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CHAPTER XIV.

TENNYSON'S HUMOUR.

"Something so mock-solemn."

-The Princess.

"The Muse, the jolly Muse it is!

She answer'd to my call,

She changes with that mood or this,

Is all-in-all to all."

-Will Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue

THE attempts at humour in the dramas I consider to be, be, without exception, failures. The by-play of words is trivial, the situations are unprovoking, and the jests mirthless. Some of the Shakespearean clowning is unintelligible, but it is possible to believe that we are at fault, not the dramatist, and that what a former age could understand and enjoy we in later times fail to appreciate. But it is not so with Tennyson. He mistook uncouthness for humour, and bad burlesque for wit. The lighter passages in his dramas are intolerable, and nothing is more depressing than the fooling in The Falcon. All this is the more remarkable because Tennyson was at heart a genuine! humourist, or rather, he had a vein of genuine humour by no means easily exhausted. He was dry, grim, and subtle; and if his wit did not bubble over it was at least spontaneous in its flow and sparkling. Its unexpectedness was not the least of its good qualities, for, like a sudden light, it surprised, amazed, and seemed doubly brilliant. Tennyson never lost dignity, never indulged in persiflage, never wrote a nonsense rhyme. His was an amusing cleverness, and, after all, taking the humourous pieces by turn, we can only conclude that they were studies or

experiments in a style, just like the experiments in metre. We can imagine that Tennyson was quite serious when he sat down and began the task of writing his dialect poems. He chose his motif, he selected his type of character, he prepared his points. He did not, like the genial Dr Holmes, begin a poem in a light-hearted and haphazard way; he accomplished a set task. And when The Northern Farmer, Will Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue, Owd Roä, and The Churchwarden and the Curate were duly finished, they would need revising, polishing, amending, their effects heightening, and all the rest of it, before they would be ready for the public. What I wish to make clear is that Tennyson was always the man with a purpose, whether grave or gay, and that even in his humourous moments he did not forget his office. And it is for this very reason that his failure in writing light dramatic scenes can be understood. Whether he was in the mood or not he knew that the "relief" must be given—and his resources were not equal to the demand.

Strictly speaking, Tennyson's humourous poems are very few in number. Passing by the Second Song on The Owl, with its word-play on "tuwhoo" and "tuwhit," the list begins with The Talking Oak, which is written in a gleesome, light-spirited manner, and contains some cleverlyamusing lines. The poem as a whole, however, scarcely comes under the heading, and in the volume of another poet might have been classed as altogether serious. Amphion, too, with all its frolicsome fancies, is far too ingenious to be called amusing, but in Will Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue we get such delightful confessions and quaint conceits that it is only human to smile at them. The legend of the Cock and the Head Waiter is a happy conception, and when the fanciful Will, drinking his pint of port, exclaims—

I ranged too high: what draws me down

Into the common day?

Is it the weight of that half-crown,

Which I shall have to pay?

the change is too ludicrous to be other than irresistible.

The first of the dialect poems was published in 1864, and the poet's old neighbour, John Baumber, of Somersby Grange, served as the prototype of the Northern Farmer.

Git ma my aäle, fur I beänt a-gooin' to break my rule,

was the cry of Tennyson's rare old character; but it is not unlikely that the poet (as was usual with him) obtained the suggestion for his story from a once popular book in which the following passages occur: "One of the strongest instances I have seen of such a deliberate practice of the Dum vivimus, vivamus, was mentioned by the clever and humourous surgeon, Mr Wadd. He was called to a respectable lusty farmer who had indulged in his strong home-brewed ale till a serious illness came upon him. After some attendance his medical friend told him that it was clear that unless he gave up his favourite beverage he would not live six months. 'Is that your serious professional opinion?' 'I am certain of it.' The farmer thought a few minutes, tears came into his eyes; he sighed heavily, and at last said, 'I am sorry for it-very sorry ; it's very sad, but I cannot give up my ale." So with the old Lincolnshire farmer.

I've 'ed my point o' aäle ivry noight sin' I beän 'ere,

An' I've 'ed my quart ivry market-noight for foorty year,

and he "weänt breäk rules fur Doctor." The Northern Farmer, new style, is the selfish, grasping man of a later period, obstinate and worldly-minded, greedy for gain and a despiser of sentiment. To his lovesick son, who has committed the heinous offence of becoming "sweet on Parson's lass," when she "'ant nowt, an' she weänt 'a nowt when 'e's deäd," the old man explains his "noätions." His morality is summed up in

Proputty, proputty sticks, an' proputty, proputty graws,

and he reminds his offspring that he can

Luvv thy lass an' 'er munny too,

Maakin' 'em goä togither as they've good right to do.
Could'n I luvv thy muther by cause o' 'er munny laaïd by?
Naäy-fur I luvv'd 'er a vast sight moor fur it: reäson why.

Taking the humourous poems in turn, for convenience, we come next to The Northern Cobbler, the plot of which was undoubtedly plagiarised. But the inimitable Tennysonian style, the language, and the quaint observations, make the piece the poet's own. Only Tennyson could have put into the mouth of the reformed drunkard the lines

An' then I minded our Sally sa pratty an' neät an' sweeät,
Straät as a pole an' cleän as a flower fro' 'eäd to feeät:
An' then I minded the fust kiss I gied 'er by Thursby thurn;
Theer wur a lark a-singin' 'is best of a Sunday at murn,
Couldn't see 'im, we 'eärd 'im a-mountin' oop 'igher an' 'igher,
An' then 'e turn'd to the sun, an' 'e shined like a sparkle o' fire.
"Doesn't tha see 'im," she axes, "fur I can see 'im," an' I

Seeäd nobbut the smile o' the sun as danced in 'er pratty blue eye;
An' I says, "I mun gie tha a kiss," an' Sally says "Noä, thou moänt,”
But I gied 'er a kiss, an' then anoother, an' Sally says "doänt!"

Even more felicitous in its phrasing and curious ideas is The Village Wife; or, The Entail, in which an inquisitive and talkative dame tells the story of the "owd Squire's" ruin. The matter-of-fact woman chatters on and on, vain of her knowledge of the affairs of other folks, vain of her "butter an' heggs," and vain of her dealings "wi' the Hall." It is needless to say that the busybody and gossip considers herself a highly superior person, and that she is the self-constituted critic of the misguided man who lived in his books and antiquities, and to the horror of all good Christians "bowt owd money, es wouldn't goä, wi' good gowd o' the Queen."

I have before expressed the opinion, and time and further investigation have done much to confirm me in it, that there was something more than a reminiscence of Tennyson's own father, "the owd Doctor," in the portrait of the "owd Squire" who

Niver looökt ower a bill, nor 'e niver not seed to owt,

An 'e niver knawd nowt but booöks, an' booöks, as thou knaws, beänt nowt.

Occasional lines in the poem are slyly humorous. Says the gossip

Hoffens we talkt o' my darter es died o' the fever at fall :

An' I thowt 'twur the will o' the Lord, but Miss Annie she said it wur draäins.

The old dame was decidedly muddled as to what an "entail" meant, and her opinion was divided as to whether it was some dread legal formality or an appendage which could be "cut off❞—

Squire were at Charlie ageän to git 'im to cut off 'is taäil ;

and when Charlie broke his neck

Theer wur a hend o' the taäil, fur 'e lost 'is taäil i' the beck.

The superior wisdom of the village wife is manifested in her cool criticism of all the Squire's "gells," especially of the one who was "stuck oop." And

Molly the youngest she walkt awaäy wi' a hofficer lad,

An' nawbody 'eärd on 'er sin', sa o' coorse she be gone to the bad!
An' Lucy wur laäme o' one leg, sweet-'arts she niver 'ed none-
Straänge an' unheppen Miss Lucy! we naämed 'er "Dot an' gaw
one !"

An' es fur Miss Annie es call'd me afoor my awn foälks to my faäce
"A hignorant village wife as 'ud hev to be larn'd 'er awn plaäce,"
Hes fur Miss Hannie the heldest hes now be a-grawing sa howd,
I knaws that mooch o' sheä, es it beänt not fit to be towd!

What revenge is crowded into the two last lines, and made emphatic with repeated aspirates. One can imagine the spiteful woman worked up into frenzy at the thought of Miss Annie's unjust aspersion, and retaliating with all the force in her nature-"I knaws that mooch o' sheä, es it beänt not fit to be towd!"

The pleasantry in The Spinster's Sweet-arts is altogether of another kind, and when published in the Tiresias volume

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