummate and popular, to stir the heart of the simple and to arouse the enthusiasm of the scholar. Like Spenser, he was a poet's poet; like Longfellow, he was a people's. Generations of men and women have passed their lives from childhood to maturity under his charm. As boys and girls they raved about The Lady of Shalott, The Miller's Daughter, Lady Clara Vere de Vere, and The May Queen; as they exchanged childhood for youth they found what their new state demanded in the passion of Maud, and the silvery melancholy of In Memoriam; as grown men and women they rejoiced over the magnificent vigour of the later Ballads and Poems, whilst their delight in the poet's mastery of his craft grew keener day by day. This is not the time to attempt any detailed criticism. We stand to-day by an open grave soon to hide from us those noble features which have stamped themselves indelibly upon all loving memories. How enormous, how incalculable is the debt of gratitude we owe to Tennyson! What a barrier he built with his own hands against the incursions of vulgarity-of low and depraved tastes in life and art! What a lesson to poets! What a school for humanity! His poems are everywhere, in every kind of edition. Wherever the English language, which he did so much to keep pure and undefiled, has travelled, Tennyson has followed in its wake-giving pleasure, exalting courage, purifying taste. Tennyson's life scarcely needs telling. He was born on the 6th of August, 1809, one of the many sons of a country parson. He was early made acquainted in his Lincolnshire home with those blowing winds, ridged wolds, and the panorama of the sky, which his verse has glorified and carried into the hearts of thousands who else might have remained stupidly impassive to their charm. From the first Tennyson bore the stamp of greatness, that undefinable something, which is the true, as it is the only nobility. At Trinity College, Cambridge, and in his early London life the men who knew him never had any doubt about him. He was not as other men. Nobody besought him to read for the Bar or to take orders or "to do" anything. There he was and there he would remain till his hour came. His early poems contained much to make the groundlings laugh, but little to make the judicious grieve. "Young Mr. Tennyson " had that in him which made all men pause. When ridiculed, the author of Lilian, and Isabel, and Mariana, and Madeline could hit back harder than any of the black-fisted crew who jostled one another in the Grub Street of the day. Happily he had seldom any occasion to teach anyone manners. He first found his audience, as all true poets do, amongst the younger race. The elders sat for a while in the seat of the scornful, and declared the new poet unintelligible, but their criticisms died upon their lips. their lips. Tennyson's poetry, like the sunrise in Pippa Passes, was not to be suppressed; it soon Rose, reddened, and its seething breast Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world. For many a long year he was declared unapproachable, and, like the skylark, enjoyed "a glorious privacy of light." Those comparisons which were once so popular between Tennyson and Browning have ceased to be of much interest. Tennyson was not such a thinker, nor did he touch upon so many themes of human interest, as his great contemporary; but in the field of pure poetry, when regarded as masters of poetic diction, the first place must always be given, without question or demur, to the author of The Lotos-Eaters, Ulysses, Lucretius, and other pieces. But, as we have already said, this is no time for criticism. It is our hour of sorrow for an exceeding heavy loss. His Lord Tennyson was a man of great reading, delightful humour, and wide observation. knowledge of poetry was as accurate as his ear was nice. He had a genuine affection for our old writers, and the heartiest appreciation of their various humours. His acquaintance with literature was that intimate acquaintance born of love and long companionship, which so gloriously distinguishes the real man of letters from even the most brilliant of littérateurs. Tennyson had a true Briton's heart, and delighted in travels, adventures, and deeds of derring-do. If in later life his politics took a gloomy hue, it was because he thought he noticed signs of decline in our national valour and prowess, and for no other reason. He sought no refuge for his melancholy behind churches, and wrote no Ecclesiastical Sonnets. His character was marked and even dominated by that simplicity which is the essential note of real greatness. At the same time, he was a man of sound judgment, always well able to take care of himself if need was. Above everything else he loved to live his own life. His fiercest notes were sounded when gossip and scandal blackened the air. The "new journalism," as it is called-though there is nothing particularly new about it, except the extent of its circulation-was not at all to his mind. For now the Poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, Break lock and seal-betray the trust: The dead Tennyson need fear nothing from scandal. His life was as immaculate as his verse. Perhaps the best tribute we can pay to his genius is to abolish the office he held since the death of Wordsworth. Let us have no more Laureates, The line began gloriously with Ben Jonson, let it end splendidly with Alfred Tennyson. CARDINAL NEWMAN 1892 I T HERE are some men whose names are inseparably and exclusively associated with movements; there are others who are for ever united in human memories with places; it is the happy fortune of the distinguished man whose name is at the top of this page to be able to make good both titles to an estate in our minds and hearts; for whilst his fierce intellectual energy made him the leader of a great movement, his rare and exquisite tenderness has married his name to a lovely place. Whenever men's thoughts dwell upon the revival of Church authority in England and America during this century, they will recall the Vicar of St. Mary's, Oxford, who lived to become a Cardinal of Rome, and whenever the lover of all things that are quiet and gentle and true in life and literature visits Oxford, he will find himself wondering whether snap-dragon still grows outside the windows of the rooms in Trinity where once lived the author of the Apologia. The Rev. John Wesley was a distinguished man, if ever there was one, and his name is associated with a movement certainly as remarkable as, and a great deal more useful than, the one connected with the name of Newman. Wesley's great mis |