Tennyson would sometimes retort in kind to my father’s frank criticisms, and once, after vainly trying to decipher one of his letters, observed that the handwriting was “like walking-sticks gone mad,” a curiously true description of my father’s very peculiar characters.[64]
As with scenery, so with poetry; my father only took in broad effects and simple pathos, and would single out for special admiration such a poem as the “Children’s Hospital,” over which he shed many tears.
Tennyson soon accustomed himself to my father’s indifference to his poetry in general. But he hoped that, at all events, his metaphysical poems would interest his neighbour, and sent him the MS. of “De Profundis” when he wrote it; but the reply was only an entreaty that he would put explanatory notes to it when it should be published. One exception, however, must be made in favour of “Becket,” which Tennyson read aloud to Ward, who, greatly to his own surprise, admired it enthusiastically. “How do you like it?” Tennyson asked, and the reply was, “Very much, though I did not expect to like it at all. It is quite splendid. The development of character in Chancellor and Archbishop is wonderfully drawn. Where did you learn it all?”
I used to think there was a good deal that was alike between the intercourse of Tennyson with my father and his intercourse with my father’s old friend, Dr. Jowett of Balliol. In both cases there was the same complete frankness—an unanswerable reply to those who gave it out that Tennyson best enjoyed the society of flatterers. Jowett, however, understood Tennyson’s poetry far better than my father did. It was sometimes strange to see that impassive figure, so little given to emotion, so ready to snub in others any display of feeling, under the spell of the Poet’s lines. I recollect once at Farringford listening with Jowett after dinner to Tennyson’s reading of his “Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington.” It was a poem which his peculiar chant made most moving, and he read the concluding lines with special pathos:
Speak no more of his renown,
Lay your earthly fancies down,
And in the vast cathedral leave him;
God accept him, Christ receive him.
Tennyson then turned to address some observation to Jowett, but no reply came, and we soon saw that the Master was unable to speak. The tears were streaming down his cheeks. I ventured to allude to this some time later in talking to Jowett, and he said, “What would you have? The two Englishmen for whom I have the deepest feeling of reverence are Tennyson and the great Duke of Wellington. And one of them was reading what he had himself written in admiration of the other!”
When my father died Tennyson visited his grave in company with Father Haythornthwaite, who spoke to me of the visit directly afterwards. A cross of fresh flowers had been placed on the grave until the monument should be erected. Tennyson quoted Shirley’s couplet:
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.
And then, standing over the grave, he recited the whole of the beautiful poem from which these lines are taken. Tennyson’s eldest son wrote to me at the same time:
His wonderful simplicity in faith and nature, together with his subtle and far-reaching grasp of intellect, make up a man never to be forgotten. My father and mother and myself will miss him more than I can say; I loved him somehow like an intimate college friend.