Broadly speaking, Tennyson and Browning have come in general opinion to stand as the two chief figures in Victorian poetry. Personal revisions of this estimate are constantly being made, and often with much critical weight. But on the whole, and considering everything that goes to the making of permanence in poetic reputations, it is doubtful whether the popular impression will not continue to hold the day. In detail the debate is an endless one, nor, so far as mere comparison is concerned, is it a very profitable one. I for one find Matthew Arnold, for instance, a more rewarding poet, with less waste tissue in his work, and as time goes on richer in undiscovered country than either Tennyson or Browning, but I should not allow my personal preference to place him above them in poetic rank—the evidence against me is too weighty for that. In the matter of diction which we have been discussing, for example, in so far as poets can affect their own age, Tennyson and Browning were beyond question the two most considerable influences of their time. Tennyson showed his generation, in a degree unapproached by any other poet who began writing with him, the still fresh and vital possibilities of a great traditional manner. Browning with equal authority demonstrated what were the likeliest methods of departure and revolt from that manner. It is true that while Tennyson’s example modified the versification of many poets in his own age, Browning’s, though perhaps a more durable one, was far less immediate in its effect. There was a definitely Tennysonian school, a number of accomplished and genuine poets who would almost certainly have written differently if it had not been for the direct influence of the master, who, moreover, considerably affected the poetic expression of many, indeed of most, of his more celebrated contemporaries. Here are a few instances from the school—
(a) Come, let us mount the breezy down
And hearken to the tumult blown
Up from the champaign and the town.[6]
(b) He roam’d half-round the world of woe,
Where toil and labour never cease;
Then dropp’d one little span below
In search of peace.
And now to him mild beams and showers,
And all that he needs to grace his tomb,