[Greek: ded.y.k.e men ha selanna kai Pleiades, mesai de nyktes, para d' erchet' hora, ego de mona katheudo.]

The moon has set, the Pleiades have gone; Midnight! The hour has past, and I Sleep here alone.

Or again:

[Greek: glukeia mater, outoi dunamai kreken ton histon, potho dameisa paidos bradinan di' Aphroditan.]

Dear mother mine, I cannot weave my web-- My heart is sick with longing for my dear, Through Aphrodite fair.

And he would probably have included that longer poem of pa.s.sion which has been the wonder of the world, that invocation to

Starry-throned, immortal Aphrodite.

[Greek: poikilothron, athanat Aphrodita.]

Mr. Dakyns did not tell me himself what he had learnt of Simonides from Tennyson, but Tennyson quoted the following poems to his eldest son, Hallam. The sad, comforting, beautiful chant of Danae to her baby, afloat on the waters, was quoted in one of Mr. Dakyns's last letters to me, when his mind was full of his unfinished article. He wrote: "Isn't that lovely and tear-drawing? true and tender and sempiternal?" And then he copied out the whole song, in case I should chance not to have the text at hand, with J. A. Symonds's translation beside it:

[Greek: hote larnaki en daidalea anemos te min pneon kinetheisa te limna deimati eripen, out' adiantoisi pareiais, amphi te Persei balle philen cheira, eipe t'; o tekos, oion echo ponon.

su d' aoteis, galatheno t' etori knosseis en aterpei dourati chalkeogompho, nukti alampei kuaneo te dnopho staleis; halman d' huperthe tean koman batheian pariontos k.u.matos ouk alegeis, oud' anemou phthongon, porphurea keimenos en chlanidi, kalon prosopon.

ei de toi deinon to ge deinon en, kai ken emon rhematon lepton hupeiches ouas.

kelomai d', heude brephos, heudeto de pontos, heudeto d' ametron kakon; metaibolia de tis phaneie, Zeu pater, ek seo; hoti de tharsaleon epos euchomai nosphin dikas, syngnothi moi.]

When in the carven chest The winds that blew and waves in wild unrest Smote her with fear, she not with cheeks unwet Her arms of love round Perseus set, And said: "O child, what grief is mine!

But thou dost slumber, and thy baby breast Is sunk in rest.

Here in the cheerless, bra.s.s-bound bark, Tossed amid starless night and pitchy dark, Nor dost thou heed the scudding brine Of waves that wash above thy curls so deep, Nor the shrill winds that sweep-- Lapped in thy purple robe's embrace Fair little face!

But if this dread were dreadful, too, to thee, Then would'st thou lend thy listening ear to me; Therefore I cry, Sleep, babe, and sea be still, And slumber our unmeasured ill!

Oh, may some change of fate, sire Zeus, from Thee Descend our woes to end!

But if this prayer, too overbold, offends Thy justice,--yet be merciful to me.

It was natural also that the heroic poems of Simonides should have appealed to both men, and of special interest to know the delight that Tennyson took in one of these, and perhaps because of the similarity shown by his own splendid lines in the "Duke of Wellington" Ode:

He, that ever following her commands, On with toil of heart and knees and hands, Thro' the long gorge to the far light has won His path upward, and prevail'd, Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled Are close upon the shining table-lands To which our G.o.d Himself is moon and sun.

[Greek: esti tis logos tan aretan naiein dysambatois epi petrais; hagnan de min thean choron hagnon amphepein.

oude panton blepharois thnaton esoptos, o me dakethymos hidros endothen mole, hike t' es akron andreias.]

There is a tale That Valour dwells above the craggy peaks Hard, hard to scale, A G.o.ddess pure in a pure land, and none May see her face, Save those who by keen Toil and sweat have won That highest place, That goal of manhood.

And with these heroic lines go the others on the men who fell at Thermopylae:

[Greek: ton en Thermopylais thanonton euklees men ha tycha, kalos d' ho potmos, bomos d' ho taphos, pro goon de mnastis, ho d' oiktos epainos: entaphion de toiouton out' euros outh' ho pandamator amaurosei chronos.

andron agathon hode sakos oiketan eudoxian h.e.l.lados heileto: martyrei de Leonidas, ho Spartas basileus, aretas megan leloipos kosmon aenaon te kleos.]

Of those who fell at far Thermopylae, Fair is the fate and high the destiny: Their tomb an altar, memory for tears And praise for lamentation through the years.

On such a monument comes no decay, And Time that conquers all takes not away Their greatness: for this holy Sepulchre Of valiant men has called to dwell with her The glory of all Greece. Bear witness, Sparta's king, Leonidas! thy ever-flowing spring Of fame and the high beauty of thy deed!

There is a kindred note echoing through the popular catch in praise of the tyrannicides, Harmodius and Aristogeiton, one of the first bits of Greek that Tennyson made his sons learn:

[Greek: en myrtou kladi to xiphos ph.o.r.eso, hosper Harmodios kai Aristogeiton, hote ton tyrannon ktaneten isonomous t' Athenas epoiesaten.]

In myrtle I wreathe my sword As they wreathed it, the brave, Brave Harmodius, Aristogeiton, When they slew the oppressor, the lord, And to Athens her freedom gave.

Mr. Dakyns must have rejoiced in a spirit that could feed boys on such gallant stuff as this.

From Goethe he would have selected the n.o.ble proem to Faust:

Ihr naht Euch wieder, schw.a.n.kende Gestalten,

for there was a note among his papers to that effect.

And there is one note about Beranger (written in a letter):

It was he too who introduced me to Beranger, _e.g._ "Le Roi d'Yvetot,"

and the refrain:

Toute l'aristocratie a la lanterne![60]

And how _he_ read it! Like the _Conturbabimus illa, ne sciamus_ of Catullus quoted above--with fire and fury, _tauriformis Aufidus_-like--a refrain which, like the "Ma.r.s.eillaise," stirred my republican spirit [Greek: nosphin dikas], inordinately, I mean, and in a monstrous cruel sort of way: but what _he_ liked was the form and force of the language, the pure art and horror of it, I imagine.

Mr. Dakyns, in the short time I knew him, often spoke to me about Tennyson, and always with stress on "the width of his humanity," and how he could appreciate works at which a smaller man might have been shocked; how, for example, he sympathized with the inmost spirit of Hugo's cry to the awful vastness of G.o.d:

Je sais que vous avez bien autre chose a faire Que de nous plaindre tous;

saw nothing irreverent in it, as lesser critics have done; found in it rather a fortifying quality against "the grief that saps the mind." "I wish you could have heard him read it," he wrote afterwards, "in his organ-voice." Once he said to me how much he had wanted Tennyson to write the Ode on the Stars which was always floating before his mind: "He could have done it, for he had the sense of vastness. And it would have been a far finer work than the 'Idylls of the King.'"

Tennyson also, he told me, was the first man to tell him about Walt Whitman, and the first pa.s.sage he showed him was one of the most daring Whitman ever wrote. On his side Whitman had a deep feeling for Tennyson and used to write of him affectionately as "the Boss," a touch that pleased Mr. Dakyns greatly, for he admired and loved Walt. He gave me a vivid impression of Tennyson's large-heartedness in all kinds of ways: for instance, his own opinions were always intensely democratic, and the Tennysons sympathized rather with the old Whig and Unionist policy, but he said it never made any difference or any jar between them. "I remember his coming into my little study at the top of the house and finding me absorbed in Sh.e.l.ley, and asking me what I was reading, and I was struck at the time by the quiet satisfied way in which he took my answer, no cavil or criticism, though I knew he did not feel about Sh.e.l.ley as I did.... I don't know how to give in writing the true impression of his dear genial nature. It often came out in what might seem like roughnesses when they were written down. He was very fond of Clough: and Clough at that time was very taciturn--he was ill really, near his death--and I remember once at a discussion on metre Clough would not say one word, and at last Tennyson turned to him with affectionate impatience, quoting Shakespeare in his deep, kindly voice, 'Well, goodman Dull, what do _you_ say?' How can I put that down? I can't give the sweet humorous tone that made the charm of it.

And then people called him 'gruff.' His 'gruffness' only gripped one closer."

Another time he told me with keen enjoyment of Tennyson's discovering a likeness to him in some drawing on the cover of the old _Cornhill_--I think it was the figure of a lad ploughing--pointing to it like a child and saying, "Little Dakyns." He would speak with delight of Tennyson's humour, far deeper and wilder, he said, than most people would have guessed, Rabelaisian even in the n.o.ble sense of the word, and always fresh and pure.

"I remember an instance of my own audacity," he said, "at which I almost shudder now. We were riding into a French town, it was the evening of a fete, and the whole population seemed to be capering about with the most preposterous antics. It struck a jarring note, and the Poet said to me, 'I can't understand them, it's enough to make one weep.' Somehow I couldn't help answering--but can you imagine the audacity? I a.s.sure you I trembled myself as I did so--'Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean.' And he took it, he took it! He did indeed!"

The memories of Clough also were very dear to Mr. Dakyns, and he said he could never help regretting that he had not heard him read his last long work, "In Mari Magno," to the Poet. "Tennyson said to me afterwards, 'Clough's Muse has lost none of her power,' and I couldn't help feeling a little hurt that I had not been asked to hear the reading: perhaps it was vanity on my part."

Clough always came down to see them bathe. He was very fond of bathing himself, but could not take part in it then on account of his health. "I never feel the water go down my back now," Mr. Dakyns said, "without thinking of Clough."

But the sweetest of all the memories was, I think, the memory of the valley at Cauteretz, sacred to Tennyson because of Arthur Hallam. I heard Mr. Dakyns speak of that the first time he was at our house. My mother chanced to ask him what he did after taking his degree, and he said, "I was with the Tennysons as tutor to their boys, and we went to the Pyrenees." The name and something in his tone made me start. "Oh," I said, "were you with them at Cauteretz?" He turned to me with his smile, "Yes, I was, and if I had not already a family motto of which I am very proud, I should take for my legend 'Dakyns isn't a fool'" (the last phrase in a gruffly tender voice). And then he told us: "There was a fairly large party of us, the Tennysons, Clough, and myself, some walking and some driving. Tennyson walked, and I being the young man of the company, was the great man's walking-stick. When we came to the valley--I knew it was a sacred place--I dropped behind to let him go through it alone. Clough told me afterwards I had done well. He had noticed it, and the Poet said--and it was quite enough--'Dakyns isn't a fool!'"

It was that evening that Tennyson wrote "All along the Valley."

RECOLLECTIONS OF TENNYSON

By the Rev. H. MONTAGU BUTLER, D.D., Master of Trinity College, Cambridge.