Upon his death an effort was made to abolish the office of laureate, but it failed and Alfred Tennyson was selected, and has for thirty-five years poetized for the glory of England. It is popular in our day to make light of Tennyson’s verse, but it was not always thus, for our own classic Longfellow wrote:
“O sweet historian of heart!
To thee the laurel leaves belong,
To thee our love and our allegiance,
For thy allegiance to the poet’s art.”
The criticisms of no poet are so amusing. Ward (T. H.), who is unrivaled in general judicious criticism, calling from oblivion innumerable forgotten names, seems never to have so much as heard of him, while Taine, our French critic, who unceremoniously “skips” numerous poets of acknowledged rank, gives to scarcely one English poet so extended, clear, close, appreciative criticism as to Tennyson. Shaw in his “Literary Compendium” does not deign to mention him, while Bayard Taylor said “No English poet, with the possible exception of Byron, has so ministered to the natural appetite for poetry.” The average newspaper ridicules him as stupid, but one of our keenest critics says, “He can gather up his strength like a serpent in the gleaming coil of a line, or dart it out straight and free.”
When Tennyson appeared as a poet at the age of thirty-two he evidenced a rare poetic taste, unlike that which had hitherto catered to English readers. For a long time the poetry of England had been prosy in the extreme, metaphysical, monotonous, remorseful, dark and somber, and the appearance of a poet light, graceful and sentimental, was an event calculated to arouse the nation into joyous enthusiasm.
There was about his life, as in his stanzas, a poetic halo, living as he did in the Isle of Wight, away from the rivalries and annoyances of society. Queen Victoria appointed him laureate, out of respect to the public demand that he be thus honored.
It is three centuries since Spenser first wore the laurel. The first century embraced five names, three of whom—Spenser, Johnson and Dryden—were men of recognized superiority. The second had no poet of note. From the reign of the Prince of Orange to the independence of America there was no man of talent who consented to sing the praises of William, Mary, Anne or the Georges. The present century has been honored by scholarly, virtuous men, devoid of marked genius.