But though we may think it time that the quality once over-prized should
be restored to a more proportionate honour, our great poet Tennyson shows
us that of all merits ease is, unexpectedly enough, the most dangerous.
It is not only, with him, that the wards are oiled, it is also that the
key turns loosely. This is true of much of the beautiful "Idylls," but
not of their best passages, nor of such magnificent heroic verse as that
of the close of "A Vision of Sin," or of "Lucretius." As to the question
of ease, we cannot have a better maxim than Coventry Patmore's saying
that poetry "should confess, but not suffer from, its difficulties." And
we could hardly find a more curious example of the present love of verse
that not only confesses but brags of difficulties, and not only suffers
from them but cries out under the suffering, and shows us the grimace of
the pain of it, than I have lighted upon in the critical article of a
recent quarterly. Reviewing the book of a "poet" who manifestly has an
insuperable difficulty in hacking his work into ten-syllable blocks, and
keeping at the same time any show of respect for the national grammar,
the critic gravely invites his reader to "note" the phrase "neath cliffs"
(apparently for "beneath the cliffs") as "characteristic." Shall the
reader indeed "note" such a matter? Truly he has other things to do.
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