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IRISH QUARTERLY REVIEW.
No. XIX.-SEPTEMBER, 1855.
Art. I.-TENNYSON AND HIS "MAUD." Maud, and Other Poems. By Alfred Tennyson, D.C.L.,
Poet Laureate. London: Moxon. 1855.
Five-and-twenty years ago Eflingham Wilson published a volume of poems for a young man then in College: he was only known as the son of a clergyman down in the country; and he bore the name of Alfred Tennyson. It was an odd book, full of genius, thought, new coined words, and those mental gymnastics known as esthetic ideas. and grave follies it combined the deepest and truest spirit of Poetry. Critics praised and abused ; lectured and suggested ; in one page “flooring" the poet, in the next "back. ing him up” well to the public; but in all phases of criticism admitting his genius, even whilst regretting his wayward fancies.
A second volume appeared in the year 1832, and this was marked by many of the characteristics of the earlier publication ; but the working of a mind, striving to achieve a perfect poem was evident; and again the critics blamed, and praised, and petted, and all but spoiled the poet.
Ten years passed on, and the mind of the young student grew with these years, in force and strength. All these years he lived for poesy, and in studying the fair proportions of his idol he learned to know how stilted, how cold, how artificial were the offerings with which, in his early days of poetic adoration, he had decked her shrine.
Ten years of thought; of study; of whole-leart devotion to any pursuit must produce results marked and patent, even where men are less gifted thau Alfred Tennyson ; and when, VOL. V.-NO. XIX.
That whitened all the eastern ridge,
in 1842, Moxon, that poet-publisher for poets, issued the two volumes of Poems, now in the hands of all; the author's mind seemed to have acquired the strength and sustaining power which make the poem immortal, and the poet a demi-god. The books showed that the poetic wild-oats of youthful faucy were sown; The Laily of Shalott was gravely dressed ; The Lotus-Eaters was touched and re-touched, and was all the more rich in its dreamy loveliness for the changes; in The Miller's Daughter, the charming Miller's Daughter, the lover's mother was introduced, but these following verses were omitted, and we think not justly : "Remember you the clear moonlight I heard, as I have seem'd to hear
When all the under air was still, When o'er the water dancing white,
The low voice of the glad new year I stepp'd upon the old mill-bridge ?
Call to the freshly-flowered hill. I heard you whisper from above,
I heard, as I have often heard A lute-toned whisper, I am here !
The nightingale in leafy woods I murmur'd, speak again, my love,
Call to its mate when nothing stirr'd The stream is loud : I cannot hear!
To left or right, but falling floods !" But though the poet's mind was there in all the glory of its power and magic charms, yet still the besetting fault, dreaming oddity of fancy was present, and none could say, “Tennyson is a great poet :" it was not that he-" nodded,” he slept, he snored, and in his slumbers strange contortions and twinings half amused, half disgusted, the astonished, wondering, admiring reader.
The Princess came next; then, In Memoriam, and now we have Maud, and other Poems,--would we had never seen this latter.
What is the true characteristic of genuine poetry? Its power of reaching, exciting, and enthralling every heart. What' is the characteristic of Maud ? Maudlin semi-insanity; words meaning nothing worth remembering; and a disjointed tale of love and blood, to be discovered after close and laborious application to the text, omitting the various gasps and gaps of passionate prose ruu mad which intervene.
But what is Maud? Is it a medley ? a dramatic poem We confess we do not know what to call it; and as to its outbursts of passion, they are precisely such as Sim Tappertit might, in his bloody-minded moments, have addressed to Miss Miggs. It is not a poem worthy the author of the Miller's Daughter, of Locksley Hall, of Oriana, or of the other exqui. site pieces that have rendered Tennyson the poet of the time. Readers have paused in wonder at many a weak and unworthy
passage in The Princess and in In Memoriam, but if this Maud, or any other poem contained in this volume, is to be considered as the latest specimen of the Laureate's best style, readers will quickly discover that the fancy and imagery of Alexander Smith, and the wild pathos, the deep-hearted poetry of Gerald Massey, are truer, and nobler, and worthier sources of pride to the Nation, than the weak affectations which disfigure the poem now before us.
If poetry consisted in exciting horror ; if it were allowable to astonish the reader by a series of disjointed episodes; if a poet could support his reputation by the occasional introduction of a few lines reminding one of his higher productions in earlier and more ambitious days, one might consider Maud a thirdrate composition; but, as these things are not allowable, Maud must be looked upon gently, for the sake of the pleasant lours its author has given us in times of truer inspiration.
Well, asks the reader, what is Maud, and what is the story ? Reader, Daud opens with blood, thus :
I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood,
For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found,
After this introduction we have some lines in the true Tennysonian style, abusing this our age : then, with a recollection of Doctor Hassell, and the Adulteration of Food Committee, the author thus writes, and one can fancy that he is versifying the police reports of the cheap Sunday papers:
Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone by,
For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder round by the hill,
And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yardwand, home. Having thus disposed of the times, Tennyson, with some rhyme, but no reason, thus abruptly introduces Maud :
There are workmen up at the Hall: they are coming back from abroad,
I will bury myself in my books, and the Devil may pipe to his own. At length Maud arrives at the village, and the hero being "round the corner" along with all the bumpkins, catches a glimpse of her "sensitive nose," and going home he thus pours out his feelings :
Long have I sigh'd for a calm: God grant I may find it at last!
From which I escaped heart-free, with the least little touch of spleen The “sensitive nose appears to have acted upon the mind of the lover with an “ Unfortunate Miss Bailey, Giles Scroggins, and Ghost of a Grim Scrag of Dutton, combined porter, and Tennyson, thus, not forgetting his never failing “Orion describes his restless condition :
Cold and clear cut face, why come you so cruelly meek,
The shining daffodil dead, and Orion low in his grare.
with pride at his salutation, and having told himself that she
is a "milkwhite fawn," and "all unmeet for a wife," that she has “ wandered about at her will,” he adds, prettily"You have but fed on the roses, and lain in the lilies of life.”'
Let the reader bear in mind that these lines above quoted are from the pen of Alfred Tennyson : the man of all others in these Kingdoms from whom one might expect taste and feeling. Who could believe that the writer of The Miller's Daughter was able to indite this nonsense. We have heard Tennyson called thoughtful and philosophic, like Wordsworth; fanciful as Coleridge ; pathetic, yet strony, as Crabbe. But is this like Wordsworth, or Coleridge, or Crabbe?
Maud's brother appears to have excited the lover's anger; Sin writes;
"That dandy-despot, he,
ller brother." Tappertit is found trespassing by the brother, and angry at being so discovered, he thus describes him, and he reminds us of a saying of Charles Lamb--we paint our enemies so unflatteringly that no body knows them. There is a curious problem in obstetrics and physiology suggested towards the end of this extract, in which it is stated that Maud is “only the child of her mother.” Scorn'd, to be scorn'd by one that I scorn, Why sits he here in his father's chair? Is that a matter to make me fret ?
That old man never comes to his place: That a calamity hard to be borne ?
Shall I believe him ashamed to be seen? Well, he may live to hate me yet.
For only once, in the village street, Fool that I am to be vext with his pride! Last year, I canght a glimpse of his face, I pasi him, I was crossing his lands; A gray old wolf and a lean. He stood un the path a little aside;
Scarcely, now, would I call him a chcat; His face, as I grant, in spite of spite, For then, perhaps, as a child of deceit, Has a broad-blown comeliness, red and She might by a true descent be untrue; white,
And Maud is as true as Maud is sweet: And six feet two, as I think, he stands; Tho' I fancy her sweetness only due But his essences turn'd the live air sick, To the sweeter blood by the other side; And barbarous opulence jewel-thick
Her mother has been a thing compleie, Sunnd itself on his breast and his hands.
And fuir without, taithful within, Who shall call me ungentle, unfair,
Maud to him is nothing akin : I lonx'd so earnestly then and there Svine peculiar inystic grace To give him the grasp of fellowship; Made her only the child of her mother, But while I past he was humming an air, And heap'd the whole inherited sin Stopt, and then with a riding whip
On that huge scapegoat of the race,
All, all upon the drother.
Far upon a lonely moor he sees his mistress ride, and by her side her brother and a
"new made lord, splendour plucks
However she came to be so allied.