Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Tennyson Alfred

  The two succeeding essays have never been printed; but were read, it is believed, in a literary society at Trinity College, or in one to which he afterwards belonged in London. That entitled Theodicaea Novissima is printed at the desire of some of his intimate friends. A few expressions in it want his usual precision; and there are ideas which he might have seen cause, in the lapse of time, to modify, independently of what his very acute mind would probably have perceived, that his hypothesis, like that of Leibnitz, on the origin of evil, resolves itself at last into an unproved assumption of its necessity. It has, however, some advantages, which need not be mentioned, over that of Leibnitz; and it is here printed, not as a solution of the greatest mystery of the universe, but as most characteristic of the author’s mind, original and sublime, uniting, what is very rare except in early youth, a fearless and unblenching spirit of inquiry into the highest objects of speculation, with the most humble and reverential piety. It is probable that in many of his views on such topics he was influenced by the writings of Jonathan Edwards, with whose opinions on metaphysical and moral subjects he seems generally to have concurred.

  The extract from a review of Tennyson’s poems in a publication now extinct, the Englishman’s Magazine, is also printed at the suggestion of a friend. The pieces that follow are reprints, and have been already mentioned in this Memoir.

  We have given this Memoir almost entire, for the sake both of its subject and its manner — for what in it is the father’s as well as for what is the son’s. There is something very touching in the paternal composure, the judiciousness, the truthfulness, where truth is so difficult to reach through tears, the calm estimate and the subdued tenderness, the ever-rising but ever-restrained emotion; the father’s heart-throbs throughout.

  We wish we could have given in full the letters from Arthur’s friends which his father has incorporated in the Memoir. They all bring out, in different but harmonious ways, his extraordinary moral and intellectual worth, his rare beauty of character, and their deep affection.

  The following extract from one seems to us very interesting:

  Outwardly I do not think there was anything remarkable in his habits, except an irregularity with regard to times and places of study, which may seem surprising in one whose progress in so many directions was so eminently great and rapid. He was commonly to be found in some friend’s room, reading or canvassing. I daresay he lost something by this irregularity, but less than perhaps one would at first imagine. I never saw him idle. He might seem to be lounging, or only amusing himself, but his mind was always active, and active for good. In fact, his energy and quickness of apprehension did not stand in need of outward aid.

  There is much in this worthy of more extended notice. Such minds as his probably grow best in this way, are best left to themselves, to glide on at their own sweet wills; the stream was too deep and clear, and perhaps too entirely bent on its own errand, to be dealt with or regulated by any art or device. The same friend sums up his character thus:

  I have met with no man his superior in metaphysical subtlety; no man his equal as a philosophical critic on works of taste; no man whose views on all subjects connected with the duties and dignities of humanity were more large and generous, and enlightened.

  And all this said of a youth of twenty — heu nimium brevis aevi decus et desiderium!

  We have given little of his verse; and what we do give is taken at random. We agree entirely in his father’s estimate of his poetical gift and art, but his mind was too serious, too thoughtful, too intensely dedicated to truth and the God of truth, to linger long in the pursuit of beauty; he was on his way to God, and could rest in nothing short of Him, otherwise he might have been a poet of genuine excellence.

  Dark, dark, yea, “irrecoverably dark,”

  Is the soul’s eye; yet how it strives and battles

  Through th’ impenetrable gloom to fix

  That master light, the secret truth of things,

  Which is the body of the infinite God!

  ·······

  Sure, we are leaves of one harmonious bower,

  Fed by a sap that never will be scant,

  All-permeating, all-producing mind;

  And in our several parcellings of doom

  We but fulfil the beauty of the whole.

  Oh, madness! if a leaf should dare complain

  Of its dark verdure, and aspire to be

  The gayer, brighter thing that wantons near.

  ·······

  Oh, blessing and delight of my young heart,

  Maiden, who wast so lovely, and so pure,

  I know not in what region now thou art,

  Or whom thy gentle eyes in joy assure.

  Not the old hills on which we gazed together,

  Not the old faces which we both did love,

  Not the old books, whence knowledge we did gather,

  Not these, but others now thy fancies move.

  I would I knew thy present hopes and fears,

  All thy companions with their pleasant talk,

  And the clear aspect which thy dwelling wears:

  So, though in body absent, I might walk

  With thee in thought and feeling, till thy mood

  Did sanctify mine own to peerless good.

  ·······

  Alfred, I would that you beheld me now,

  Sitting beneath a mossy ivied wall

  On a quaint bench, which to that structure old

  Winds an accordant curve. Above my head

  Dilates immeasurable a wild of leaves,

  Seeming received into the blue expanse

  That vaults this summer noon.

  ·······

  Still here — thou hast not faded from my sight,

  Nor all the music round thee from mine ear:

  Still grace flows from thee to the brightening year,

  And all the birds laugh out in wealthier light.

  Still am I free to close my happy eyes,

  And paint upon the gloom thy mimic form,

  That soft white neck, that cheek in beauty warm,

  And brow half hidden where yon ringlet lies:

  With, oh! the blissful knowledge all the while

  That I can lift at will each curvèd lid,

  And my fair dream most highly realize.

  The time will come, ‘tis ushered by my sighs,

  When I may shape the dark, but vainly bid

  True light restore that form, those looks, that smile.

  ·······

  The garden trees are busy with the shower

  That fell ere sunset: now methinks they talk,

  Lowly and sweetly as befits the hour,

  One to another down the grassy walk.

  Hark the laburnum from his opening flower,

  This cheery creeper greets in whisper light,

  While the grim fir, rejoicing in the night,

  Hoarse mutters to the murmuring sycamore.

  What shall I deem their converse? would they hail

  The wild grey light that fronts yon massive cloud,

  Or the half bow, rising like pillar’d fire?

  Or are they fighting faintly for desire

  That with May dawn their leaves may be o’erflowed,

  And dews about their feet may never fail?

  In the Essay, entitled Theodicaea Novissima, from which the following passages are taken, to the great injury in its general effect, he sets himself to the task of doing his utmost to clear up the mystery of the existence of such things as sin and suffering, in the universe of a being like God. He does it fearlessly, but like a child. It is in the spirit of his friend’s words:

  An infant crying in the night,

  An infant crying for the light,

  And with no language but a cry.

  Then was I as a child that cries,

  But, crying, knows his father near.

  It is not a mere exercitation of the intellect, it is an endeavour to get nearer God
— to assert His eternal Providence, and vindicate His ways to men. We know no performance more wonderful for such a boy. Pascal might have written it. As was to be expected, the tremendous subject remains where he found it — his glowing love and genius cast a gleam here and there across its gloom; but it is brief as the lightning in the collied night — the jaws of darkness do devour it up — this secret belongs to God. Across its deep and dazzling darkness, and from out its abyss of thick cloud, “all dark, dark, irrecoverably dark,” no steady ray has ever, or will ever, come — over its face its own darkness must brood, till He to whom alone the darkness and the light are both alike, to whom the night shineth as the day, says, “Let there be light!” There is, we all know, a certain awful attraction, a nameless charm for all thoughtful spirits, in this mystery, “the greatest in the universe,” as Mr. Hallam truly says; and it is well for us at times, so that we have pure eyes and a clean heart, to turn aside and look into its gloom; but it is not good to busy ourselves in clever speculations about it, or briskly to criticize the speculations of others — it is a wise and pious saying of Augustine, Verius cogitatur Deus quam dicitur; et verius est quam cogitatur.

  I wish to be understood as considering Christianity in the present Essay rather in its relation to the intellect, as constituting the higher philosophy, than in its far more important bearing upon the hearts and destinies of us all. I shall propose the question in this form, “Is there ground for believing that the existence of moral evil is absolutely necessary to the fulfilment of God’s essential love for Christ?” (i.e. of the Father for Christ, or of ὁ πατήρ for ὁ λόγος).

  “Can man by searching find out God?” I believe not. I believe that the unassisted efforts of man’s reason have not established the existence and attributes of Deity on so sure a basis as the Deist imagines. However sublime may be the notion of a supreme original mind, and however naturally human feelings adhered to it, the reasons by which it was justified were not, in my opinion, sufficient to clear it from considerable doubt and confusion.... I hesitate not to say that I derive from Revelation a conviction of Theism, which, without that assistance, would have been but a dark and ambiguous hope. I see that the Bible fits into every fold of the human heart. I am a man and I believe it to be God’s book because it is man’s book. It is true that the Bible affords me no additional means of demonstrating the falsity of Atheism; if mind had nothing to do with the formation of the Universe, doubtless whatever had was competent also to make the Bible; but I have gained this advantage, that my feelings and thoughts can no longer refuse their assent to what is evidently framed to engage that assent; and what is it to me that I cannot disprove the bare logical possibility of my whole nature being fallacious? To seek for a certainty above certainty, an evidence beyond necessary belief, is the very lunacy of scepticism: we must trust our own faculties, or we can put no trust in anything, save that moment we call the present, which escapes us while we articulate its name. I am determined therefore to receive the Bible as Divinely authorized, and the scheme of human and Divine things which it contains, as essentially true.

  In the Supreme Nature those two capacities of Perfect Love and Perfect Joy are indivisible. Holiness and Happiness, says an old divine, are two several notions of one thing. Equally inseparable are the notions of Opposition to Love and Opposition to Bliss. Unless, therefore, the heart of a created being is at one with the heart of God, it cannot but be miserable. Moreover, there is no possibility of continuing for ever partly with God and partly against Him: we must either be capable by our nature of entire accordance with His will, or we must be incapable of anything but misery, further than He may for a while “not impute our trespasses to us,” that is, He may interpose some temporary barrier between sin and its attendant pain. For in the Eternal Idea of God a created spirit is perhaps not seen, as a series of successive states, of which some that are evil might be compensated by others that are good, but as one indivisible object of these almost divisible modes, and that either in accordance with His own nature, or in opposition to it....

  Before the Gospel was preached to man, how could a human soul have this love, and this consequent life? I see no way; but now that Christ has excited our love for Him by showing unutterable love for us; now that we know Him as an Elder Brother, a being of like thoughts, feelings, sensations, sufferings, with ourselves, it has become possible to love as God loves, that is, to love Christ, and thus to become united in heart to God. Besides, Christ is the express image of God’s person: in loving Him we are sure we are in a state of readiness to love the Father, whom we see, He tells us, when we see Him. Nor is this all: the tendency of love is towards a union so intimate as virtually to amount to identification; when then by affection towards Christ we have become blended with His being, the beams of eternal love, falling, as ever, on the one beloved object, will include us in Him, and their returning flashes of love out of His personality will carry along with them some from our own, since ours has become confused with His, and so shall we be one with Christ, and through Christ with God. Thus, then, we see the great effect of the Incarnation, as far as our nature is concerned, was to render human love for the Most High a possible thing. The law had said, “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy soul, and with all thy mind, and with all thy strength”; and could men have lived by law, “which is the strength of sin,” verily righteousness and life would have been by that law. But it was not possible, and all were concluded under sin, that in Christ might be the deliverance of all. I believe that Redemption (i.e., what Christ has done and suffered for mankind) is universal, in so far as it left no obstacle between man and God, but man’s own will; that indeed is in the power of God’s election, with whom alone rest the abysmal secrets of personality; but as far as Christ is concerned, His death was for all, since His intentions and affections were equally directed to all, and “none who come to Him will He in any wise cast out.”

  I deprecate any hasty rejection of these thoughts as novelties. Christianity is indeed, as St. Augustine says, “pulchritudo tam antiqua”; but he adds, “tam nova,” for it is capable of presenting to every mind a new face of truth. The great doctrine which in my judgment these observations tend to strengthen and illumine, the doctrine of personal love for a personal God, is assuredly no novelty, but has in all times been the vital principle of the Church. Many are the forms of anti-christian heresy, which for a season have depressed and obscured that principle of life, but its nature is conflictive and resurgent; and neither the Papal Hierarchy with its pomp of systematized errors, nor the worst apostasy of latitudinarian Protestantism, have ever so far prevailed, but that many from age to age have proclaimed and vindicated the eternal gospel of love, believing, as I also firmly believe, that any opinion which tends to keep out of sight the living and loving God, whether it substitute for Him an idol, an occult agency, or a formal creed, can be nothing better than a vain and portentous shadow projected from the selfish darkness of unregenerate man.

  The following is from the Review of Tennyson’s Poems; we do not know that during the lapse of years anything better has been said:

  Undoubtedly the true poet addresses himself, in all his conceptions, to the common nature of us all. Art is a lofty tree, and may shoot up far beyond our grasp, but its roots are in daily life and experience. Every bosom contains the elements of those complex emotions which the artist feels, and every head can, to a certain extent, go over in itself the process of their combination, so as to understand his expressions and sympathize with his state. But this requires exertion; more or less, indeed, according to the difference of occasion, but always some degree of exertion. For since the emotions of the poet during composition follow a regular law of association, it follows that to accompany their progress up to the harmonious prospect of the whole, and to perceive the proper dependence of every step on that which preceded, it is absolutely necessary to start from the same point, i.e., clearly to apprehend that leading sentiment of the poet’s mind, by their c
onformity to which the host of suggestions are arranged. Now this requisite exertion is not willingly made by the large majority of readers. It is so easy to judge capriciously, and according to indolent impulse!

  Those different powers of poetic disposition, the energies of Sensitive, of Reflective, or Passionate emotion, which in former times were intermingled, and derived from mutual support an extensive empire over the feelings of men, were now restrained within separate spheres of agency. The whole system no longer worked harmoniously, and by intrinsic harmony acquired external freedom; but there arose a violent and unusual action in the several component functions, each for itself, all striving to reproduce the regular power which the whole had once enjoyed. Hence the melancholy which so evidently characterizes the spirit of modern poetry; hence that return of the mind upon itself, and the habit of seeking relief in idiosyncrasies rather than community of interest. In the old times the poetic impulse went along with the general impulse of the nation.

  One of the faithful Islâm, a poet in the truest and highest sense, we are anxious to present to our readers.... He sees all the forms of Nature with the eruditus oculus, and his ear has a fairy fineness. There is a strange earnestness in his worship of beauty, which throws a charm over his impassioned song more easily felt than described, and not to be escaped by those who have once felt it. We think that he has more definiteness and roundness of general conception than the late Mr. Keats, and is much more free from blemishes of diction and hasty capriccios of fancy.... The author imitates nobody; we recognize the spirit of his age, but not the individual form of this or that writer. His thoughts bear no more resemblance to Byron or Scott, Shelley or Coleridge, than to Homer or Calderon, Ferdusi or Calidasa. We have remarked five distinctive excellences of his own manner. First, his luxuriance of imagination, and at the same time his control over it. Secondly, his power of embodying himself in ideal characters, or rather modes of character, with such extreme accuracy of adjustment, that the circumstances of the narration seem to have a natural correspondence with the predominant feeling, and, as it were, to be evolved from it by assimilative force. Thirdly, his vivid, picturesque delineation of objects, and the peculiar skill with which he holds all of them fused, to borrow a metaphor from science, in a medium of strong emotion. Fourthly, the variety of his lyrical measures, and exquisite modulation of harmonious words and cadences to the swell and fall of the feelings expressed. Fifthly, the elevated habits of thought, implied in these compositions, and imparting a mellow soberness of tone, more impressive, to our minds, than if the author had drawn up a set of opinions in verse, and sought to instruct the understanding, rather than to communicate the love of beauty to the heart.