Not the
Elizabethans, not Shakespeare, not Jeremy Taylor, not Milton, not Shelley
were (in their art, not in their matter) more insular in their time.
France, by the way, has more than appreciated the homage of Tennyson's
contemporaries; Victor Hugo avers, in _Les Miserables_, that our people
imitate his people in all things, and in particular he rouses in us a
delighted laughter of surprise by asserting that the London street-boy
imitates the Parisian street-boy. There is, in fact, something of a
street-boy in some of our late more literary mimicries.
We are apt to judge a poet too exclusively by his imagery. Tennyson is
hardly a great master of imagery. He has more imagination than imagery.
He sees the thing, with so luminous a mind's eye, that it is sufficient
to him; he needs not to see it more beautifully by a similitude. "A
clear-walled city" is enough; "meadows" are enough--indeed Tennyson
reigns for ever over all meadows; "the happy birds that change their
sky"; "Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night"; "Twilight and evening
bell"; "the stillness of the central sea"; "that friend of mine who lives
in God"; "the solitary morning"; "Four grey walls and four grey towers";
"Watched by weeping queens"; these are enough, illustrious, and needing
not illustration.
If we do not see Tennyson to be the lonely, the first, the _one_ that he
is, this is because of the throng of his following, though a number that
are of that throng hardly know, or else would deny, their flocking.
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