WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
It was at the house of G. P. R. James that we first became acquainted—that mutual friend of whom Landor thus speaks in one of his earliest letters to me:—
“You cannot overvalue James. There is not on God’s earth (I like this expression, vulgar or not) any better creature of His hand, any one more devoted to His high service—the office of improving us through our passions.”
The close friendship between these two men was to me inexpressively touching, inasmuch as it would be almost impossible to conceive a more striking contrast than they presented in every respect. Mr James, although a man of romance and sentiment, and by nature of an ardent temperament, had a quiet and staid demeanour, self-disciplined and self-contained; whereas all those who peruse any records of Landor must be well aware that none of the above epithets can in any way be applicable to him—such records, for instance, as Forster’s Life, the admirable sketch given by Mr Lowell of his first and only visit to that remarkable man at Bath, or the almost miraculous likeness of his moral portraiture by Mr Sidney Colvin, which caused me to ask the biographer if Landor had ever visited him in dreams. The pet name which I and my sister had for him was the “gentle savage.” Gentle and loving he was to those he loved, especially to women, both young and old; so much so indeed, as sometimes to be blinded in his discrimination of their worth, and which was unfortunately proved in his declining years when he became the dupe for a time of two designing women. The story is a well-known and most distressing one, for, when his eyes were opened, he did indeed become “savage,” and poured out the vials of his wrath in such violent and uncompromising language as legally to entitle his persecutors to heavy damages.
Gentle and pitiful he was to animals of all kinds, but dogs were his constant companions, and a large greyhound belonging to my sister was one of his special favourites. He told me once, quite in confidence, his discovery that dogs, whatever their nationality, understood Italian better than any other language; and in that soft tongue he always addressed a new canine acquaintance. In some letters written to me, which have been published in the Century Magazine, he thus speaks of “Pomero,” a dear little Pomeranian Spitz, and a great chum of my own when I used to go and pass a couple of days or so at Bath in a room hung with doubtful paintings of angels by Beato or Granacci, as he used laughingly to say, “an angel among angels”:[[66]]—
[66]. “Un Anguletto fra Anguli.”
“Alas, I have lost my poor dear Pomero! He died after a long illness, apparently from a kick he received during my absence. The whole house grieved for him. I buried him in a coffin in the garden. I would rather have lost everything else I possessed in the world. Seven years we lived together in more than amity. He loved me with all his heart; and what a heart it was! mine beats audibly while I write about him. Pray for me and Pomero; some people are so wicked as to believe we shall never meet again.”
Charles Dickens was one of Landor’s warmest admirers; he loved him dearly, and, as the saying goes, “all round.” He understood, and was even amused, by his outbursts of eloquent vituperation, and the character he has drawn of Boythorn in “Bleak House” is true to the very life.
A school-fellow thus describes him: “In those days he was the most impetuous of schoolboys, now he is the most impetuous of men; then the loudest boy in the world, now the loudest of men; then the sturdiest boy in the world, now the sturdiest man; then the heartiest boy in the world, now the heartiest man. Talking or laughing he makes the very house shake. But it is the inside of the man, the warm heart of the man, the passion of the man, the fresh blood of the man. His language is as astounding as his voice. He is always in extremes, frequently in the superlative degree. He talks sometimes like an ogre, which some people believe him to be. No one could be more aware of his irascibility than Landor himself, who told me, amid shouts of laughter, how he had overheard a peasant at his own Florentine villa describing him in these terms: ‘Oh, he’s a capital good fellow, but—— he’s a real devil when the fit’s upon him.’”[[67]]
[67]. “Il signor è un vero Galant uomo, ma è un vero diavolo quando la piglia.”
Dear “gentle savage,” our whole household loved him—mother, son, daughters, and every dog in the house and yard. He would often come over to see us from Bath at our little woodland home at Millard’s Hill, and he erected at his own expense a large stone cross on the banks of Marston lake (the estate of my uncle, Lord Cork). The pedestal bore the inscription: “This symbol of safety was intended to mark the spot where Carolina Boyle[[68]] fell into the water, whence her sister’s courage rescued her.” Sooth to say, my exertions were rather a sign of strength than courage, for, walking by the side of the lake, I heard the terrible cry, “Help!” and coming up to the place, I leaped into the boat, and succeeded with much difficulty in lifting “Caddy”[[69]] into the same. I say with difficulty, as she was much bigger and taller than myself, and her clothes were entirely full of water, hanging for more than half an hour by the frail support of a willow branch, by which she was enabled to keep her head above water; the time was marked by the chimes of the clock at Marston House, which were distinctly audible on the lake. I have learned since, to my surprise and regret, that this interesting relic, namely the cross, has been removed.
[68]. The Honourable Carolina Boyle, daughter of Admiral the Honourable Sir Courtenay Boyle, K.C.B.
[69]. Ibid.
Dear “gentle savage!” It is true that his voice was powerful enough to shake the house, but how tender, how musical, when he chose to modulate it! There is nothing I love more than to hear a poet read his own poems aloud, a favour in which the dear Laureate[[70]] has often indulged me. One day I brought two books to Landor, accompanied by a petition for the same boon. Two precious volumes, inasmuch as they were the respective gifts of our friend, G. P. R. James, and himself. In “Pericles and Aspasia” I requested him to read me the touching letter beginning “There is a gloom in deep love as in deep water,” which has ever struck me as one of the most exquisite passages in English prose, and in the “Pentameron” the book opened of itself at “Boccaccio’s Dream,” when he is blessed by the lovely vision of his lost “Fiammietta.”
[70]. Alfred, first Lord Tennyson.
More than half a century has passed away since that lecture under the shade of the sycamore in our little garden, but the tones of that voice that is gone still vibrate in my memory.
VISCOUNT STRATFORD DE REDCLIFFE[[71]]
[71]. Stratford Canning, Viscount Stratford de Redcliffe; born 1786; died 1880.
My first acquaintance with this eminent man, who was known to his contemporaries as the great “Elchee,” was during his residence at Westbrook Hayes, within a few miles’ distance of Ashridge where I was then staying, and while there, and on his return to his house in Grosvenor Square, I always met with great kindness, and was encouraged to be a constant visitor; that, not only by the great “Elchee” himself, but by the gentle and courteous Lady Stratford,[[72]] whose rare fate it had been to be a wife and an ambassadress at twenty. Between their second daughter and myself there sprung up a close intimacy, and our meetings were frequent beneath the roof of dear Lady Marian Alford, where both in London and at Ashridge we were often fellow-guests, and earnestly did I share the grief of her two surviving sisters, when dear “Catty”[[73]] passed away.
[72]. Elizabeth Charlotte, daughter of James Alexander, Esq. She died in 1882.
[73]. Honourable Catharine Canning, daughter of above; born 1835; died 1884.
Lord Stratford de Redcliffe, even in his advanced years, was a man of magnificent presence, extreme personal beauty, with features which would kindle at a moment’s notice from deep calm to an expression of varied excitement. I have seldom seen a face that answered more faithfully to the feelings within, and although in his conversations with me he was ever kind and gentle, I could well imagine that it would be in no way difficult to rouse that British lion.
I was much amused by an anecdote I heard respecting him, at a time when the Eastern question was the universal theme of conversation.
One day a visitor, calling at his door, met Gladstone coming out. “How did you find Lord Stratford?” was the question addressed to the G.O.M. “Wonderfully well,” was the reply, “but quite cracked on the subject of Turkey.” The visitor entered. “I have just met Gladstone on the doorstep,” he said. “Yes,” answered Lord Stratford, “he is in great force and most agreeable, but, between ourselves, the Eastern question has sent him off his head.”
I hope I may be excused in concluding this short sketch, if I insert the following lines which he one day addressed to me, on my asking him for his autograph.
“To meet your wish I fain would write,
But doubtful how to please,
My words are flat, my notions trite,
In short, I’m ill at ease.
“What may be done in such a fix
Your wit alone can tell;
Do you find straw to make the bricks,
Be sure I’ll not rebel.
“I ask not wheat, I won’t take chaff,
Between them lies an art
Whereby to make the gravest laugh,
Yet somehow touch the heart.
“If one there be who has the skill,
To hit so nice a law,
’Tis she who prompts the tuneful quill,
And gives the golden straw.”
Stratford de Redcliffe.
23rd September 1865.