Far over sands marbled with moon and cloud, The thunder-clouds Floating thro' an evening atmosphere, or, at night, a rising cloud may Topple round the dreary west, A looming bastion fringed with fire. The succession of pictures in St Agnes, Sir Galahad, Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere, The Two Voices, The Daisy, and all such pieces, are too familiar to need disclosing anew. "At the root of most of his excellence," said Professor Ingram, "lies his keen sense and exquisite enjoyment of every species of beauty-of all that is lovely in form, or graceful in movement, or rich in colour, or harmonious in sound. His finely-tuned organisation seemed tremblingly alive to those more delicate shades and tones of external nature which are scarcely distinguished by obtuser sensibilities. Connected with this gift is his power of painting the appearances of the outer world, not merely with general truthfulness, but with an almost magic reality of detail. Yet he does not fall-at least in his mature works-into pre-Raphaelite excess. He is saved from this by his practice of presenting every aspect of nature, not simply as it is in itself, but in relation to human feeling. He shows us the landscape as it is seen by the actors in his poems, and the features he exhibits are selected with relation to their dominant emotions. His moral sensibilities are not less fine than his physical— he notes with accuracy the subtle play of feeling, and those minor involuntary indications which are its natural language. And often he brings out most effectively the character-or, might I say? the soul-of a situation by some slight fugitive trait-some evanescent touch of attitude, or gesture, or expression. He is a master of orderly and lucid narrative; nothing is left hazy or indistinct in the stories he tells-everything is adequately prepared by previous explanations, everything is maturely worked out to its natural close." Tennyson's poems open unto our eyes a matchless gallery where we are fascinated, tranced, dazzled, and ever delighted as in brightest dreams. His art is high and noble, his skill superb, his touch true. If he transports us into fairyland and brings visions before us, if, like the necromancer of old, he bids us gaze upon what never was and never will be, it is only because his scenery is too rich, his subjects too ideal, his colours too pure. He is never grotesque, never wholly artificial; luxurious fancy casts a glamour over realities, and like Will Waterproof we Look at all things as they are, But thro' a kind of glory. The charm is complete. All grossness disappears, and under the poet's spell the scales fall from our eyes and we catch a glimpse of heaven. CHAPTER XIV. TENNYSON'S HUMOUR. "Something so mock-solemn." -The Princess. "The Muse, the jolly Muse it is! She changes with that mood or this, Is all-in-all to all." -Will Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue. THE attempts at humour in the dramas I consider to be, without exception, failures. The by-play of words is trivial, the situations are unprovoking, and the jests mirthless. Some of the Shakespearean clowning is unintelligible, but it is possible to believe that we are at fault, not the dramatist, and that what a former age could understand and enjoy we in later times fail to appreciate. But it is not so with Tennyson. He mistook uncouthness for humour, and bad burlesque for wit. The lighter passages in his dramas are intolerable, and nothing is more depressing than the fooling in The Falcon. All this is the more remarkable because Tennyson was at heart a genuine humourist, or rather, he had a vein of genuine humour by no means easily exhausted. He was dry, grim, and subtle; and if his wit did not bubble over it was at least spontaneous in its flow and sparkling. Its unexpectedness was not the least of its good qualities, for, like a sudden light, it surprised, amazed, and seemed doubly brilliant. Tennyson never lost dignity, never indulged in persiflage, never wrote a nonsense rhyme. His was an amusing cleverness, and, after all, taking the humourous pieces by turn, we can only conclude that they were studies or experiments in a style, just like the experiments in metre. We can imagine that Tennyson was quite serious when he sat down and began the task of writing his dialect poems. He chose his motif, he selected his type of character, he prepared his points. He did not, like the genial Dr Holmes, begin a poem in a light-hearted and haphazard way; he accomplished a set task. And when The Northern Farmer, Will Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue, Owd Roä, and The Churchwarden and the Curate were duly finished, they would need revising, polishing, amending, their effects heightening, and all the rest of it, before they would be ready for the public. What I wish to make clear is that Tennyson was always the man with a purpose, whether grave or gay, and that even in his humourous moments he did not forget his office. And it is for this very reason that his failure in writing light dramatic scenes can be understood. Whether he was in the mood or not he knew that the "relief" must be given—and his resources were not equal to the demand. Strictly speaking, Tennyson's humourous poems are very few in number. Passing by the Second Song on The Owl, with its word-play on "tuwhoo" and "tuwhit," the list begins with The Talking Oak, which is written in a gleesome, light-spirited manner, and contains some cleverlyamusing lines. The poem as a whole, however, scarcely comes under the heading, and in the volume of another poet might have been classed as altogether serious. Amphion, too, with all its frolicsome fancies, is far too ingenious to be called amusing, but in Will Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue we get such delightful confessions and quaint conceits that it is only human to smile at them. The legend of the Cock and the Head Waiter is a happy conception, and when the fanciful Will, drinking his pint of port, exclaims I ranged too high: what draws me down Into the common day? Is it the weight of that half-crown, Which I shall have to pay? the change is too ludicrous to be other than irresistible. The first of the dialect poems was published in 1864, and the poet's old neighbour, John Baumber, of Somersby Grange, served as the prototype of the Northern Farmer. Git ma my aäle, fur I beänt a-gooin' to break my rule, was the cry of Tennyson's rare old character; but it is not unlikely that the poet (as was usual with him) obtained the suggestion for his story from a once popular book in which the following passages occur: "One of the strongest instances I have seen of such a deliberate practice of the Dum vivimus, vivamus, was mentioned by the clever and humourous surgeon, Mr Wadd. He was called to a respectable lusty farmer who had indulged in his strong home-brewed ale till a serious illness came upon him. After some attendance his medical friend told him that it was clear that unless he gave up his favourite beverage he would not live six months. 'Is that your serious professional opinion?' 'I am certain of it.' The farmer thought a few minutes, tears came into his eyes; he sighed heavily, and at last said, 'I am sorry for it very sorry; it's very sad, but I cannot give up my ale." So with the old Lincolnshire farmer. I've 'ed my point o' aäle ivry noight sin' I beän 'ere, and he "weänt breäk rules fur Doctor." The Northern Farmer, new style, is the selfish, grasping man of a later period, obstinate and worldly-minded, greedy for gain and a despiser of sentiment. To his lovesick son, who has committed the heinous offence of becoming "sweet on Parson's lass," when she "ant nowt, an' she weänt 'a nowt when 'e's dead," the old man explains his "noätions." His morality is summed up in Proputty, proputty sticks, an' proputty, proputty graws, and he reminds his offspring that he can |