How supported by History.

But logic, I believe, still flourishes in Oxford; and induction still has its rules.  Now, however many different persons Homer may have been, I cannot remember that one of him suffered martyrdom, or even discomfort, on account of his radical doctrine.  I seem to remember that AEchylus enjoyed the esteem of his fellow-citizens, sided with the old aristocratic party, and lived long enough to find his own tragedies considered archaic; that Sophocles, towards the end of a very prosperous life, was charged with senile decay and consequent inability to administer his estates—­two infirmities which even his accusers did not seek to connect with advanced thinking; and that Euripides, though a technical innovator, stood hardly an inch ahead of the fashionable dialectic of his day, and suffered only from the ridicule of his comic contemporaries and the disdain of his wife—­misfortunes incident to the most respectable.  Pindar and Virgil were court favorites, repaying their patrons in golden song.  Dante, indeed, suffered banishment; but his banishment was just a move in a political (or rather a family) game.  Petrarch and Ariosto were not uncomfortable in their generations.  Chaucer and Shakespeare lived happy lives and sang in the very key of their own times.  Puritanism waited for its hour of triumph to produce its great poet, who lived unmolested when the hour of triumph passed and that of reprisals succeeded.  Racine was a royal pensioner; Goethe a chamberlain and the most admired figure of his time.  Of course, if you hold that these poets one and all pale their ineffectual fires before the radiant Shelley, our argument must go a few steps farther back.  I have instanced them as acknowledged kings of song.

The Case of Tennyson.

Tennyson was not persecuted.  He was not (and more honor to him for his clearness) even misunderstood.  I have never met with the contention that he stood an inch ahead of the thought of his time.  As for seeing through death and life and his own soul, and having the marvel of the everlasting will spread before him like an open scroll,—­well, to begin with, I doubt if these things ever happened to any man.  Heaven surely has been, and is, more reticent than the verse implies.  But if they ever happened, Tennyson most certainly was not the man they happened to.  What Tennyson actually sang, till he taught himself to sing better, was:—­

“Airy, fairy Lilian,
Flitting fairy Lilian,
When I ask her if she love me,
Claps her tiny hands above me,
Laughing all she can;
She’ll not tell me if she love me,
Cruel little Lilian.”

There is not much of the scorn of scorn, or the love of love, or the open scroll of the everlasting will, about Cruel Little Lilian.  But there is a distinct striving after style—­a striving that, as everyone knows, ended in mastery:  and through style Tennyson reached such heights of thought as he was capable of.  To the end his thought remained inferior to his style:  and to the end the two in him were separable, whereas in poets of the very first rank they are inseparable.  But that towards the end his style lifted his thought to heights of which even In Memoriam gave no promise cannot, I think, be questioned by any student of his collected works.