This is by the way. Tennyson is always an artist, and the finish of his
work is one of the principal notes of his versification. How this finish
comports with the excessive ease of his prosody remains his own peculiar
secret. Ease, in him, does not mean that he has any unhandsome slovenly
ways. On the contrary, he resembles rather the warrior with the pouncet
box. It is the man of "neath cliffs" who will not be at the trouble of
making a place for so much as a definite article. Tennyson certainly
_worked_, and the exceeding ease of his blank verse comes perhaps of this
little paradox--that he makes somewhat too much show of the hiding of his
art.
In the first place the poet with the great welcome style and the little
unwelcome manner, Tennyson is, in the second place, the modern poet who
withstood France. (That is, of course, modern France--France since the
Renaissance. From medieval Provence there is not an English poet who
does not own inheritance.) It was some time about the date of the
Restoration that modern France began to be modish in England. A ruffle
at the Court of Charles, a couplet in the ear of Pope, a _tour de
phrase_ from Mme. de Sevigne much to the taste of Walpole, later the
good example of French painting--rich interest paid for the loan of our
Constable's initiative--later still a scattering of French taste, French
critical business, over all the shallow places of our literature--these
have all been phases of a national vanity of ours, an eager and anxious
fluttering or jostling to be foremost and French.
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