Dean Bradley tells us how he took Oxford by storm in the days of the
undergraduateship of Clough and Matthew Arnold. Probably both of
these young writers did not share the undergraduate enthusiasm. Mr
Arnold, we know, did not reckon Tennyson un esprit puissant. Like
Wordsworth (who thought Tennyson "decidedly the first of our living
poets, . . . he has expressed in the strongest terms his gratitude to
my writings"), Arnold was no fervent admirer of his contemporaries.
Besides, if Tennyson's work is "a criticism of Life," the moral
criticism, so far, was hidden in flowers, like the sword of
Aristogiton at the feast. But, on the whole, Tennyson had won the
young men who cared for poetry, though Sir Robert Peel had never
heard of him: and to win the young, as Theocritus desired to do, is
more than half the battle. On September 8, 1842, the poet was able
to tell Mr Lushington that "500 of my books are sold; according to
Moxon's brother, I have made a sensation." The sales were not like
those of Childe Harold or Marmion; but for some twenty years new
poetry had not sold at all. Novels had come in about 1814, and few
wanted or bought recent verse. But Carlyle was converted. He spoke
no more of a spoiled guardsman. "If you knew what my relation has
been to the thing called 'English Poetry' for many years back, you
would think such a fact" (his pleasure in the book) "surprising."
Carlyle had been living (as Mrs Carlyle too well knew) in Oliver
Cromwell, a hero who probably took no delight in Lycidas or Comus, in
Lovelace or Carew.
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