Part 1

ESSAYS

LITERARY, CRITICAL AND HISTORICAL

BY THOMAS O’HAGAN, M.A., Ph.D.

Author of “Canadian Essays,” “Studies in Poetry,” “In Dreamland,” “Songs of the Settlement,” etc.

AUTHOR’S EDITION

TORONTO WILLIAM BRIGGS 1909

Copyright, Canada, 1909, by THOMAS O’HAGAN.

TO

HIS FELLOW-COUNTRYMEN,

THE FRENCH CANADIANS AND ACADIANS

Who, speaking the language of Bossuet and Lamartine, have added Lustre to our Canadian Citizenship, Virtue to our Canadian Homes, and Joy to our Canadian Firesides,

THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED,

IN SINCERE ADMIRATION,

BY THE AUTHOR

PREFACE.

Four of the five essays which make up this volume have appeared during the past few years in the _American Catholic Quarterly Review_ and the _Champlain Educator_. The author begs to acknowledge particularly his indebtedness to Dr. S. E. Dawson’s admirable work on Tennyson’s “The Princess,” in the preparation of his study of that poem. Indeed, without Dr. Dawson’s fine analysis of the poem the first essay in this volume could never have been written.

The paper on “The Italian Renaissance and the Popes of Avignon” was prepared while the writer was sojourning at Louvain University, Belgium, in the autumn of 1903, and at Grenoble University, France, during the summer of 1904. It may be well to add that the libraries of both these ancient and renowned seats of learning are very rich in works relating to medieval history and literature, and afforded the author unusual opportunity in the preparation of the essay.

In the writing of the essay on “Poetry and History Teaching Falsehood,” the author has been motived by a desire to set forth in the clearest light possible the misrepresentation of Catholic truth which obtains in much of the history and poetry of our day.

The third essay in the volume, “The Study and Interpretation of Literature,” is based by the author upon ideals gained in post-graduate courses pursued in this subject at several of the leading American universities, as well as upon a practical knowledge in the teaching of literature obtained in the High Schools of Ontario.

The paper on “The Degradation of Scholarship” has never before appeared in print. Let the reader, divested of every predilection and bias, examine it carefully, remembering that the courage to state the truth is a more valuable asset of character than the gift of bestowing false praise, though that praise should secure friends.

T. O’H. Toronto, Canada, March, 1909.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

A STUDY OF TENNYSON’S “PRINCESS” 11

POETRY AND HISTORY TEACHING 45 FALSEHOOD

THE STUDY AND INTERPRETATION OF 65 LITERATURE

THE DEGRADATION OF SCHOLARSHIP 83

THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE AND THE 101 POPES OF AVIGNON

A STUDY OF TENNYSON’S “PRINCESS”

A STUDY OF TENNYSON’S “PRINCESS.”

Few poems written within the Victorian era of English literature have been so singularly underrated and misunderstood as Tennyson’s “Princess.” At its very birth—as if it had been born under an unfavorable star—it encountered the adverse breath of criticism; and even now, after nearly fifty years have rectified many a past error of judgment in literary matters, this, the first long and sustained poem of the late Poet Laureate, receives but grudging recognition and commendation in a general review and study of the author’s works. We think it was a little unfortunate that its second title, “A Medley,” was tacked to it when the poem first appeared, for it gave some of the critics who had neither the gifts nor disposition to study it aright a pretext, and, in some measure, justification, for the violent onslaughts which they from time to time made upon it.

In the light of the progressive views held to-day of the higher education of woman, this poem may be regarded as a prophecy voicing the advent of a broader, rounder and deeper culture for the race upon a plane of civilization in which woman as a primal factor and true complement of man shall unfold her being in a ceaseless striving for truth, beauty and love. The attainment of this higher condition of life will not, however, be hastened by isolated Idas walled within colleges of their own pride and sex, and vainly and foolishly waging war upon their own brothers; and every movement which starts out with the purpose of setting up woman as a rival of man in achievement, is not only a detriment to the cause of human progress, in which man and woman alike are shareholders, but the end thereof must be abasement and defeat.

The “Princess” appeared first in print in 1847, at a time, by the way, when the surface thought of England was largely given up to corn-laws and free-trade; and this may account, in some measure, for the coldness of the reception accorded it, as the English are a people who have proverbially little time or thought for “bainting and boetry” when a commercial or economic question is on the boards. The poem is a medley in form, but not in essence, as it possesses the real and deep-seated unity which all art demands—that of a consistent purpose and a pervading harmony of tone. The medley consists in the poem being serio-comic, constructed of ancient and modern materials—a show, as Edmund Clarence Stedman says, of medieval pomp and movement observed through an atmosphere of latter-day thought and emotion. It is such a mixture as we find in Shakespeare’s “Winter’s Tale,” and, indeed, in the prologue the name of that drama is introduced as if to justify by precedent the incongruities of the narrative.

We think, however, that the critics have made too much out of the improbability of the incidents in the poem. Surely to be consistent such critics should extend their reproach to “The Tempest” and “Midsummer Night’s Dream.” To us the impossible elements and anachronisms render the poem more attractive. In estimating a poem we must always take for granted the conditions assumed by the poet, and these being assumed, we have only to inquire whether the poem possesses unity, congruity and a definite and worthy object. There are, however, two things we have a right to demand: that the characters are congruous with themselves, and that the treatment of the incidents is poetic. But as far as art is concerned, we should not lose our literary tempers or prepare to let fall the axe of condemnation merely because some idealized scene in a poem or drama does not harmonize in every particular with our own workaday world. We mention this fact because in all fairness we consider that this poem, “The Princess,” should be judged and appraised according to some canons and rules that apply to similar works of imagination and fancy.

The prologue and epilogue form the setting of the poem, and it would be difficult to find in all English literature a more truly natural and graceful picture than the scene from English life of to-day which the poet paints for us in the opening lines of the poem. The place is the South of England. The occasion a festival upon the grounds of a wealthy baronet. Sir Walter Vivian has thrown open his grounds for a summer’s day, and the people of the neighboring town, and especially the members of its scientific institute, throng the park and give themselves up to recreation and pleasure. A party of young collegians on vacation, in company with some of the wellborn and cultured girls of the Hall and the neighboring country seats, have made a select picnic of their own in a ruined abbey. The baronet’s son, young Walter Vivian, is of the company. One of the collegians, a dreamy youth—the poet himself—has been looking through the library and has come across a book telling of knightly deeds of the medieval ancestors of the stately Hall. Taking the book with him, he joins the party, keeping his finger on the place where is told the story of a fearless dame of the house, who, in defending her castle against a lawless king, had armed

“Her own fair head, and sallying thro’ the gate Had beat her foes with slaughter from her walls. ‘O miracle of women,’ said the book; ‘O noble heart who, being strait besieged By this wild king to force her to his wish, Nor bent nor broke nor shunned a soldier’s death.’”

These last lines form a key to the story which Tennyson employs in giving us his views as to the proper sphere of woman, for this “miracle of women” is the prototype of the Princess Ida. While discussing the character of this heroine who defended her castle in days agone, the question at once arises among the members of the picnic party—are there such women now? One of the young ladies, Lilia, the baronet’s daughter, answers:

“There are thousands now Such women, but convention beats them down,”

and in a half serious, half sportive way protests against the way in which nowadays the powers of her sex are dwarfed by insufficient culture, and as a consequence women are no longer capable of exhibiting such heroic qualities. Young Walter Vivian in the course of his remarks, which are banteringly addressed to his sister, mentions a favorite game which he and his college companions used to play, of telling a story from mouth to mouth, each one in succession taking up the thread till among them they brought the story to a close. It is then forthwith agreed that the seven youths should transfer this medieval miracle of womanhood to modern times in a story to which each should contribute a chapter. Of course, the conception out of which the plot is developed is the founding of a Ladies’ University by the Princess Ida, who has set before her the task of

“Raising the woman’s fallen divinity Upon an equal pedestal with man.”

It may be added that the question discussed in this poem by Tennyson is one of vital importance to the human race, and is in every way worthy of the attention of the best and most earnest minds of our century. The poem proper is made up of seven cantos, written in semi-heroic verse, each story linked to and growing out of the previous canto. The first canto represents the Prince, who is none other than the poet himself, as longing for the bride betrothed to him in childhood. She, however, disregarding all pledge and promise, has conceived the idea of founding a University for Women, from which men are to be excluded on pain of death. To carry out her strange project she obtains from her father one of his castles with the domain surrounding it. Here the Princess Ida establishes her faculty, and rains down the dews of knowledge upon the thirsty flowers that bud and bloom under her high-souled care. This lofty enterprise is, however, in no way acceptable to the Prince, nor to the King, his father, who, inflamed with rage at her refusal to marry his son, swears

“That he will send a hundred thousand men And bring her in a whirlwind.”

The Prince, in company with two friends, Cyril and Florian, steals away by night from his father’s court for the purpose of making a personal appeal to his affianced bride, encouraged by a mysterious voice, borne upon the winds in the woods, which whispered,

“Follow, follow, thou shalt win.”

In his interview with Gama, the King, father of the Princess Ida, who, by the way, was powerless to oppose the wishes and designs of his daughter and her two widow companions, we learn the two fallacies which mislead the Princess in her design to found a Ladies’ University: that the woman is equal in all respects to the man, and that knowledge is all in all. These are the very two fallacies which to-day are productive of most mischief to the true advancement of woman.

The second book or canto brings the Prince and his two companions, disguised as women, to the University, where the detection of Florian by his sister, Lady Psyche, one of the lady lecturers, is narrated. The description of the grounds and walks leading to the University shows Tennyson’s keen knowledge of feminine nature. Just note, please, the following appointments in the grounds. Do they not reflect the artistic taste of woman?

“We follow’d up the river as we rode, And rode till midnight, when the college lights Began to glitter firefly-like in copse And linden alley: then we past an arch, Whereon a woman-statue rose with wings From four wing’d horses dark against the stars; And some inscription ran along the front, But deep in shadow: further on we gained A little street, half garden and half house; But scarce could hear each other speak for noise Of clock and chimes, like silver hammers falling On silver anvils, and the splash and stir Of fountains spouted up and showering down In meshes of the jasmine and the rose: And all about us peal’d the nightingale, Rapt in her song and careless of the snare.”

The only thing wrong in this nice bit of description, as Dr. S. E. Dawson has pointed out in his study of “The Princess,” is in reference to the song of the nightingale. It is only the male bird which sings. Scientifically, therefore, Tennyson is wrong, though historically and poetically he is correct, for, according to the Greek myth, Philomela was a princess who was turned into a nightingale which sang.

Lady Psyche having discovered that her three visiting friends are men, not women, the Prince and his two companions, upon promising a speedy departure, prevail upon the fair professor to conceal their real identity. Disguised as women, and keeping their hoods about their faces, the three young men stroll through the lecture-rooms and listen to the “violet-hooded doctors” descant on the ancient glories of Greece and Rome, now reciting some scrap of thunderous epic, now lilting off some throbbing ode, now dipping into the science of star and bird and shell and flower, electric, chemic laws and all the rest, and whatsoever can be taught and known—with what result? We will let the Prince tell:

“Till like three horses that have broken fence, And glutted all night long breast-deep in corn, We issued gorged with knowledge.”

Cyril, however, is not pleased with the condition of things, and thinks that violence is done to woman’s nature in this isolated institution. This plain-spoken fellow evidently regards the heart and its affections in woman as of much more importance than the intellect, for how otherwise are we to interpret his opinion, as expressed to Florian:

“A thousand hearts lie fallow in these halls, And round these halls a thousand baby loves Fly, twanging headless arrows at the hearts, Whence follows many a vacant pang.”

In the third canto the mock damsels pursue still further their studies, and mounted on horses, in company with the Princess, make a geological excursion in the neighboring country. The Prince and Princess ride side by side, and out of their conversation grows a reference to her betrothal to the young prince in the North. Her reply to the statement of her disguised companion, that her persistence in refusing to make good her pledge of marriage would surely lead to the death of the Prince, is characteristic of a woman who is waging war with her womanly instincts and the rooted affections of her heart, and undertakes the heavy task of breasting the current of nature with its strong and irresistible tide. Here is the crumb of consolation she offers him in his disappointment:

“‘Poor boy,’ she cried, ‘can he not read—no books? Quoit, tennis, ball—no games? nor deals in that Which men delight in, martial exercise? To nurse a blind ideal like a girl, Methinks he seems no better than a girl; As girls were once, as we ourself have been; We had our dreams; perhaps he mixt with them.’”

This reminds one of the advice given in Donald G. Mitchell’s “Reveries of a Bachelor” to a disappointed lover—to adopt a diet of vegetables and read Jeremy Taylor’s sermons.

The fourth canto contains the grand crash. It is also the canto which closes the humorous or serio-comic part of the story, the transition being made from jest to earnest at the request of Lilia, who, as spokeswoman for the ladies in the poem, objected to the banter in the first four cantos;

“They hated banter, wished for something real, A gallant fight, a noble Princess—why Not make her true heroic,—true sublime? Or all, they said, as earnest as the close? Which yet,” replies the poet, “scarce could be.”

The crash comes when Cyril, honest-hearted Cyril, after the party, tired from geologizing and astronomizing, are seated in a silken pavilion indulging in meat, wine and song, responds to the request of the Princess for a song that would have in it something of the flavor and manners of his countrywomen in the North. Cyril is a merry fellow and reminds one not a little of Shakespeare’s Mercutio. He is the least sentimental of the three friends, and while the Prince has been dwelling in cloudland, rocked in airy dreams, Cyril has given himself up to the excellent vintage of the southern kingdom, and so, wrought upon by the purple grape and his own sense of sport, he trolls out, in absolute forgetfulness of his disguise, a rollicking love-song in mellow and melodious tenor. Such song was not, of course, meant for the ears of the Princess and her companions, and so Florian nods at him frowning, Psyche flushes and wans, Melissa droops her brows, the Prince smites him on the breast, while the noble Ida, shocked beyond all endurance, cries, “Forbear, sir!” and “Home! to horse!” and dashing off on her steed falls into the river and is rescued from death by the Prince.

In the fifth canto the Northern King has marched with his army into the Southern kingdom, and, anxious for the safety of his son, has surrounded the Princess Ida’s domain. He has taken the King, her father, a prisoner. Meantime, by judgment of the Princess Ida, the Prince and his two companions have been ignominiously thrust out of the University and reach the camp of the investing army in draggled female attire. Ida’s warlike brothers, fearing for their sister’s safety, march their troops northward to protect her. After a parley between the two armies, it is decided that the matter be finally settled by a tournament between fifty knights on each side—the hand of the Princess to be the reward of the Prince if his side win. The fight takes place and terminates unsuccessfully for the Prince, who loses his bride and is wounded nearly to death.

The tournament scene is, indeed, a magnificent passage and has about it a certain Homeric swiftness of movement and action that is in strong contrast to some of Tennyson’s more labored narrative. We feel the shock of combat and shiver of lance as we read the following vehement lines, full of the pulse and power of the lists:

“Empanoplied and plumed We entered in and waited, fifty there Opposed to fifty, till the trumpet blared At the barrier like a wild horn in a land Of echoes, and a moment, and once more The trumpet, and again: at which the storm Of galloping hoofs bare on the ridge of spears And riders front to front, until they closed In conflict with the crash of shivering points And thunder. Yet it seem’d a dream I dream’d Of fighting. On his haunches rose the steed, And into fiery splinters leapt the lance, And out of stricken helmets sprang the fire. Part sat like rocks: part reel’d but kept their seats: Part roll’d on the earth and rose again and drew: Part stumbled mixt with floundering horses. Down From those two bulks at Arac’s side and down From Arac’s arm, as from a giant’s flail, The large blows rain’d, as here and everywhere He rode the mellay, lord of the ringing lists, And all the plain,—brand, mace and shaft and shield— Shock’d like an iron-clanking anvil bang’d With hammers.

* * * * * *

With that I drave Among the thickest and bore down a Prince, And Cyril one. Yea, let me make my dream All that I would. But that large-moulded man, His visage all agrin as at a wake, Made at me thro’ the press and staggering back With stroke on stroke the horse and horseman, came As comes a pillar of electric cloud, Flaying the roofs and sucking up the drains, And shadowing down the champaign till it strikes On a wood, and takes, and breaks and cracks and splits, And twists the grain with such a roar that Earth Reels and the herdsmen cry; for everything Gave way before him: only Florian, he That loved me closer than his own right eye, Thrust in between; but Arac rode him down: And Cyril seeing it, push’d against the Prince, With Psyche’s color round his helmet, tough, Strong, supple, sinew-corded, apt at arms; But tougher, heavier, stronger, he that smote And threw him: last I spurr’d; I felt my veins Stretch with fierce heat; a moment hand to hand, And sword to sword, and horse to horse we hung, Till I struck out and shouted; the blade glanced; I did but shear a feather, and dream and truth Flow’d from me; darkness closed me; and I fell.”

The sixth canto is, perhaps, taken all in all, the finest in the poem. In it the full strength of the poet is put forth. The field of battle, the wounded knights, the old king’s haggard face stooping over the prostrate body of his son—all are themes for touching and pathetic pictures. How beautifully the poet traces in this canto the growth and final supremacy of the true womanly elements in Ida’s nature. The tender domestic instincts, first awakened by the care of Psyche’s child, are now quickened into new and stronger life by the presence of suffering and sorrow around her.

The seventh canto, which opens with one of the sweetest songs in the English language, “Ask Me No More,” shows the complete transfiguration of Ida’s nature under the influence of the affections. The college has been turned into an hospital, and the ministry of the heart in all its tenderness has taken the place of mere pride of intellect. Love has built its lily walls and transformed the cold hearth of solitude and selfishness into a radiant altar of self-sacrifice, devotion and love.

“Everywhere Low voices with the ministering hand Hung round the sick: the maidens came, they talk’d, They sang, they read: till she not fair began To gather light, and she that was, became Her former beauty treble.”

Ida sits by the couch of the Prince, watching him in his delirium of fever. Her name is ever on his lips. Finally, in the still summer night, consciousness returns, and observing Ida at his bedside he murmurs:

“If you be, what I think you, some sweet dream, I would but ask you to fulfil yourself: But if you be that Ida whom I knew, I ask you nothing: only, if a dream, Sweet dream, be perfect. I shall die to-night. Stoop down and seem to kiss me ere I die.”

The transforming power of love has done its work. Ida, who sought far less for truth than power in knowledge, is defeated in her purpose, but rises in this apparent defeat to the supreme height of her womanhood. Frankly she confesses her failure and the cause thereof:

“She had failed in sweet humility.”

Still she will not relinquish her high hopes of a nobler future for woman; nor is it necessary that she should do so. “Rather,” says the Prince,

“Henceforth thou hast a helper, me, that know The woman’s cause is man’s: they rise or sink Together, dwarf’d or godlike, bond or free.

* * * * * *