SEL 40,G.

David 4 (Autumn
Riede 2000) 659
659
ISSN 0039-3657

Tennyson’s Poetics of Melancholy

and the Imperial Imagination

DAVID G. RIEDE

Ever since Arthur Hallam’s early review of Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s

Poems, critics have recognized that Tennyson’s early work attempts to es-
tablish a kind of poetic authority, and that its characteristic power is
grounded in melancholy. The best recent criticism, by Herbert Tucker and
Isobel Armstrong, argues that Tennyson was especially eager to establish
“poetic authority as such” as an “urgent project [in the] context of a society
which seemed on the verge of revolution and lawlessness.”1 It has not been
sufficiently recognized, however, that Tennyson’s melancholy, usually re-
garded as an apolitical character trait, is itself a source of authority that draws
not only on the intensity of mood, but also on current sexist and colonialist
discourses, and upon an idiom of eroticized political imperialism.
Hallam, however, even while denying that Tennyson had a political
agenda, noted that the “melancholy which so evidently characterizes the
spirit of modern poetry” would ultimately exercise a politically conserva-
tive function as “a check acting for conservation against a propulsion to-
ward change.” Though Hallam worried that such poetry “in proportion to
its depth and truth is likely to have little immediate authority over public
opinion,” his reference to “depth and truth” suggests that the authority of
melancholy proceeds from the depths of the poetic self, and carries with it
the truth of feeling that Thomas Carlyle called the “felt indubitable certainty
of Experience.”2 Melancholy is a physical sensation and seems therefore
unarguably “natural,” not ideological, so it is not surprising that genera-
tions of critics have seen Tennyson’s best and most characteristic poetry
as apolitical.
Julia Kristeva has suggested a poetics of melancholy as “the royal way
through which humanity transcends the grief” of separation from a sup-
posed lost wholeness of being. 3 Tennyson, indeed, would seem, in

David G. Riede, professor of English at Ohio State University, has published numer-
ous studies of Romantic and Victorian poets and poetry.
660 Tennyson’s Poetics

Kristeva’s terms, to have pioneered “a specific economy of imaginary dis-

courses . . . [that] are constituently very close to depression and at the same
time show a necessary shift from depression to possible meaning.”4 These
discourses include the transmutation of the imaginary into artifice “by the
means of prosody, the language beyond language that inserts into the sign
the rhythm and alliterations of semiotic processes . . . which unsettles nam-
ing and, by building up a plurality of connotations around the sign, affords
the subject a chance to imagine the nonmeaning, or the true meaning, of
the Thing.”5 Kristeva’s attempt to identify a language beyond language is
inevitably obscure, but her emphasis on the ability of poetic artifice, and
particularly rhythm, to express the truths of melancholy may help to ex-
plain the perception most notoriously expressed by T. S. Eliot that, although
Tennyson had little of consequence to say, he was “the saddest of all En-
glish poets” and thus able to communicate the depths of his being from
“the abyss of sorrow” because of his remarkable “technical accomplish-
ment.”6 Tennyson’s “abyss of sorrow” is not without ideological signifi-
cance. His melancholy expresses an erotic blend of pain and pleasure that
may be traced to a transgression of gender boundaries in the appropria-
tion of female eroticism and of cultural boundaries in an appropriation of
exotic, often “Oriental” eroticism. The most influential Tennysonians of
the last generation, Christopher Ricks, Jerome Hamilton Buckley, and
A. Dwight Culler, all attempted to disengage the “essential genius” of
Tennyson’s melancholy from the encumbrance of its historical moment.7
Culler’s view of Tennyson’s poetry as the expression of “natural” feeling,
however, hints at a reading of Tennyson as an imperialist of the imagina-
tion: “Unlike the youthful [John] Keats, Tennyson did not remain silent upon
a peak in Darien—rather he plunged volubly into its thickets and claimed
province after province for his own.”8 To an extent, Culler anticipates
Tucker’s argument that Tennyson’s characteristic poetry is not explicitly
imperialist politically, but that “Tennyson represents dilemmas rather of
the Romantic imperial self than of political and cultural empire.”9
Certainly Tennyson was deeply interested in the possibilities of the
Romantic imagination as an imperial selfhood capable of entering into and
even appropriating provinces and forms of consciousness initially outside
the self. This “negative capability” enabled him to enter into the feelings of the
many female figures who are generally thought to represent his own poetic
sensibility. The imaginative imperialism here is spelled out at length in
Hallam’s essay “On Sympathy.” Hallam provides a native English version of
the Hegelian growth of the individual soul or self as a process of confront-
ing other subjectivities and “absorbing . . . this other being into her univer-
sal nature.”10 Hallam’s “sympathy,” a version of Romantic imperialism, is
David G. Riede 661

an emotional process enabling the individual self to avoid solipsism and

to achieve some awareness of another’s subjectivity. The poet whose “soul
transfers at once her own feelings and adopts those of the new-comer” is
necessarily expanding the individual self to engage with a historically spe-
cific “other,” so that when Tennyson is at his most apparently Tennysonian,
as in “Mariana,” it is usually through identification with, or sympathy with,
a specifically female other, as femaleness was constructed in the nineteenth
century. Tennyson achieves remarkable affect through his appropriation
of female subjectivity in such poems as “Mariana,” “Oenone,” and even
“The Lady of Shalott,” though, as Marion Shaw has argued, “the male fan-
tasy of female eroticism which these poems embody, is . . . dangerous.”11
In those poems in which Tennyson seems to gender his own poetic sensi-
bility as feminine, it is within a degrading gender ideology that sees women
as more emotional than men, but less rational. Also, since women were by
definition excluded from political thought, the adoption of female perspec-
tives made it “natural” to disengage the poetic sensibility from the mascu-
line political concerns of the day. When Hallam sought to praise Tennyson
as an emotional poet in his review of Poems of 1830, he did so by distin-
guishing between “poets of reflection, such as Wordsworth,” and what he
characterized as the superior, Tennysonian “Poets of sensation,” who pos-
sess the “powerful tendency of imagination to a life of immediate sympa-
thy with the external universe.” 12 Poets of sensation are implicitly
feminized: “Susceptible of the slightest impulse from external nature, their
fine organs trembled into emotion at colors, and sounds, and movements,
unperceived or unregarded by duller temperaments.”13 Hallam, moreover,
was well aware that the poets of sensation, Percy Shelley and Keats, were
not ideologically neutral, but that Shelley especially, and Keats by associa-
tion, were seen as politically radical, even as Jacobinical. So, in a futile at-
tempt to de-fang conservative reviewers, he made a point of extricating
Tennyson from the politics associated with sensation: “he has also this ad-
vantage over [Keats] and his friend Shelley, that he comes before the pub-
lic unconnected with any political party or peculiar system of opinions.”14
Even though Hallam recognizes that the poetry of sensation has a possi-
bly democratic tendency because poets of sensation “keep no aristocratic
state, apart from the sentiments of society at large; they speak to the hearts
of all,” he affirms that they are at the top of the human hierarchy so that
they “elevate inferior intellects into a higher and purer atmosphere.”15
Hallam even goes so far as to imply that John Milton and William
Shakespeare were poets of sensation in England’s golden literary age, and
that the effect of their writings was nothing less than the construction of
national identity, of Englishness itself: “the ‘knowledge and power’ drawn
662 Tennyson’s Poetics

from reading their works was a part of national existence; it was ours as
Englishmen; and amid the flux of generations and customs we retain un-
impaired this privilege of intercourse with greatness.”16 Hallam further ob-
serves, as did many of his contemporaries, that the golden age of poetry is
long gone in the present singularly unpoetic age and, in so doing, he takes
the opportunity to position the melancholy Tennyson as a conservative,
paradoxically preserving the essential elements of England’s greatness by
the melancholy spirit of modern poetry: “In the old times the poetic im-
pulse went along with the general impulse of the nation; in these it is a
reaction against it, a check acting for conservation against a propulsion
towards change.”17
For Hallam, even melancholy—which is generally thought a primary
characteristic of Tennyson’s essential genius—is to be regarded as a prod-
uct of the historical moment and, despite its effeminate form, is ideologi-
cally aligned with Burkean conservatism and the preservation of
Englishness.18 Hallam and Tennyson paradoxically arrive at the conserva-
tive counterforce to the masculine, muscular spirit of the progressive age
by colonizing and appropriating the realm of the “weaker” sex, by con-
structing a feminized version of the powerful imagination of “Poets of sen-
sation.” Both Englishness and the melancholy of Tennyson are cultural
constructions brought into being by a remarkable detour through a femi-
nized sensibility. Ultimately, though, it is only a detour, since Tennyson
usually turns from the feminized poet figure as somehow transgressive,
and returns to the masculine cultural order.
His melancholy exploits the poetic power of dangerous feminine
emotional lability and passion that threatens his ideal of masculine self-
control and public order and makes use of such elements even as it dis-
places and controls them. Tennyson’s use of feminine personae to repre-
sent his poetic sensibility enabled him both to represent erotic longing and
to distance himself from what was self-evidently “other.” Armstrong has
demonstrated that Tennyson’s emphasis on feeling, on a poetry of sensa-
tion, entailed “putting the feminisation of poetry—and men—at the centre
of his project. At least the male appropriation of the feminine suggests an
admiration for it.”19 Since female eroticism was threatening to social order
and was usually suppressed in middle-class English life and thus unavail-
able to direct observation let alone sympathetic colonization, it is not sur-
prising that Tennyson drew on the current discourse of Oriental sensuality
both to find sources of erotic, sensual beauty and to push the threat from
the center of British bourgeois life.
As Edward Said has compellingly demonstrated, to understand the
culture of an imperial nation, we must take into account the relation of that
David G. Riede 663

culture to the empire, even, and especially, when the cultural products
seem unconcerned with empire. If Said is right, it should not be surprising
that Tennyson’s centrality as the generally acclaimed greatest poet of his
age was made possible in part by his use of the current discourse of Orien-
tal sensuality. Though Tennyson’s Orientalist sources are often used to rep-
resent or to displace his poetic anxieties, they also provided him with a
means to explore otherwise forbidden interests in a feminized eroticism,
at least as refracted from “Fatima” to “Mariana” or from “A Dream of Fair
Women” to “The Palace of Art.” Seemingly, what he hesitated to say as a
socially concerned masculine poet, he could say within the more detached,
even scholarly voice of Orientalist discourse.
A closer look at specific poems in which Tennyson is evidently con-
cerned with his own poetic authority indicates that he constructed a po-
etic self not only in the terms of the imperial, though feminized, Romantic
imagination, but also in terms of explicitly political and cultural imperial-
ism. Frequently, Tennyson’s English power is expressed in poems about
exploration and discovery, figuring the poet more as a “stout Cortez” than
as a Keatsian “chameleon poet” of negative capability.20 Tennyson could
have found the analogy of the poet and the explorer in Keats’s sonnet, or
in the many Byronic figures such as Childe Harold who cultivate a melan-
choly poetic sensibility in extensive travels to remote regions, but, as Alan
Sinfield has pointed out, he would also have seen the idea of the poet con-
verge with that of the explorer in Washington Irving’s Life and Voyages of
Christopher Columbus. According to Sinfield, the continuity of the explorer
with the poet was set up for Tennyson by Irving, who represents
Columbus’s “poetic temperament” as spreading “a golden and glorious
world around him.” As Sinfield notes, “Irving insists that ‘lofty anticipations
. . . elevated Columbus above all mercenary interests—at least for a while’ . . .
The poetic intrusion initiates the sequence which leads to trading, enslave-
ment, colonization and . . . massacre . . . The poetic spirit is the advance guard
of capitalism and imperialism, and cannot escape this involvement.”21
In “On Sublimity” (1827), Tennyson collapses the poetic imagination
with the wonder evoked by the literature of voyage and exploration; he
finds the Burkean sublime not in Romantic landscapes of the transform-
ing imagination, but in actual exotic, far away wonders of the natural world,
literally, as W. D. Paden has pointed out, in the pages of C. C. Clarke’s The
Hundred Wonders of the World.22 Unlike William Wordsworth, for whom
the “discerning intellect of man / When wedded to this goodly universe”
could find sublime landscapes as a “simple produce of the common day,”
Tennyson sought the sublime in tales of adventurers and explorers report-
ing on the wonders of the world, from the more-or-less-familiar Fingal’s
664 Tennyson’s Poetics

Cave in the Island of Staffa and the by then well-known “Niagara’s flood of
matchless might,” to the more exotic “stupendous Gungotree,” “Cotopaxi’s
cloud-capt majesty” and “Enormous Chimborazo’s naked pride.”23 Another
poet might have used Mount Snowden or Mont Blanc, but Tennyson’s con-
struction of sublimity called for the remote and exotic or, in the phrase that
so influenced his childhood, the “far, far away.”24 Like Keats, but unlike
Hernando Cortez, Tennyson’s “realms of gold” were literary, but, whereas
Keats was discovering the wonders of the literary tradition as he read
George Chapman’s Homer, Tennyson was exploring the discoveries of
Cortez’s (actually Francisco Pizarro’s, of course) followers in the colonial
tradition, reading Antonio de Ulloa’s A Voyage to South America. In gen-
eral, as Paden’s still-important Tennyson in Egypt reveals, the reading that
most influenced the poetry of early Tennyson was overwhelmingly con-
stituted of books of exploration and discovery and such Orientalist writ-
ings as Claude Savary’s Letters on Egypt, and the works of Sir William
Jones.25
Far more important than “On Sublimity” in constructing Tennyson’s
poetic authority was his visionary “Armageddon” (written in 1828) and its
transformation into the Cambridge prize poem, “Timbuctoo”(1829). “Ar-
mageddon” is an exercise in the visionary mode of the egotistical sublime
exaggerated almost to the point of madness. Perhaps the most striking char-
acteristic of this effort to achieve prophetic vision is a representation of
the egotistical sublime heightened to a hubristic self-deification. One clear
danger of the egotistical sublime is solipsism, a dangerous withdrawal from
social involvement that Tennyson would further explore in such poems
as “The Lady of Shalott” and “The Palace of Art,” but which appears in its
simplest form here. The irony of the visionary poem is that there is no clear
vision—rather, as Daniel Albright has shown, there is only an account of
visual distortions produced more or less as a disease of the retina.26 Even
when an angel descends to mediate the vision, the poet is confronted by
such overwhelming dazzle that he must close himself up within himself:

So that with hasty motion I did veil

My vision with both hands, and saw before me
Such coloured spots as dance athwart the eyes
Of those that gaze upon the noonday sun.
(1:73–85, 2.6–9)

Even at the triumphant conclusion of the poem, it is unclear what has been
seen or heard outside the self:
David G. Riede 665

An indefinite pulsation
Inaudible to outward sense,
....................................................
As if the great soul of the Universe
Heaved with tumultuous throbbings on the vast
Suspense of some grand issue.
(4.29–34)

Not only has full vision not yet been vouchsafed, but even the introduc-
tory drum roll may be a solipsistic delusion; both Tucker and Armstrong
note that the pulsations may be nothing more than the speaker’s own heart-
beat, as described earlier, when in “dismal pause . . . I held / My breath and
heard the beatings of my heart” (1.111–3).27 Evidently, one reason why
Tennyson could not find poetic authority in the egotistical sublime was
that he saw too clearly its inherent danger of solipsistic estrangement from
the world—again, a theme more clearly played out in “The Lady of Shalott”
and “The Palace of Art.” Arguably, his awareness of the dangers of the ego-
tistical sublime led him away from reliance on his own poetic subjectivity
and toward the subject matter offered in books of travel that provided ref-
erents outside the self for an otherwise entirely self-absorbed melancholy.
Further, there is, throughout “Armageddon,” a sense of transgression,
of sin, at the presumptuousness of the prophetic mode. The speaker sees
“such ill-omened things / That it were sin almost to look on them” (1.53–4).
But, beyond the sinfulness of gazing upon “Obscene, inutterable phanta-
sies,” is the more obvious transgression of assuming the visionary perspec-
tive of “God’s omniscience” (1.107, 2.27). In language that anticipates the
soul’s hubris in “The Palace of Art,” the speaker worships his own sublim-
ity: “in that hour I could have fallen down / Before my own strong soul and
worshipped it” (2.49–50). To avoid total incoherence, the poet must move
beyond the speaker’s foundering in the abyss of the inexpressible, and
introduce comprehensible content into the sublime, which he accom-
plishes by returning to his sources in the literature of exploration and dis-
covery, once again calling upon “Cotopaxi’s cloud-capt towers” (line 100)
and other wonders to give content to his vision. When Tennyson’s father
insisted that he submit a poem for the Cambridge prize competition on
the theme of Timbuctoo, he transformed the seemingly incongruous “Ar-
mageddon” for the purpose. “Armageddon,” as a visionary poem almost
without content, could easily be filled with the content of Tennyson’s fa-
vorite literature of exploration and discovery. What Tennyson did to trans-
666 Tennyson’s Poetics

form “Armageddon” into “Timbuctoo” was to muse on “legends quaint and

old” (“Timbuctoo,” line 16) of other lost cities that had stirred the Euro-
pean imagination: “divinest Atalantis” and “Imperial Eldorado” (1:187–99,
lines 22, 24). And now, when the angel appears, he remains too dazzling
to be looked upon but nevertheless offers a very clear vision of the celes-
tial city as beheld by St. John on Patmos. Finally, near the end of the poem,
the poet achieves a vision of Timbuctoo, or rather, of a rich Oriental city
that he imagines as Timbuctoo. He sees

The argent streets o’ the city, imaging

The soft inversions of her tremulous Domes,
Her gardens frequent with the stately Palm,
Her Pagods hung with music of sweet bells,
Her obelisks of rangèd Chrysolite,
Minarets and towers
(lines 227–32)

In “Timbuctoo,” however, Tennyson exhibits his distrust of the visionary

mode—the speaker recognizes that Atalantis and Eldorado are fables, and
that even Timbuctoo, when it is discovered rather than imagined, will lose
its luster. Before the eyes of “keen Discovery” the “brilliant towers” of the
city will dissolve like the visions of Prospero’s masque, will

Darken, and shrink and shiver into huts,

Black specks amid a waste of dreary sand,
Low-built, mud-walled, Barbarian settlements.
(lines 240–2)

Despite his recognition that discovery is a way of discrediting the imagi-

nation and that actuality always falls short of imagination, Tennyson con-
tinued to stimulate his imagination with tales of modern adventure that
still provided possibilities of magnificence, possibilities to which “Men
clung with yearning Hope which would not die” (line 27). He believed,
however, that the poetic sensibility must ultimately be restored to the ac-
ceptable world of actualities: Timbuctoo is only imagined as an earthly
paradise, and then demoted to sordid actuality as the “Barbarian” huts of
an inferior race that evidently need to be “improved” by European discov-
ery and appropriation. In “Timbuctoo,” Tennyson pushed the dangerously
anarchic sublime from the religious centrality of “Armageddon” to the
edges of the world and then purged it completely by substituting “keen
Discovery” for imaginative wonder.
David G. Riede 667

The combination of Tennyson’s imaginative longing for wonders at

the far edge of the known world with his sense of guilt or transgression
remained important in his more mature works. Notoriously, in “Locksley
Hall” (1842), when the speaker seeks escape from his emotional entangle-
ment and suffocation in England, he displaces discontent with England by
imagining a retreat to the vast expanses of the Empire, “some retreat / Deep
in yonder shining Orient” (2:118–30, lines 153–4). Better yet, he imagines
some far-away island, free of all restraints, “all links of habit—there to wan-
der far away” in “Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of
Paradise” (lines 157, 160). Not only does the speaker of “Locksley Hall”
imagine an earthly paradise waiting to be discovered, but so, of course, do
Tennyson’s Ulysses, the poet of “The Hesperides,” and mariners of “The
Lotos-Eaters.”
Sinfield points out that Tennyson’s imaginative flight to the remote
edges of the world is a defining quality of the poet who sought imagina-
tive escape from an England less characterized by imagination, beauty, or
passion than by the rush for progress characterized in “Locksley Hall,” “in
this march of mind / In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that
shake mankind” (lines 165–6). Sinfield describes the process cogently:
“Finding imaginative impetus marginalized theoretically and politically in
Britain, he invested it in remote places. Finding himself expected to ex-
plore states of mind, he did so by using the people and scenery of remote
places, and their impact on Europeans.”28 This is, I think, an accurate ac-
count of Tennyson’s imaginative activity, but I would suggest also that his
flights from the center tend to be associated with transgression, with kinds
of experience forbidden to an English gentleman. In fact, the flight from
the center is, in itself, a form of transgression in its refusal to participate in
the communal life. But, of course, the kinds of transgressive experience
Tennyson imagines are at the center of British imperial culture—Tennyson
only makes them seem marginal, in the same way that Victorian culture
generally relegated forbidden experiences to the margins. The notoriety
of the speaker’s desires in “Locksley Hall” is not associated with his desire
for a tropical paradise, but with his desire for an unlimited range of specifi-
cally sexual passion: “There the passions cramped no longer shall have
scope and breathing space; / I will take some savage woman, she shall rear
my dusky race” (lines 167–8). The transgressive, imperialist fantasy is, of
course, almost immediately rejected, simply because the center is more
valued than the periphery—or more crudely, because the English and their
age of progress are immeasurably superior to the lower races at the far end
of empire:
668 Tennyson’s Poetics

I know my words are wild,

But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child.

I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains,

Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains!

Mated with a squalid savage—what to me were sun or clime?

I the heir of all the ages
(lines 173–8)

The speaker of “Locksley Hall” is not to be simply identified as Tennyson,

but elsewhere Tennyson shares this speaker’s fantasy of escape from re-
straint by a detour through some exotic and erotic paradise preceding a
return to the center with reinforced belief in its values, especially the value
of self-control—a quality that James Eli Adams has shown is perhaps the
defining quality of Victorian masculinity.29
“Anacaona” (1830), a poem based on material from Irving’s biography
of Columbus, describes just such an escape in the context of imperial ex-
ploration. According to Irving, Anacaona was the beautiful queen of an
island paradise who “possessed a genius superior to the generality of her
race.”30 Tennyson’s poem makes the most of her exotic beauty and setting,
and heightens her erotic appeal: she is

A dark Indian Maiden,

.....................................
Wantoning in orange groves
Naked, and dark-limbed, and gay
(1:308–11, lines 1–6)

Though “wantoning” is a rather more loaded term than any authorized by

Irving, Tennyson did have ample precedent in Irving for stressing the na-
ked beauty of Anacaona. Irving described the welcome offered the Euro-
pean explorers: “the young women were entirely naked, with merely a fillet
round the forehead, their hair falling upon their shoulders. They were beau-
tifully proportioned, their skin smooth and delicate, and their complexion
of clear agreeable brown.”31
According to Irving, however, Anacaona was later killed by the Spaniards
and, further, the discovery of this island paradise, so far from the authority and
restraints of home, helped tempt the sailors into mutiny against Colum-
bus. Tennyson’s poem does not mention any of this, though it introduces
David G. Riede 669

a somber, foreboding tone in the last stanza: “never more upon the shore . . .
wandered happy Anacaona” (lines 77, 82). Still, despite the tone of fore-
boding, “Anacaona” remains a poem of essentially untroubled erotic fan-
tasy—in this case with no apparent sense of guilty transgression. But
Tennyson never published it, giving various unconvincing reasons, but
perhaps providing the real reason in an unguarded comment describing
“that black b_____ Anacaona and her cocoa-shadowed coves of niggers—
I cannot have her strolling about the land in this way—it is neither good for
her reputation nor mine” (1:308 n). According to Culler, “‘Anacaona’ is per-
haps the least ambiguous” of the many poems akin to “The Lady of Shalott”
in presenting an image of the poet’s sensibility; Tennyson “could use
[Anacaona] as a symbol of the poet not only because she danced and sang
the traditional areytos, or ballads, of her people but also because her name
and that of her country were so melodious that Tennyson, weaving them
into his rhymes, could make it seem as if she and her island were of music
all compact.”32 Given the mutinous behavior of the Spaniards in Tennyson’s
source, this poem and others like it (conspicuously “The Lotos-Eaters”) may
be attempting a kind of cultural work comparable to that which Stephen
Greenblatt attributes to The Tempest. Greenblatt argues that the discovery
of an apparent island paradise by the survivors of the shipwrecked “Sea-
Venture” of the Virginia Company led to a crisis of authority, since the temp-
tations to remain in paradise rather than proceed to colonial work were
almost overpowering at such an extreme distance from governmental au-
thority. The Tempest, he argues, represents Prospero’s staging of “salutary
anxiety” to bring the mutineers of a similar shipwreck back to a proper
respect for authoritative order.33
What makes “The Lotos-Eaters” and “Anacaona” strangely ambiguous
works is that the temptations of island paradises are forthrightly shown, but
the consequences of loss of order are only hinted at by the shift in tone at the
end of “Anacaona” and the mariners’ blasphemous assertions that they, like
the soul in “The Palace of Art,” are like gods, observing mortal strife, but
disengaged from it. Evidently, at any rate, Tennyson himself regarded
“Anacaona” as morally compromised. The analogy to Greenblatt’s reading
of The Tempest is strengthened by the echoes of The Tempest, particularly of
Ariel’s song that, as Armstrong has said, “haunts” Tennyson’s early poems.34
Further, like Shakespeare, Tennyson was using narratives of colonial ex-
ploration as his source. Certainly Tennyson’s relocation of excesses of eroti-
cism to the edges of the imperial world provides a kind of outlet for overflow
that might otherwise threaten the orderly authority at the imperial center—
quite clearly, in “Locksley Hall” the deranged speaker can dissipate his
dangerously excessive passions in erotic fantasies of tropical paradises.
670 Tennyson’s Poetics

In “Anacaona,” “The Lotos-Eaters,” “The Hesperides,” and “Ulysses,”

Tennyson explores the remote margins of the West, as though determined
to refute Wordsworth’s assertion that tales of legendary lost cities were “a
mere fiction of what never was.”35 Even the discourse about the West was
obviously “Orientalist,” of course, as indicated by the word “Indians” to
represent native Americans, but much more often, Tennyson drew on the
burgeoning discourse of explicit Orientalism for his representations of
transgressive exotic otherness. In “Persia”(1827), for example, he makes
poetic capital of Oriental names before warming to his theme of the de-
struction of Persia at the hands of Alexander:

Land of bright eye and lofty brow!

Whose every gale is balmy breath
Of incense from some sunny flower,
Which on tall hill or valley low,
.............................................
Sheds perfume.
(1:113–6, lines 1–6)

Persia is personified as an exotically perfumed courtesan, suggesting the

effeminacy that made her easy prey to Alexander’s armies. Still more sig-
nificantly, within colonialist ideology, the conquest of the Orient is an
Englishman’s duty, so the erotic conquest of the Orientalized female is
appropriated within the sphere of manly duty. Here, as in “The Expedition
of Nadir Shah into Hindostan” (1827), which draws on Jones’s account of
the Persian destruction of the Mogul empire in 1738, Tennyson chronicles
the loss of Oriental glory and, implicitly, the concomitant transfer of pres-
tige to the West. The armies of Nadir Shah reduce a paradisal realm to a
wasteland: “The land like an Eden before them is fair, / But behind them a
wilderness dreary and bare” (1:120–2, lines 19–20). It is worth noting that
the displacement of the Mogul empire by an anarchic wasteland opened
the door to British expansion in India in the eighteenth century, and also,
according to Said, the loss of Oriental greatness seemed to the West to call
for a reconstruction of the Orient as a discourse, Orientalism. “To recon-
struct a dead or neglected Orient . . . meant that reconstructive precision,
science, even imagination could prepare the way for what armies, admin-
istrations, and bureaucracies would later do on the ground, in the Orient.
In a sense the vindication of Orientalism was not only its intellectual or
artistic successes, but its later effectiveness, its usefulness, its authority.”36
Ultimately, Tennyson’s many poems on Oriental subjects were doing the
same cultural work as the Abbe le Mascrier in the immense Description de
David G. Riede 671

L’Egypte compiled for Napoleon, though Tennyson was not, of course, so

explicit in his political implications. The Description reconstituted Egypt
as a country that “presents only great memories” and affirms that “[i]t is
therefore proper for this country to attract the attention of illustrious princes
who rule the destiny of nations.”37
I do not want to attribute excessively sinister motives to Tennyson, but
only to note that his numerous early poems on Oriental subjects inevita-
bly took the tone of the dominant Orientalist discourse of his age. In terms
of Tennyson’s own poetic development, the most important characteris-
tic of Orientalism is its eroticism. The eroticism that was unsuitable in speak-
ing of the chaste English was, of course, perfectly “natural” in descriptions
of the Orient or Oriental women. In “Thou camest to thy bower my
love”(1827), Tennyson was able to write with uncharacteristic erotic di-
rectness because he was drawing heavily on Jones’s translation of the erotic
poem, the Gitagovinda (1:148 n):

Thy breath was like the sandal-wood that casts a rich perfume,
Thy blue eyes mocked the lotos in the noon-day of his bloom;
Thy cheeks were like the beamy flush that gilds the breaking day,
And in the ambrosia of thy smiles the god of rapture lay.
(1:148–50, lines 5–8)

“The Lotos-Eaters” was primarily based on a passage describing the idyl-

lic lassitude of a colonialist dream in Irving’s Columbus, but the lotos itself
comes not only from Homer but also from Tennyson’s characteristic ac-
counts of Oriental lushness and luxuriance. The full importance of
Orientalist eroticism in forming Tennyson’s poetic sensibility is especially
clear in “Fatima”(1832), imitating a poem by Sappho but also influenced by
the story of Jemily in Savary’s Letters on Egypt. Jemily is described as waiting
in an agony of passion for a lover who will not come for fear of her hus-
band. Of all of Tennyson’s female impersonations, “Fatima” is far the most
impassioned:

Last night, when some one spoke his name,

From my swift blood that went and came
A thousand little shafts of flame
Were shivered in my narrow frame.
O Love, O fire! once he drew
With one long kiss my whole soul through
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.
(1:417–9, lines 15–21)
672 Tennyson’s Poetics

Tucker describes “Fatima” as a “breakthrough” poem for Tennyson because

it expresses an “unabashed will to confrontation.”38 But, it is also a break-
through because it expresses an unashamed sexual desire, akin to, but
more outward than, the suppressed yearnings of “Mariana,” and this sexual
frankness is made possible for Tennyson by displacing it on to an Oriental
subjectivity. Like “Mariana,” it is a poem about waiting and facing the alter-
natives of sexual fulfillment or death, but, in the case of “Fatima” much more
clearly than of “Mariana,” it is explicitly a longing for erotic fulfillment rather
than a more spiritual love:

My whole soul waiting silently,

All naked in a sultry sky,
Droops blinded with his shining eye:
I will possess him or will die.
I will grow round him in his place,
Grow, live, die looking on his face,
Die, dying clasped in his embrace.
(lines 36–42)

“Fatima” is an important poem in our understanding of Tennyson if

only because it represents an Oriental other that helps to define the West-
ern subjectivity by contrast, and especially to suggest the energy of sup-
pressed passion in Tennyson’s more canonical poems. Similarly, in “A
Dream of Fair Women”(1832), the eroticism of the poem owes nothing to
the apparent inspiration, Geoffrey Chaucer’s Legend of Good Women, but
rather is picked up on another detour into Oriental sensuality via Savary’s
Letters on Egypt. Savary, not Chaucer, stimulated reverie about “hushed
seraglios,” and Cleopatra, the dominant figure of the poem, owes little to
Chaucer’s Cleopatra, or even to Shakespeare’s, despite her “swarthy
cheeks” from Antony and Cleopatra (1:479–92, line 36).39
Tennyson’s representation of Cleopatra is especially striking because
it parallels his much-better-known representation of the soul in “The Pal-
ace of Art” (1832). The soul, generally assumed to represent the evil con-
sequences of living in art, falls from grace by becoming a kind of hubristic
inspiration to spiritual anarchy:

“I take possession of man’s mind and deed.

I care not what the sects may brawl.
I sit as God holding no form of creed,
But contemplating all.”
(1:436–56, lines 209–12)
David G. Riede 673

Cleopatra, in “A Dream of Fair Women” makes an analogous claim: “‘I gov-

erned men by change, and so I swayed / All moods’” (lines 130–1). The
implication is that Tennyson’s fear of art detached from social good is in
part at least a fear of the eroticism that both attracts and repels him in rep-
resentations of the Orient.
This interpretation is strengthened by noting that, in its original form,
“A Dream of Fair Women” was, like “The Palace of Art,” a representation of
the poetic spirit divorcing itself from the social order. The opening stanzas
compared the poet with a balloonist raised high above mankind and, like
the soul in “The Palace of Art,” or like the Lady of Shalott, viewing mankind
from a detached, “aesthetic distance”:

So, lifted high, the Poet at his will

Lets the great world flit from him, seeing all,
Higher through secret splendours mounting still,
Self-poised, nor fears to fall.
(1:479–80 n)

A still earlier version even more strongly suggests the similarities

among the soul’s, the poet’s, and Cleopatra’s ability to be an unmoved
mover: “The poet’s steadfast soul, poured out in songs, / Unmoved moves
all things with exceeding might” (1:480 n). “A Dream of Fair Women,” struc-
tured like “The Palace of Art” as a series of tableaux, seems to have been an
earlier or contemporary effort to analyze the dangers of unrestricted art or
imagination and seems, moreover, to have seen these dangers as analo-
gous to the dangers represented by Eastern female sensuality and its sup-
posed tyranny over the rational mind. Indeed, some of the influences of
Orientalist discourse remain evident in “The Palace of Art” itself. Ricks
points out that the poem “was probably influenced by Sir William Jones, a
favourite of his when young,” and that there “are also affinities with George
Sandys’s account of Egyptian ‘Palaces’ in his Travels” (1:437). But the most
obvious Orientalist influence is Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s “Kubla Khan,”
whose “stately pleasure dome” is ostentatiously echoed in the “lordly plea-
sure-house” of Tennyson’s opening line. In the 1832 version, the soul’s
downfall in the midst of embroideries of “every legend fair / Which the
supreme Caucasian mind / Carved out of Nature for itself” (lines 125–7)
was given a somewhat Oriental cast by reference to a mysterious “Asiatic
dame”: “in her pride” ( 1:445 n, line 1), the soul beholds in herself
674 Tennyson’s Poetics

Madonna, Ganymede,
Or the Asiatic dame—

Still changing, as a lighthouse in the night

Changeth athwart the gleaming main,
From red to yellow, yellow to pale white,
Then back to red again.
(1:446 n, lines 7–12)

Whoever the “Asiatic dame” may be, anxiety about the possibly anar-
chic power of art is here associated with the threat of a disordered, femi-
nized mutability (“la donna e mobile”) and simultaneously, perhaps, with
suggestions of Eastern, specifically Hindu, mysticism. In addition, the moral
fable is very clearly of a piece with such Oriental tales as Frances Sheridan’s
The History of Nourjahad, which also teaches that the possession of all
imaginable luxuries and beauties leads only to a blasphemous impulse to
worship oneself as a God. “The Palace of Art” is very much within a Euro-
pean tradition of moral lessons about worldliness cast as eroticized Orien-
tal luxuriance that extends from the chastely somber Rasselas to the
extraordinary excesses of Salammbô.
The clearest example of Tennyson’s early uses of Oriental lore to con-
struct and express a poetic sensibility is the poem Hallam cited as charac-
teristic of Tennyson’s genius at its best: “Recollections of the Arabian
Nights.” Hallam’s praise of the poem, not incidentally, coyly indicates how
the source could be simultaneously innocent and expressive of forbidden
desires: “Our author,” he says, “has, with great judgment, selected our old
acquaintance, ‘the good Haroun Alraschid,’ as the most prominent object
of our childish interest, and with him has called up one of those luxurious
garden scenes, the account of which, in plain prose, used to make our
mouth water for sherbet, since luckily we were too young to think much
about Zobeide!”40 Possibly it was this transgressively erotic mode that in-
spired Hallam’s enigmatic suggestion that modern poets are unlike their
great Elizabethan predecessors as repentance is unlike innocence (p. 190).
The poem itself is a colonialist’s dream. The fantasy is distanced by
setting it in childhood, and the “realms of gold” represented in the poem
are, of course, literary realms. Still, the poem indicates that, for Tennyson,
the “golden realms” of literature were often very like the “golden realms”
dreamed of by imperial conquerors. Besides, as Said has made clear, the
Orient only existed for the West as a literary realm, as the discourse of
Orientalism. The childhood memories are recalled as a voyage into the
Middle East:
David G. Riede 675

And many a sheeny summer-morn,

Adown the Tigris I was borne,
By Bagdat’s shrines of fretted gold.
(1:225–31, lines 5–7)

Arabia is, in fact, transformed by the poet into a literal golden realm.
Everything he sees is perceived as a treasure: the “costly doors,” the “gold
glittering” of lamplight, the “broidered sofas,” even the natural landscape:

the moon-lit sward

Was damask-work, and deep inlay
Of braided blooms unmown.
(lines 27–9)

The stream is seen as wealth: “diamond rillets” and “crystal arches” all “sil-
ver-chiming,” the lake covered with “diamond plots,” the leaves “rich gold-
green,” the flowers “studded wide / With disks and tiars,” and even the
anchor silver (lines 49–51, 82, 63–4). The shallop eventually enters into the
palace and harem of Haroun Alraschid, where still greater riches are ex-
hibited, climaxing not in sherbet, as was Hallam’s analogy, but in erotic
voyeurism:

Then stole I up, and trancedly

Gazed on the Persian girl alone,
Serene with argent-lidded eyes
Amorous, and lashes like to rays
Of darkness, and a brow of pearl
Tressèd with redolent ebony,
In many a dark delicious curl,
Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone.
(lines 133–40)

The scene is reminiscent of Porphyro’s voyeurism in Keats’s “Eve of St.

Agnes,” but Tennyson arrives at this expression of erotic desire by a route
that takes him like a conqueror through an Eastern version of El Dorado.
Once again, Tennyson’s “Poetry of sensation” is not an emanation of his
autonomous essential genius, but a social construct very much dependent
on England’s contemporary imperial “mission.” As Culler has noted, the
final vision of the poem brings the poet face to face with Haroun Al Raschid:
“in the 185th tale of The Arabian Nights, on which the poem is based, there
676 Tennyson’s Poetics

is nothing the young Prince, who has secretly stolen to an assignation with
the Caliph’s favorite, would less rather see than the Caliph himself. Yet this
is what Tennyson has him do, and so the heady amorous vision dissolves
in boyish laughter.”41 The voyeurism, for Culler, is whitewashed by the in-
nocent boyishness of the poet, but one might argue that the apparent com-
plicity of the Caliph, whose eyes laugh “[w]ith merriment of kingly pride,”
(line 151) suggests a willingness to share his harem, and thus suggests pre-
cisely the triangulation of desire that Eve Sedgwick has argued is the para-
digm of male homosocial desire in the nineteenth century. Peace is made
with the colonial other, and the treaty is ratified by the exchange or shar-
ing of the woman. It is under the approving glance of the Caliph that
Tennyson’s poetic, erotic, and cultural imperialism are all made accept-
able, even “natural” within the hegemonic homosocial and colonialist cul-
ture of his day.
Tennyson’s later works generally depend less on Orientalist discourse
for their inspiration, despite such exceptions as “Akbar’s Dream,” but they
continue to depend upon a representation and simultaneous distancing
of emotions and modes of thought perceived as feminine. John Killham
has argued, for example, that the “erotic near Eastern setting invented for
the Persian girl is carried over” to The Princess (1:225 n), and Sedgwick’s
analysis of The Princess has convincingly shown that it represents not fe-
male liberation through education, but rather an extreme form of male
homosocial bonding through the exchange of women. Even in In Memo-
riam, the authoritative masculine voice is achieved by personifying the
poet’s emotion, “Sorrow,” as female, a weakness that is long indulged, but
must eventually be exorcised.

NOTES

1
Herbert F. Tucker, Tennyson and the Doom of Romanticism (Cambridge MA and
London: Harvard Univ. Press, 1988), p. 10; Isobel Armstrong, Victorian Poetry: Poetry,
Poetics, and Politics (London and New York: Routledge, 1993), p. 49.
2
Arthur Hallam, “On Some of the Characteristics of Modern Poetry, and on the Lyri-
cal Poems of Alfred Tennyson,” in The Writings of Arthur Hallam, ed. T. H. Vail Motter
(New York: Modern Language Association of America, 1943), pp. 182–98, 190; Thomas
Carlyle, Sartor Resartus: The Life and Opinions of Herr Teufelsdröckh, ed. Charles
Frederick Harrold (New York: Odyssey Press, 1937), p. 196.
3
Julia Kristeva, Black Sun: Depression and Melancholia, trans. Leon S. Roudiez
(New York: Columbia Univ. Press, 1989), p. 100.
4
Ibid.
5
Kristeva, p. 97.
6
T. S. Eliot, “In Memoriam,” rprt. in Tennyson’s Poetry, ed. Robert W. Hill Jr. (New
York: W. W. Norton, 1971), pp. 613–20, 620.
David G. Riede 677

7
See Christopher Ricks, Tennyson, 2d edn. (London: Macmillan, 1989); Jerome
Hamilton Buckley, Tennyson: The Growth of a Poet (Cambridge MA: Harvard Univ. Press,
1974); and A. Dwight Culler, The Poetry of Tennyson (New Haven and London: Yale
Univ. Press, 1977). Ricks, Buckley, and Culler were all following in the tradition of Harold
Nicolson, who famously argued that there were two Tennysons, the melancholy “es-
sential genius” and the official Victorian spokesman. See Nicolson, Tennyson: Aspects
of His Life and Character (London: Constable, 1970), p. 5.
8
Culler, p. 9.
9
Tucker, p. 28.
10
Hallam, “On Sympathy,” in The Writings of Arthur Hallam, pp. 133–42, 137.
11
Marion Shaw, Alfred Lord Tennyson (New York: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1988), p. 105.
12
Hallam, “On Some of the Characteristics of Modern Poetry,” p. 186.
13
Ibid.
14
Hallam, “On Some of the Characteristics of Modern Poetry,” p. 191.
15
Hallam, “On Some of the Characteristics of Modern Poetry,” p. 189.
16
Ibid.
17
Hallam, “On Some of the Characteristics of Modern Poetry,” p. 190.
18
For a full discussion of Tennyson’s contribution to the conception of Englishness,
see John Lucas, England and Englishness: Ideas of Nationhood in English Poetry, 1688–
1900 (London: Hogarth Press, 1990), esp. chap. 8, “Tennyson’s Great Sirs,” pp. 161–80.
19
Armstrong, p. 37.
20
“Stout Cortez” is from John Keats’s “On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer,”
line 11, The Poems of John Keats, ed. Jack Stillinger (Cambridge MA: Harvard Univ. Press,
1978), p. 64. The phrase “chameleon poet” is from Keats’s letter to Richard Woodhouse,
27 October 1818, in The Letters of John Keats 1814–1821, 2 vols., ed. Hyder Edward
Rollins (Cambridge MA: Harvard Univ. Press, 1958), 1:387.
21
Alan Sinfield, Alfred Tennyson (London: Basil Blackwell, 1986), pp. 52–3.
22
W. D. Paden, Tennyson in Egypt: A Study of the Imagery in His Earlier Work, Hu-
manistic Studies 27 (Lawrence: Univ. of Kansas, 1942), pp. 24-30.
23
William Wordsworth, Home at Grasmere, MS D, lines 805–8 in Home at Grasmere:
Part First, Book First of The Recluse, ed. Beth Darlington (Ithaca: Cornell Univ. Press,
1977), pp. 35–107; Tennyson, “On Sublimity,” in The Poems of Tennyson, ed. Christo-
pher Ricks, 2d edn., 3 vols. (Berkeley and Los Angeles: Univ. of California Press, 1987),
pp. 85–98, lines 91, 72. All references to Tennyson’s poems will be to this edition and
hereafter will be cited parenthetically in the text by inclusive page numbers on first ref-
erence, line numbers on all references, and stanza numbers where appropriate.
24
Hallam Tennyson, Alfred Lord Tennyson: A Memoir by His Son, 2 vols. (1897;
rprt. New York: Greenwood Press, 1969), 1:11.
25
Paden, pp. 30-40.
26
Daniel Albright, Tennyson: The Muses’ Tug-of-War (Charlottesville: Univ. Press of
Virginia, 1986), pp. 15–8.
27
See Armstrong, p. 88, and Tucker, p. 48.
28
Sinfield, p. 39.
29
See James Eli Adams, Dandies and Desert Saints: Styles of Victorian Manhood
(Ithaca: Cornell Univ. Press, 1995).
30
Washington Irving, The Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus, ed. John
Harmon McElroy (Boston: Twayne, 1981).
31
Irving, p. 351. Irving himself may have found this passage too racy, and in his
abridgment he eliminated references to nakedness and merely said that the women
were “beautifully formed.” Tennyson would have had less justification for the eroticism
678 Tennyson’s Poetics

of the poem if he had read the version standard for general readers. See Irving, The Life
and Voyages of Christopher Columbus (abridged by Irving) (London: John Murray,
1830), p. 222.
32
Culler, p. 56.
33
Stephen Greenblatt, “Martial Law in the Land of Cockaigne,” Shakespearean Ne-
gotiations: The Circulation of Social Energy in Renaissance England (Berkeley: Univ.
of California Press, 1988), pp. 129–63, 135.
34
Armstrong, p. 58.
35
Wordsworth, The Recluse, line 804.
36
Edward Said, Orientalism (New York: Random House, 1979), p. 123.
37
Said, Abbe le Mascrier, Description de L’Egypte, p. 84.
38
Tucker, p. 145.
39
Tennyson said, “I was thinking of Shakespeare’s Cleopatra: ‘Think of me / That
am with Phoebus’ amorous pinches black’ (Antony and Cleopatra, I.v.28). Millais has
made a mulatto of her in his illustration. I know perfectly well that she was a Greek”
(quoted in Ricks, 1:486 n).
40
Hallam, “On Some of the Characteristics of Modern Poetry,” p. 192.
41
Culler, p. 32.