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Landor makes Boccaccio say, concerning the 
critic, that he walks in a garden which is not 
his own, and must neither pluck the flowers to 
embellish his discourse, nor break off branches 
to display his strength. Lying about Landor's 
garden were a few withered sprays and faded 
leaves. They are here collected, not with a 
critical design, but rather for a memorial. All 
who take interest in Landor's writings or in 
his life will surely prize them ; while for others, 
perhaps they might help to shape a conception 
of his character and quality not far removed 
from the truth. 

Landor was never more himself than when 
writing to intimate friends, and a number of 
his letters will be found here. Some day it 
may be thought right to publish a larger selec- 
tion from his correspondence. Beside what is 


now given, there is a quantity of verse hitherto 
unprinted ; together w^ith compositions in prose 
which might otherwise have been lost beyond 
recall. Lastly, certain bibliographical notes are 
appended, in the hope that they may be of 
some assistance to inquirers in this side-path 
of literary exploration. One work of Landor's 
— * Letters of a Canadian ' — traces of which are 
now discovered, seems to have been altogether 
unknown to his editors and biographers. 

In Chapter V., where something is said 
about Landor's ' Poems from the Arabic and 
Persian,' there is a reference to an Arabic 
poet, Fazil Beg, described as the grandson of 
Sheikh Dahir of Acre. Mr. Ellis, of the British 
Museum, has kindly enlightened my ignorance 
of this author and his works, which, however, 
are more curious than edifying. According to 
J. von Hammer-Purgstall and Mr. E. J. W. 
Gibb, Fazil Beg was a son, not a grandson, of 
the ruler of Acre (Tahir Pasha, the name should 
be) ; but whereas Volney states that only one 
of Tahir's sons was spared by Hassan Pasha, 
Mr. Gibb tells us that Fazil Beg had a younger 
brother, Kiamil Beg, who was also spared and 
taken to Constantinople, and that this Kiamil 


Beg was likewise a poet. A Turkish poem, by 
Fazil Beg — the Zenan Nama, or ' Book of 
Women ' — has within late years been trans- 
lated into French. It bears no resemblance 
to Landor's supposed translations, and their 
original must be sought for either in Fazil 
Beg's Arabic poems or in his brother's. 

To Lady Graves-Sawle and Dr. Arthur de 
Noe Walker my warmest thanks are due. To 
Mr. Stephen Luke, CLE., I am indebted for 
photographs of the Hon. Rose Aylmer's tomb, 
the situation of which was first pointed out by 
Dr. Busteed, in his * Echoes of Old Calcutta,' a 
singularly interesting volume of Anglo-Indian 














ING BY COUNT d'orsay . . Fvontispiecc 

GRAPH . .... To face page 'J2 


landor's DESK . . . To face page ']6 


BY JOHN GIBSON, R.A. . . To face page 2^/\. 




High on a hill a goodly Cedar grewe, 
Of wondrous length and streight proportion, 
That farre abroad her daintie odours threwe ; 
Mongst all the daughters of proud Libanon, 
Her match In beauty was not anie one.' 

Ed. Spenser. 

More than half a century ago, a cedar-tree at 
Ipsley Court in Warwickshire, whether by wind 
or lightning, was shattered and overthrown. 
* Surely about the root,' the owner of the estate 
wrote forthwith to his sister, ' there must be 
some pieces large enough to make a little box 
of. Pray keep them for me.' His desire had 
been foreseen ; and not long after, on his 
seventieth birthday, his sister sent him a 




cedar-wood writing-desk. Battered somewhat, 
scarred with marks of toil and travel, that desk 
even now contains what to its first owner were 
relics above price. For eighteen years it served 
the man for whom it was lovingly fashioned, 
Walter Savage Landor. Another four-and- 
thirty years it remained in the hands of Lan- 
dor's intimate friend, Arthur de Noe Walker. 
By Landor's friend it was given to me. 

Landor once remarked that the scent of 
cedar produced a singular effect on him. Even 
a cedar-pencil held unconsciously near his face 
would so absorb the senses that what he was 
about to write vanished altogether and irre- 
coverably. Memory, alas ! may at times have 
played him false while he was sitting at this 
desk; more than once, what he called the 
' latter-math of thought ' yielded a less goodly 
fragrance than a summer crop ; yet who will 
affirm that the desk of cedar-wood was to 
blame ? Other, even less palpable influences 
were about that * imperial brow.' From the 
first hour he used it his steps were hastening 
to the river all must cross : 

' Happy, who reach it ere they count the loss 
Of half their faculties and half their friends.' 


It was no perfume born of Eastern wood- 
land and hillside — scattered, he once said, 
from the wings of angels as they lighted on 
cedars of Lebanon — that could overcloud his 
intellect or disturb his fancy, but rather the 
damps of life's autumn that ' sink into the 
leaves and prepare them for the necessity of 
their fall.' And if the words that came were 
not at all times the happiest and the best, if 
the verses were not always carmina linenda 
cedro, et levi servanda cupresso, if some small 
portion of prose and poetry thus written in 
these his declining years might more wisely 

I have been blotted out, there is nothing to 
marvel at : 

* Neither is Dirce clear, 
Nor is Ilissos full throughout the year.' 

Yet we may not forbear to guard and preserve 
whatever can animate our memories of a great 

To return to the desk of cedar-wood. The 
tree out of which it was made was perhaps 
one of * two solitary cedar twins,' at Ipsley 
Court, referred to in some unpublished verses, 
not otherwise remarkable, which I find in a 

I — 2 


letter of Lander's written when he Hved in 
Florence in i860 ; cedars — 

* Fifty years old, and spreading wide 
O'er the soft glebe their hospitable arms.' 

These same trees also inspired one of his 
published poems : 

' Cypress and cedar ! gracefullest of trees, 
Friends of my boyhood ! ye, before the breeze, 
As lofty lords before an Eastern throne 
Bend the whole body, not the head alone.* 

Everyone has heard of the countless cedars 
that Landor planted on his Welsh estate. He 
obtained thousands of cones from Lebanon, 
but the experiment in forestry turned out ill. 
It might have fared better, perhaps, had 
Landor taken a hint from John Evelyn and 
tried the Bermudas cedar, *of all others the 
most excellent and odoriferous';* so likely, 
moreover, as Evelyn heard, to thrive in other 
countries that 'twas pity, he thought, but it 
should be universally cultivated. Lander's 
failure at Llanthony, we know, did not cure 
him of his affection for cedar-trees. He seems 

* Mr. John Evelyn, at Sayes Court, to Mr. 
William London at Barbados, September 27, 1681. 


to have kept some of the cones and to have 
planted one in his garden at Fiesole. This at 
least I gather from the Latin verses here printed 
for the first time : 

Cedrus Inseritur. 
' Gaudete, o floras ! quam clauserat area novennem 
Inseritur Iseta libera cedrus humo. 
Mox ilia asstiva nutrix vos proteget umbra, 
Forsitan atque aliam, me quoque si merear.' 

So it is not difficult to understand how, in 
Landor's eyes, the writing-desk, made from the 
wood of his favourite tree, and given to him by 
his best-beloved sister, acquired a value far 
above the intrinsic worth of a roughly-shapen 
piece of furniture, the modest essay, one doubts 
not, of a village carpenter. He used it con- 
stantly, carried it with him on his hurried flight 
to Italy, and only parted with it, after eighteen 
years of close companionship, when he believed 
his end was approaching. Then it was that he 
wrote to the Contessa Geltrude Baldelli, the 
sister of his friend Arthur de ' Noe Walker, the 
letter that follows : 

* Dear Countess, 

' In a little while I must make a long journey, 
and I shall not be able to take London on my way. 


Therefor I keep my promise to Arthur in making a 
present to him of my writing-desk and its contents. 
During these several days, I have been almost 
entirely deaf and insensible, and have seen nobody 
but the kind and accomplisht Mr. Twisleton, 
brother of Lord Say and Seale. He comes to 
visit me almost every evening. Whenever you 
have an opportunity, or whenever Arthur comes 
to Florence, give him my desk. Meanwhile, 

believe me, 

' Yours sincerely, 

* W. S. Landor. 
'May 15, '63.' 

The Contessa forwarded the letter to her 
brother, writing herself on the same sheet of 
paper : 

' Mr. Landor is apparently better than usual, but 
persuaded that he will not live many days. I have 
the desk in my keeping.* 

With his habitual intolerance of delays, 
Landor would not quietly await a fitting oc- 
casion for sending the desk by a safe hand 
to London. A few days later he had it brought 
back to him, and himself arranged for its de- 
spatch. A postscript to a letter of his dated 
May 27, 1863, says : 


' I trust the writing-case will have reached you. 
It contains the only valuables I possess — two 
miniatures — keep them for my sake as I kept 
them for theirs they represent. The spedizionario 
has promist me to pay the carriage to London.* 

What the desk contained when it was opened 
and examined, more than thirty years afterwards, 
the following pages will in part discover. The 
task has not been undertaken without a certain 
trepidation. Landor himself was quick to resent 
the heartless effrontery that lays bare to idly 
inquisitive eyes the more sacred relics of the 
famous dead; while the impedimenta of great 
men — the chair that one author of repute sat in, 
the pen that another handled — would not, in 
his opinion, be worth a search. Still less would 
he have wished that every word he wrote him-, 
self should be redeemed from oblivion by the 
indiscriminating reverence of an after age. He 
warmly protested against * the disinterment of 
the rankest garbage of Swift and Dryden/ who 
as it was, he considered, had left too much 
above ground ; and the later successes of 
lettered curiosity-hunters would have excited 
his angry contempt. Nothing, therefore, either 
of the papers or of the little possessions which 


for some reason or other he had kept so many- 
years will be longer preserved, save such as 
may help to a better comprehension of his life 
and writings. 

I must explain that there was much more in 
the desk, when it was my privilege to examine 
its contents, than had been placed in its various 
compartments when Landor sent it to his friend 
in London. All that was originally there still 
remains — miniatures, an old pocket-book, a 
purse, a pen-wiper, some spectacles and eye- 
glasses that Landor had used, and other belong- 
ings, including one most precious relic, to be 
mentioned hereafter : few who love Landor's 
memory will hear of its existence without 
emotion. Along with these, Landor's friend 
kept many of the letters he had received from 
him ; and as their correspondence extended 
over the space of sixteen years, this portion 
of the treasure would make many a collector 
of autographs turn pale with envy. Moreover, 
Landor's friend had acted the part of inter- 
mediary — no easy function — between the exiled 
poet and a London publisher. Thus it fell out 
that the author's manuscript of a whole volume 
of his works came to be kept in the desk. 


together with many of his writings, which at 
one time or another he wished to have inserted 
in the last of his books, but which — either 
because he changed his mind, or for some other 
cause — were eventually held back. The manu- 
script of the * Heroic Idyls ' (London, 1863) — 
Landor's last work — has been deposited in the 
British Museum. 

Then, again, there is a separate collection of 
prose and poetry, most of it in Landor's hand- 
writing, the rest consisting of portions of his 
earlier books in print, but with his manuscript 
emendations. To this separate parcel a curious 
history is attached. Landor had heard, or read 
in some literary journal, that a publisher in the 
United States proposed to bring out a complete 
edition of his works. A volume of selections 
had already appeared there, and shortly before 
the outbreak of the Civil War Mr. Field of 
Boston made arrangements for bringing out a 
reprint of the two-volume edition of Landor's 
works published by Mr. Moxon in 1846. Landor 
had always hoped to be widely read beyond the 
Atlantic. * I could never live there,' he said, 
* because they have no cathedrals or painted 
glass ' ; yet he numbered many distinguished 


Americans among his friends — Emerson the 
philosopher, Story the sculptor and poet, Mr. 
James Russell Lowell, diplomatist and man of 
letters, and many more. For upwards of half 
a century he had taken a keen interest in 
American politics. His first volume of imaginary 
conversations was dedicated in 1824 to ' Major- 
General Stopford, Adjutant-General in the army 
of Columbia,' and a connection of his own by 
marriage ; for the handsome ex-Guardsman, 
who had renounced the gaieties of London to 
serve under Bolivar, had married Mrs. Landor's 
sister. A subsequent volume was dedicated to 
Bolivar himself. George Washington and Ben- 
jamin Franklin, as well as the founder of Penn- 
sylvania, figure in Landor's dialogues ; and he 
would frequently put his own speculations on 
American affairs into the mouths of European 
potentates and statesmen. When he learnt, 
therefore, that his writings were about to be laid 
before American readers in a becoming shape, 
he was profoundly gratified. No pains must 
be spared to make the edition perfect. Packet 
after packet of corrections and additions was 
sent to Boston from Via Nunziatina, Florence, 
where Landor spent his last years on earth. 


* Nothing in the course of my long Ufa ever 
went on smoothly.' So he wrote to his friend 
in London early in 1861, and in the same letter 
he referred to the manuscripts sent to Mr. Field 
of Boston, who was to have begun the printing 
of the American edition at this very time. * It 
is probable,' he added, 'that recent occurrences 
in America will divert the public attention from 
literature.' And so it was. Mr. Field presently 
wrote to say that the approaching struggle 
between North and South compelled him to 
postpone the publication of an American edition ; 
whereupon, at Lander's request, the manuscripts 
were sent to the same friend in London who 
had undertaken to see the * Heroic Idyls ' 
through the press. By him they were presently 
put away in the cedar-wood desk, where the 
other day I found them, along with the rest of 
a veritable treasure trove. 

But I must leave to others the task of ap- 
praising the value of what is thus brought to 
light — prose and poetry, letters to friends, 
emendations of what was already in print, 
suggestions for new editions, and the little 
drawer full of keepsakes from people known 
and unknown. Not being an expert in such 


computation, I would say the lot together is 
worth an old song, provided Landor's comment 
on the contrary phrase be borne in remembrance : 
* We often hear that such or such a thing is not 
worth an old song. Alas ! how very few things 

Mr. Forster, when he prepared his eight- 
volume edition of Landor's life and works, 
either was not aware of the existence of these 
papers, or did not trouble his head about them. 
An accident, which I for one sincerely deplore, 
concealed them from Mr. Sidney Colvin's 
knowledge when he was writing those two 
most delightful volumes which have done more 
than all Mr. Forster's cumbrous efforts to con- 
vince Englishmen that Landor is among the 
immortals. They were equally inaccessible to 
Landor's latest editor, Mr. Crump. But if 
ever there is to be a final and complete edition 
of the imaginary conversations, miscellaneous 
prose works, and poems of the great writer 
whose first book was published when Byron 
was a schoolboy, whose last appeared when 
some of the best known writers of to-day 
had already bound themselves to the idle trade 
of versifying, this collection — as I think the 


account here given of it will abundantly prove 
— cannot possibly be overlooked. Not that 
every scrap of paper Landor wrote on, every 
last leaf that fell from the old tree, need be 
handed down to posterity. Some of these 
sweepings from his study — to use one of the 
titles he thought of for a projected volume of 
miscellanies — might be swept into the sea with- 
out detriment, even with positive advantage, to 
his fame. Others, again, he had himself re- 
jected on second thoughts, and when his second 
thoughts were the best ; for quick as he often 
was to demolish a friendly objection, if it was 
an unfounded one, he could also acquiesce when 
he found that a flaw invisible to his own eyes 
was patent to others. The composition so 
condemned would be put aside without a word. 
This is the explanation of many of the alterations 
noted in Mr. Crump's variorum edition of his 
works ; and I have reason to know that a few, 
at any rate, of the fragments in his desk were 
withheld from the printer by his own wish and 
from the same motives. His wishes, need I 
say, as far as they can be discerned, shall be 

Besides manuscripts and printed papers and 


the more interesting relics which will be 
mentioned presently, Landor's desk contained 
a few odds and ends either of smaller account 
or less easy to identify. There is an old- 
fashioned purse, a network of silk with gilt 
rings and tassels, such as our grandmothers 
were wont to use when they wore their best 
gowns. No doubt there is a story to it, if one 
knew. Mrs. Dashwood* once gave Landor a 
purse, together with some lady-like verses on 
the presentation, to which Landor responded : 

* I should think it a sin 
Any paul to put in 

A net that the Graces have woven ; 
And if ever I do 't 
May he kick me whose foot 

(They say who have seen it) is cloven.' 

The verses may be found in Ablett's * Literary 
Hours,' and their authorship is avowed in a 
manuscript note in the South Kensington copy 
of that rare volume. Mrs. Dashwood's purse, 
however, was of a bright crimson hue ; this one 
is blue and orange. 

Nor do I know why Landor kept the silk 

* Daughter of Dean Shipley and cousin to 
Francis Hare. 


watch-guards and eye-glass cords, though 
among the papers there are verses to Miss 
Edith Story, the daughter of the accompHshed 
American sculptor, thanking her for some such 

* With pride I wear a silken twine, 
Precious as every gift of thine ; 
Only less precious than the chain 
For which so many sigh in vain."^' 

Three pairs of spectacles and a double eye-glass, 
with rims of tortoiseshell, were perhaps bought 
by Landor for himself. He once told Words- 
worth that thinking ruined one's eyesight more 
surely than reading, and that those who read 
much and think little do not suffer. There is 
also a double eye-glass in silver and tortoise- 
shell of a more antiquated pattern. A French 
lady gave Landor some eye-glasses that once 
belonged to Talleyrand, but by Landor they 
were given to Sir Henry Bulwer. 

A quantity of flower seeds sent to Landor, I 
fancy, by his sister from Ipsley Court, some 
pieces of ribbon, linked coat-buttons, a pocket- 
book with one or two almost illegible entries, in 
which one can make out little else except the 

* Landor MSS. 


name of Kossuth, an unrecognized photograph, 
and a penwiper may also be mentioned here. 
Of other rehcs the reader shall hear in due 

But before describing the more noteworthy 
contents of the desk of cedar-wood, a word 
should be said of the circumstances that have 
made me its custodian. Though Landor's 
writings first found a place among my most 
intimate books years ago in India, it was some 
little time before I became aware of his Indian 
associations. Even when I lodged in Russell 
Street, Calcutta, I did not know that Rose 
Aylmer's uncle gave his name to the street, 
and that she died in that very quarter of the 
City of Palaces ; nor when I called with letters 
of introduction on the distinguished officer who 
held the post of Surveyor- General had I any 
notion that he was Landor's brother-in-law and 
god-son. In course of time I discovered that 
some of Landor's dearest friends had been in 
India ; and I often wondered then who it was 
he had addressed in the lines : 

• After hot days in the wild wastes of war, 
Where India saw thy sword shine bright above 
The helms of thousand brave.' 


At length a happy chance made me acquainted 
with Dr. Arthur de Noe Walker, late Captain 
in the Madras Army, the very man for whom 
these verses were written ; and I discovered 
that Dr. Walker had been Landor's friend for 
thirty years. But for his unfailing kindness 
and sympathy these chapters would not be 
written. Besides placing the papers in Lan- 
dor's desk at my disposal, he has helped me 
more than I can tell to a better knowledge of 
his old friend's life and character. I have to 
thank him, too, for what is perhaps the best of 
the portraits of Landor here reproduced. 

What Dr. Walker thinks of the various like- 
nesses, pictures, photographs, and engravings, 
which we have looked at together, merits of 
course particular attention. Writing to him 
from Florence in February 23, i860, Landor 
said : 

* You shall certainly have a photograph of me, 
altho' I refused to allow Forster, who edited the two 
volumes of my works, to place an engraving before 
them. I utterly detest thrusting my head into 
people's faces, with here I am. In former days no 
fewer than thirteen portraits of me have been 
taken — most of them miniatures. Fisher painted 
three, Bewick three, and Boxall two.' 



Of these thirteen portraits I can only find 
trace of eight, not counting engravings, photo- 
graphs, and copies. In 1804, when Landorwas 
in his thirtieth year, and was Hving in some- 
what profuse style at Bath, Nathaniel Dance, 
R.A.,* painted his portrait. An engraving 
forms the frontispiece to the first edition of 
Forster's ' Biography ' of Landor, vol. i. ; but it 
was omitted in subsequent editions. Of this 
portrait Forster wrote : * The eye is fine, but 
black hair covers all the forehead, and you 
recognize the face of the later time quite 
without its fulness, power, and animation. 
The stubbornness is there, without the soft- 
ness ; the self-will untamed by any experience ; 
plenty of energy, but a want of emotion.' The 
late Lord Houghton, who knew Landor inti- 
mately, and understood him better than Mr. 
Forster could, found no trace in this portrait 
of the sweetness and humour about the mouth 
which redeemed * the anti-social ' character of 
the upper features. Still, it may serve to 
convey some idea of what Landor was like at 

* Afterwards Sir Nathaniel Dance Holland, Bart., 
who died in 181 1. Many of his portraits pass for 
the work of Sir Joshua Reynolds. 


this early stage of his Hfe. It portrays a man 
conscious of great powers, who has not yet 
found his opportunity for exerting them. 

In the British Museum there is a portrait of 
Landor by Wilham Bewick, * done at Florence, 
September 12, 1826.' He was then in his fifty- 
second year, and had published two editions of 
the first series of ' Imaginary Conversations.' 
The hair no longer hangs in curls over his fore- 
head, which is now bald, but the lips close 
firmly, and the eyes show a fixed resolution. 
In the year following a bust of Landor was 
modelled by Gibson. Writing to his sister 
Elizabeth on April 25, 1828, Landor said : 

* Gibson came to me the very day Ackleton 
brought me Robert's poem,* and I gave him two 
sittings, one in the morning and one in the evening. 
There have been three days, and there will be four 
more, before he takes the cast in plaster of paris. I 
am told that Chantrey is equal to him in busts, but 
very inferior in genius. The one is English upon 
principle, the other Attic' 

Landor thought highly of Gibson. He makes 
Alfieri say of him and Thorwaldsen : * I have 
seen no drawings, not even Raphael's, more 

* • The Impious Feast,' by Robert Eyres Landor. 



pure and intellectual than theirs. I suspect 
their native countries will never be competent 
to form a just estimate of their merit. We may- 
say of each, utinani noster esses.' Yet for all that, 
the bust of Gibson, who often failed in por- 
traiture, is considered by Dr. Walker to be any- 
thing but a good likeness ; and the photograph 
from it (now reproduced) need only be studied 
for the less minute proportions it records. It 
was made in marble for that * Lord of the 
Celtic dells,' Mr. Joseph Ablett, and the photo- 
graph was given me by Landor's brother-in-law. 
General Sir Henry Landor Thuillier. 

But I should hke here to refer to another 
portrait of Landor at this time — a portrait 
neither in marble nor on canvas. The Countess 
of Blessington first met Landor at Florence in 
June, 1827, and her impressions were recorded 
in that vivacious book of travel, ' The Idler in 
Italy ' : 

' There is a natural dignity which appertains to 
him, that suits perfectly with the style of his con- 
versation and his general appearance. His head is 
one of the most intellectual ones imaginable, and 
would serve as a good illustration in support of the 
theories of Phrenologists. The forehead broad and 


prominent ; the mental organs largely developed ; 
the eyes quick and intelligent, and the mouth full 
of benevolence.' 

The next portrait, in another medium than 
words, is a lithograph from a pencil drawing by 
the Countess of Blessington's friend, Count 
Alfred D'Orsay. The original, Mr. Colvin 
says, was done in 1825. ^^ the autumn 
Landor paid a long visit to Mr. Ablett at 
Llanbedr ; and when two years afterwards 
Mr. Ablett, in memory of the occasion, printed 
* Literary Hours by various Friends,' a litho- 
graph from D'Orsay's pencil sketch was used as 
a frontispiece. * Corrected from D'Orsay's, in 
which the chin was much too low and too much 
head behind.' That was Lander's own com- 
ment, written by himself in the copy of * Literary 
Hours ' at South Kensington Museum. But 
even with these corrections the likeness can 
hardly be regarded as a pleasing one. It seems 
to lay stress on what was least lovable 
in Lander's expression. In 1839, however, 
Count D'Orsay drew, most likely on the 
stone, a more finished portrait, which even 
those who never saw the original would at once 
pronounce to be a better likeness than the 


earlier sketch. Indeed, Dr. Walker, who gave 
me his copy of the print, thinks it not only- 
very like Landor, but one of the very few por- 
traits extant that are like him. Landor was 
now sixty-four, and had been living for more 
than a year at Bath, whence he paid frequent 
visits to London, being ever a welcome guest at 
Gore House, under whose hospitable roof, as he 
says somewhere, ' a greater number of remark- 
able men assembled from all nations than under 
any other, since roofs took the place of caverns.' 
A little before the date of Count D'Orsay's 
second portrait, Landor gave sittings to Mr. 
William Fisher, a young artist who was pre- 
sently to become a Royal Academician. To 
Mr. Fisher, Landor addressed the well-known 
lines beginning : 

' Conceal not Time's misdeeds, but on my brow 

Retrace his mark ; 
Let the retiring hair be silvery now 

That once was dark : 
Eyes that reflected images too bright 

Let clouds o'ercast. 
And from the tablet be abolisht quite 

The cheerful past.' 

Southey admired this portrait, but Landor 


said the colour was too like a dragon's belly. 
The original was the property of Mr. Kenyon, 
by whose residuary legatees it was given to 
Crabbe Robinson,* who in turn bequeathed 
it to the National Portrait Gallery. An en- 
graving on wood from this portrait was pub- 
lished in the Century Magazine for February, 
1888, in which there also appeared an article 
on Landor by Mr. James Russell Lowell, 
followed by some letters of Landor's to Miss 
Mary Boyle. Another and, I think, a better 
portrait by the same artist is in the possession 
of Lady Graves-Sawle. 

In 1852 Mr., afterwards Sir, William Boxall 
painted Landor's portrait. An engraving on 
steel from this picture is given in the second 
volume of Mr. Forster's * Biography ' (first 
edition i86g). Landor himself considered it 
an excellent likeness, as may be seen from 
his letter to Forster written in December, 

' Perhaps when I am in the grave, curiosity may 
be excited to know what kind of countenance that 
creature had who imitated nobody, and whom 
nobody imitated : the man who walked thro' the 

* H. Crabbe Robinson's Diary, ii. 360. 


crowd of poets and prose-men and never was toucht 
by anyone's skirts : who walked up to the ancients 
and talked with them familiarly, but never took a 
sup of wine or a crust of bread in their houses. If 
this should happen, and it probably will within 
your lifetime, then let the good people see the old 
man's head by Boxall.'* 

Yet, as Mr. Colvin remarks, there is much 
that was uncharacteristic and somewhat feebly 
benignant in Boxall's portrait. It is now in 
the South Kensington Museum. 

A striking portrait of Landor, apparently 
from a photograph, may be found in the fourth 
volume of Mr. Crump's edition of his works. 
It was taken a year after the date of Fisher's 
portrait, to which, however, it bears very little 
resemblance, being much more like the photo- 
graph prefixed to the second volume of Mr. 
Forster's edition, said to have been taken in 
1849. Both these portraits are declared by 
Dr. Walker to be excellent, though it must be 
added that they only represent Landor in a 
particular mood. His expression would change 
in an instant to one of keen animation and the 
most genial kindness. 

* This letter was omitted in subsequent editions. 



* I seek not many, many seek me not.' 

W. S. Landor. 

Could Landor himself be consulted as to 
which of the papers in his desk he desired 
more especially to be given to the world, he 
would doubtless say : Print the imaginary con- 
versations. Of these there are three hitherto 
unpublished, or, at any rate, not to be found 
in the collected editions of his works ; one 
being a ' dramatic scene ' in verse, which was 
at first written as a prose dialogue. All three 
were sent by Landor to Boston, to be included 
in an American edition of his prose and poetry ; 
and the subsequent fate of the parcel has 
already been told. 

By far the finest of the newly-discovered 


conversations is that in which Fra Girolamo 
or Jeronimo Savonarola, preacher and martyr, 
learns that he has been sentenced to death, 
vindicates his past conduct, and speaks of the 
end that awaits him with fortitude and com- 
posure. George Eliot, in a historic novel, 
and Mr. Alfred Austin, in a dramatic poem, 
have drawn more elaborate and finished pictures 
of Savonarola ; and there is not enough in this 
brief scene to permit a comparison between 
their treatment of the subject and Landor's. 
But the conversation, written though it was 
in its author's eighty-sixth year, is wanting 
neither in vividness of imagination nor in 
eloquence. The Republican Friar* who had 
so courageously defied the Borghia and the 
Medici, who had defended liberty and religion 
against the flagrant scandals of the Papacy 
and the corroding decadence that hung like a 
plague- cloud over Florence ; the man of suffer- 
ing who had passed through the torment of the 
rack, and for whom the pains of death were 
made ready as he conversed, appears only for 
a few moments on Landor's stage, but in those 
few moments a life's tragedy is concentrated. 
* * Savonarola and his Times,' by Professor Villari. 


Historical accuracy must not be sought for. 
If a true account is wanted of Savonarola's 
last days, we must go elsewhere. The whole 
story has been carefully reconstructed by Pro- 
fessor Villari. The martyrdom of Savonarola 
and the two monks, Domenicho of Padua and 
Silvestro Marufi, took place on the morning of 
May 23, 1498. On April 8 (Palm Sunday), 
Savonarola had surrendered to his enemies. 
Since then he had been brought for trial first 
before the judges appointed by the Signory of 
Florence, and afterwards before the Eccle- 
siastical Commissioners sent by the Pope ; 
and for upwards of a month he had repeatedly 
undergone long and grievous tortures. When 
not in the presence of his judges, he was con- 
fined in the Alberghettino, a small chamber in 
the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio, where it 
must be supposed that this conversation takes 
place. The sentence of the Pope's Commis- 
sioners was pronounced on May 22, and was 
made known to Savonarola the same evening. 
The next morning it was carried out. The 
three Friars were hanged, and their bodies 
then committed to the flames. Professor 
Villari does not name the messengers who 


informed Savonarola of the punishment to be 
inflicted on him, but says that they found him 
kneeHng in prayer. 'On hearing the fatal 
announcement he expressed neither grief nor 
joy, but continued his devotions with increased 
fervour.' Between that time and the hour 
when he was led out to execution he saw and 
spoke with Jacopo Niccolini, member of a 
benevolent society, with a Benedictine friar 
who came to receive his last confession, and 
with his two companions in misfortune, whom 
he was allowed to meet on the night of May 22, 
and again on the morrow when he partook of 
the Sacrament with them. 

There was no opportunity for such a con- 
versation as Landor imagines, unless, indeed, 
we suppose that Savonarola was speaking, not 
to the Prior of San Marco,* but to Jacopo 
Niccolini, to whom he foretold the calamities 
that were to fall on Florence, adding, * Bear 
well in mind that these things will come to pass 
when there shall be a Pope named Clement.' 
That the three monks died, not in the flames, 

* Professor Villari does not say who had suc- 
ceeded Savonarola as Prior of San Marco; nor, 
indeed, does he say that a successor had been elected. 


but by the hangman's rope, has already been 
stated. Landor may have been misled on this 
point by Sismondi. 

It was in the latter half of the year i860 that 
Landor wrote and published an imaginary con- 
versation in Italian — * Savonarola e il Priore di 
San Marco.' It formed a small octavo pamphlet 
of seven pages ; and the proceeds of the sale 
were to be given for the relief of Garibaldi's 
wounded followers.* That hero's victories over 
the Neapolitan troops in Sicily had roused all 
Landor's enthusiasm. Verses were written by 
him, both English and Latin, in Garibaldi's 
honour ; and the little cottage at Siena, where 
Landor was now staying, must have rung with 
revolutionary sentiment and loud denunciation 
of ' Gallia's basest brood.' Before the end of 
the year he also completed this English transla- 
tion of the dialogue, and despatched it to Mr. 
Field, the Boston publisher, to whom he had 
already sent the original version in Italian. On 
the back of the paper containing the translation 
he has written : 

* The approximate date may be inferred from 
Landor's own letters, and from the fact that Gari- 
baldi set sail for Sicily from Genoa on May 5, i860. 


' My dear Sir, 

* In the Italian dialogue I sent to you much 
was omitted by the printer's fear that the sentiments 
would offend the higher powers and obstruct the 
publication. It gave me some trouble to compose, 
and I was urged to give the whole in English, which 
I now send. . . . With respectful compliments, 
and wishing you a happy new year, I remain, my 
dear sir, 

' Very truly yours, 

' W. S. Landor.' 

The few words omitted refer to a correction 
which Landor hoped the American printers 
would make in one of his earlier compositions. 
I will now give the conversation : 


Jeronimo ! dear Jeronimo ! oftentimes have I 
been afflicted, but never so grievously as in this 
hour. Thou art abandoned to thy enemies, and 
there is no escape. The Holy Father '•= has found 
thee guilty. 


Alas ! how many has he found guilty, and how 
many has he made so! My Holy Father, the 

* Pope Alexander VI. (Roderigo Borghia). 


Father who is in heaven, has too often found 
me guilty, even from infancy. Nevertheless has 
He deigned to show me the light of His countenance, 
and to confer on me the office of proclaiming His 
will. And now His right hand guides me on the 
road to expiate my many sins. 

Thy many sins ? What mortal ever lived more 
chastely, more charitably, more devoutly ? And to 
die so ! Oh, God of mercy ! can human flesh endure 
the surrounding flames .'' 

Yes ; that flesh which God hath prepared for It. 

The Church has been openly offended. Why ? 


Because the Church opposed God openly. Tell 
me, have I ever uttered a word contrary to the doc- 
trine of the Apostols ? Frequently have I preached 
before the people, but have abstained from declaring 
this truth, that under the seat of our Roman pontifs 
more Christian blood has been shed on behalf of 
Europe than under all the worst Roman emperors 
in the whole of it. 


It may be true; but there always is danger in 
speaking ill of dignitaries. 



If I understand the word, it means the worthy. 
Before them I stand humiliated, not before the 
arrogant and presumptuous. 

I am condemned to death ; so art thou, so are 
all, even ere they cried from the cradle. 

Imperturbable is thy faith, thy courage super- 


Superhuman it is, but it is not mine. I have 

followed with tardy pace the Precursor. He who 

walks in the dark will be guided more safely by 

one large and clear light, although distant, than by 

many smaller which sparkle on both sides of him. 

The Apostols have directed me, and my support 

was Christ. 


Yet the first and most sublime of martyrs, our 
Saviour himself, prayed of his Father that the bitter 
cup might pass from him. 

. It did not pass from him. The Son drank of it, 
bowed his head and died. Better men than I am 
have borne testimony to the truth ; I also have 
been deemed worthy to die for it. 

Better men ! None, none. 


Say not so. It appears to have been the will of 
Providence that some of them should live longer 
and teach more effectually. The fruit in the garden 
of Bethlehem will ripen in its season. Enervated 
as are our Florentines, they will rise and stand firm 
and upright. Wicked princes, and pontifs wickeder 
still, have led them astray, corrupted and subjugated 
them ; strangers, in conflict one with another, have 
trodden them down ; liberators, as they called 
themselves and were believed, chained and sold 


We have lived to see this in our own days. We 
must pray for them. 

Ye must, but others must rise from their knees. 
Such is the will of God : the Merciful is the 


We men of peace should be silent. 

Not when God commands us to speak and cry 
aloud. The Pontif is a puppet in the hands of 
France, brought out and shut up again at her will 
and pleasure. There is no vision to our eyes of 
an emperor like Henry of Luxemburg. Dante 
Alighieri, Petrarcha, Boccaccio, were not only 



nightingales that sang in the dark — which all three 
did — but they were prophetic, and intelligible to 
the attentive ear. The Divina Commedia should 
rather be entitled the Divina Satira. It has the 
fire of Phlegethon, and the bitterness of Styx. 

What France ever was, she will ever be ; a slave 
the seller of slaves. Such have been lauded in 
excelsis. The wolf has degenerated into a fox, an 
animal by nature of shriller cry, yet approaching 
the sheepfold more cautiously. There was a time 
when princes on horseback chased this animal ; 
now they invest him with a golden collar, and 
domesticate him. 


Beware ! beware ! 

Truth, it appears, is a virgin too pure to be 
embraced. Whatever most interests her seems 
most reprovable. Yet the more free our thoughts 
are, the nearer are they to that region where Truth 
resides. Certainly it- is not in the Maremma 
Romana. God has taught me his holy Word, 
and has commanded me also to teach it. 

They who find a jewel do not prudently and safely 
wear it in all places. 

We have found what is richer than a jewel, we 
have found what constitutes the bread of life. The 


"wheat that nourishes nations was but a grain at 
first : many crops sprang from it, many were 
mildewed, many trodden underfoot, as we have seen 
and see now, yet the seed is incorruptible, and will 
endure for ever. Italy will not always be what 
Italy is now. The most acute of men will reason 
and reflect, and will drive away those who forbid 
it. What Christ has forbidden they will call to 
mind, and act accordingly. He forbade even his 
disciples to call him Lord. The impostor who 
calls himself, and orders others to call him His 
Holiness, His Beatitude, God's Vicegerent, etc., offends 
against God's express commandment. 

Be cool, my brother. 

Presently I shall be, if anything be left of me 
after this day's festival, celebrated with Druidical 


That smile strikes into my inmost heart. Let us 
think rather of our Florentines. Let us hope 
ior them, at least. Sound bodies may recover 
from heavy wounds, unsound succumb under 
lighter. If our Florentines are naturally brave, 
how greatly more brave will they become when 
they are virtuous. The corruption of a prince 
■drops down on the heads and into the bosoms of 



a people. It is unsafe to animadvert on the living : 
we may look back on Lorenzo de Medici, dead 
recently. -•= The defunct do not bite, and censure 
falls without weight upon the sepulchre. 

When I was called to the bedside of that dying 
man, in order to hear his confession, according to 
the wish he had exprest, not a single one of his 
iniquities would he confess, nor any retribution 
would he offer of what he had taken from his 
country. ^ First,' said I, ^restore to the people the 
liberty of which you deprived their fathers' He turned 
heavily round and disdainfully. I was silent, and 
left him. 

Peace to his soul ! if peace there can be where 
such souls are. Why could he not have been 
contented in the station to which his fortune and 
his genius had raised him ? No other sovran in 
Europe possessed such rich and extensive lands. 
He could enjoy every climate in this little Tuscany. 
In Pisa there is no severity of winter, in Pratolino 
there is no oppressive heat. The breezes of the 
sea and of the Apennines were at his command. 
Here in Florence he had the familiar society of the 

* Lorenzo the Magnificent died in 1492. His 
interview with Savonarola should be read in Mr. 
Alfred Austin's poem. 


learned and philosophic, and poets sat convivially 

at his table.* 


These maggots accelerated his corruption. 

The constitution of the poetic mind is naturally 
febrile, and is corroded in most by the chronic 
disease of jealousy. Lorenzo was subject to 
neither of these infirmities, not recognizing a rival 
in creatures so base. Adulation, if ever pardonable, 
is most so in poets. On Parnassus there are more 
flowers than fruits, the pasture is insufficient, and 
the air gives a keen appetite. The birds below 
perch on thorns, and when they alight they battle 
for a grain of millet. Not only poets, but persons 
in appearance more serious, consorted with Lorenzo : 
they might have taught him better. 

They should have learnt better first. They spent 
days and nights in trivial, futile discussions, which 
they called Platonic, f 

* Lorenzo de Medici * encouraged all the worst 
tendencies of the age, and multiplied its corrup- 
tions. . . . During his reign, Florence was a con- 
tinuous scene of revelry and dissipation.' — Villari. 

f For an account of the disputes between the 
Platonic and Aristotelian schools, see Professor 
Villari. Savonarola wrote a compendium of both 


Not improperly. The dialogues of Plato are 
mostly of no utility, for religion, morality, the 
sciences or the arts. They resemble the pallone 
with which our youthful citizens divert themselves, 
empty, turgid, round, weightless, thrown up into 
the air by one player, to be caught by another as 
it falls to the ground, and beaten back, bouncing,, 
and covered with dust. In all his dialogues there 
is not a single one which impresses on the heart a 
virtuous or a tender sentiment, none of charity, 
none of philanthropy, none of patriotism. 

Oh, the littleness of such a philosophy ! We 
Christians know the true ; we know where to find 
it ; we know where sits the teacher. It is better 
to be guided thro' thorns than to sit idly with 


It is well to ponder, but why pause now ? And 
not very seriously. 

I was reminded by your observations and simili- 
tudes of another pastime, in which a girl lays her 
hand down flat, another claps hers upon it, and 
thus rapidly and alternately, until both are tired of 
it, and one gives a slap on the knuckles of her 
playfellow and runs off laughing. 


Nothing discomposes my Jeronimo ; I never 
found him so near to facetiousness before. 


I look more willingly at tricks played in petticoats 
than under beards. Let them only be such as 

Do not rise to go yet, my kind father ! What 
is there to see below ? 

Florence lies in bustle and confusion under the 
window : the sight makes me sorrowful. 


Courage, courage, my Prior ! The Sun of 
Righteousness will shine again. The Prophets 
will show their countenances thro* the clouds, and 
make their voices heard. Dante Alighieri lies in 
his tomb at Ravenna, but his spirit will return to 
our city and reanimate a half-dead people. Italy is 
not always to be sown with lies and irrigated with 
blood. Her sons are to be aware that the wine of 
the Last Supper is not drugged, is neither stimulant 
nor narcotic. 


What noise is that I hear ? Whither are coming 
those four carts ? With what are they laden ? 


I will tell thee. 

But why dost thou also rise from thy chair ? 


Those carts are laden with faggots and stakes ; 
one of the stoutest is several ells long. What a 
number of poor starving creatures might be com- 
forted at Christmas by such a quantity of materials. 

The people are impatient for their bonfire, and 
the priests for their dinner. 

Embrace me, embrace me ; sanctify a sinner. 
Jeronimo ! shall we meet no more ! 

Thou knowest that meet we shall ; God alone 
knows when. The days of man are numbered : 
there is no room for another numeral to mine ; the 
punctuation of a period is enough. My future 
is beginning in this piazza ; I can yet look beyond 
it. The Florentines will soon forget me ; already 
they have forgotten themselves. Oblivion soon 
comes over cities ; memory rests longer on a few 
faithful hearts. I and my words may pass away, 
but never will God's, however now neglected. 
7 May thy years be as many as thy virtues, and as 
the benedictions, on thy venerable head. 


Turn not again, as thou seemest about to do, 
toward that window. When the smoke has been 
carried off by the wind, and the clouds are dis- 
sipated, then return to San Marco. 

Landor sent another prose conversation to 
Mr. Field ; and the scene of this, too, was laid 
in Italy. It is between the Countess of Albany, 
the widow of the Young Pretender, and her 
lover, Alfieri. When Landor was a young 
man, he once met the great Italian writer in a 
London book-shop, where he himself, oddly 
enough, was ordering copies of Alfieri's works. 
They were introduced ; and Landor imparted 
his views on the French Revolution. * Sir,' 
said Alfieri, ' you are a very young man ; you 
are yet to learn that nothing good ever came 
out of France, or ever will.' Landor never 
forgot the meeting; and he used to say, long 
afterwards, that Alfieri was the man of all 
others with whom he himself was most nearly 
in agreement. 

Alfieri appears in two of Landor's published 
conversations. The latest of these was printed 
in 1856, and was warmly praised by Thomas 
Carlyle. ' Do you think,' Carlyle asked Mr. 
Forster, ' the grand old Pagan wrote that piece 


just now ? The sound of it is like the ring of 
Roman swords on the helmets of barbarians. 
An unsubduable old Roman !* A hint was 
given in that conversation of the Countess 
of Albany's partiality for the French portrait- 
painter, M, Fabre, and of Alfieri's anger. In 
the unpublished dialogue he tells the Countess 
that he will not be loved in fellowship with 
another : 


A stranger might fancy you are jealous. You 
know I receive all sorts of people at my conversazioni. 
Is there any stranger, any florid young Englishman, 
to whom you imagine I have taken a fancy ? You 
know my taste better. I hate assurance, I hate 
coarse flattery, I hate vulgarity. On the score of 
politeness the English are clumsy originals and im- 
perfect imitators. You know I have a right to be 
their queen. 


You have a right to be mine, and I never have 
forsworn my allegiance or transferred it. 


Ah ! now you talk like an Italian, not like one of 
those rude islanders. 


But a brief extract may suffice. To speak 
frankly, Landor in this conversation is danger- 
ously near the commonplace, and it contains 
hardly a sentence or a sentiment that far 
inferior authors might not have written. The 
note he appends to it may be quoted, however. 
He writes : 

* The Countess of Albany transferred her affec- 
tions from Alfieri to one Fabre, a portrait-painter. 
Alfieri, stung with grief and indignation, left his 
rival long behind. On his deathbed the Countess 
sent a priest to administer the sacrament, who 
announced his errand. Alfieri turned round on his 
bed, and cried, Who are you ? On the priest's reply, 
he said, / don't know you, and I don't want you, and I 
won't have you. Poor soul ! He went off in a few 
hours, and without a wafer ! These facts were 
repeated to me thirty years ago by James Smith,''' 
who heard them from Alfieri's physician, present in 
the chamber. 

* W. S. L.* 

I have found the same anecdote in a manu- 
script note, written by Landor in his copy of 
the magazinet containing the conversation 

* James Smith, one of the authors of * Rejected 

f Eraser's Magazine, April, 1856. 


between Alfieri and Metastasio. Here, after 
repeating what the poet said on his death-bed, 
Landor goes on to say of Alfieri : 

* He .was iiot the only wise man deluded by a 
weak and worthless woman. Love inflicted a 
curable wound, pride a mortal one. His monu- 
ment is unworthy of Canova's hand. It exhibits 
a small portrait of the poet in basso relievo. Little 
is said of him, much of the Countess. Near it is 
the noblest monument in the whole church erected 
to Dante ; the sculpture by Nardi, with this brief 
inscription from the Divina Commedia : " Venerate 
I'altissimo poeta." ' • . 

The unpublished dramatic scene in blank 
verse, which was found with the others in 
Landor's desk, may be printed in full, and it 
needs but little in the way of introduction. In 
it he brings the Maid of Orleans, who had 
already appeared in one of his published con- 
versations, before her judge, the Bishop of 



After due hearing in our court supreme 
Of temporal and spiritual lords, 
Condemn'd art thou to perish at the stake 
By fire, forerunner of the flames below. 
Hearest thou ? Art thou stunn'd ? Art thou gone 

mad ? 
Witch ! think not to escape and fly away. 
As some the like of thee, 'tis said, have done. 

The fire will aid my spirit to escape. 

Listen, ye lords. Her spirit ! Hear ye that ? 
She owns, then, to have her Familiar. 
And whither {to Joan) — whither would the spirit, 

Bear thee ? 


To Him who gave it. 


Lucifer ? 

I never heard the name until thus taught. 

. Judge. 

He hajth his imps. 


I see he hath. 


My lords ! 
Why look ye round, and upward at the rafters ? 
Smile not, infernal hag ! for such thou art, 
Altho' made comely to beguile the weak, 
By thy enchantments and accursed spells. 
Knowest thou not how many brave men fell 
Under thy sword, and daily ? 


God knows best 
How many fell- — may their souls rest in peace ! 
We wanted not your land, why want ye ours ? 
France is our country, England yours ; we hear 
Her fields are fruitful : so were ours before 
Invaders came and burnt our yellowing corn, 
And slew the labouring oxen in the yoke. 
And worried, in their pasture and their fold, 
With thankless hounds, more sheep than were 

Thou wast a shepherdess. Were those sheep thine ? 

Whatever is my country's is mine too — 
At least to watch and guard ; I claim no more. 
Ye drove the flocks adrift, and we>the wolves. 


Thou shouldst have kept thy station in the field, 
As ours do. 

Nobles ! have I not ? Speak out. 
In the field, too — the field ye shared with me — 
The cause alone divided us. 


My lords ! 
Must we hear this from a peasant girl, a witch ? 
Wolves we are call'd. [To Joan) Do wolves, then, 
fight for glory ? 


No ; not so wicked, tho' by nature wild, 
They seek their food, and, finding it, they rest. 

Sometimes the devil prompts to speak a truth 
To cover lies, and to protect his brood. 
But, we turn'd into wolves ! — we Englishmen ! 
Tell us, thou knowing one, who knowest well — 
Tell us, then, who are now the vanquishers. 

They who will be the vanquished, and right soon. 

False prophets there have been, and thou art one, 
And proud as he that sent thee here inspired. 


Who ever saw thee bend before the high 
And mighty men, the consecrate around — 
They whom our Lord exalted, they who wear 
The mitre on their brows ? 


One — one alone — 
Hath seen me bend, and may he soon more nigh, 
Unworthy as I am ! I daily fall 
Before the Man (for Man he would be call'd) 
Who wore no mitre, but a crown of thorns 
Wore he ; upon his hands no jewel'd ring. 
But in the centre of them iron nails, 
Half-hidden by the swollen flesh they pierced. 


Alert to play the pious here at last, 
Thou scoffest Mother Church in these her sons, 
Right reverend, worshipful. Beatitude's 
Creation, Christ's and Peter's lawful heirs. 


My mother Church enforced no sacrifice 
Of human blood ; she never made flames drink it 
Ere it boil. over. Dear were all hey sons. 
Nor unforgiven were the most perverse. 

Seest thou not here thy hearers sit aghast ? 



Fear me not, nobles ! Ye were never wan 

In battle ; ye were brave to meet the brave. 

I come not now in helm or coat of mail, 

But bound with cords, and helpless. God incline 

Your hearts to worthier service ! 


Barest thou, 
After such outrages on knight and baron, 
To call on God, or name his holy name ? 
'Tis mockery. 


'Tis too often, not with me. 

When first I heard his holy name I thought 

He was my Father. I was taught to call 

My Saviour so, and both my parents did 

The like, at rising and at setting sun 

And when they shared the oaten cake at noon. 

So thou wouldst babble like an infant still ? 

I would be silent, but ye bade me speak. 


Thou mayst yet pray — one hour is left for prayer. 
Edify, then, the people in the street. 



I never pray in crowds ; our Saviour hears 
When the heart speaks to him in soHtude. 
May we not imitate our blessed Lord, 
Who went into the wilderness to pray ? 


Who taught thee tales like this ? They are for- 
Hast thou no supplication to the court ? 

I never sued in vain, and will not now. 

We have been patient ; we have heard thee prate 
A whole hour by the bell ; we have endured 
Impiety ; we have borne worse affronts. 
My lords, ye have been bantered long enough. 
The sorceress would have turned us into wolves, 
And hunt us down ; she would be prophetess. 

I am no sorceress, no prophetess ; 
But this, O man in ermine, I foretell : 
Thou and those round thee shall ere long receive 
Your due reward. England shall rue the day 
She entered France — her empire totters. 

Ye sentinels, who guard those hundred heads 


Against a shepherdess in bonds — pile high 

The faggots round the stake that stands upright, 

And roll the barrel gently down the street, 

Lest the pitch burst the hoops, and mess the way. 

(To the court). 
Ye grant one hour ; it shall be well employed. 
I will implore the pardon of our God 
For you. Already hath He heard my prayer 
For the deliverers of their native land. 

Landor also sent to America the ' Three 
Scenes, not for the Stage,' in which Diana of 
Poictiers, with the assistance of the Court 
Jester, obtains from the King, Francis I., a 
•pardon for her father. Mr. Forster, however, 
had a copy of this dramatic sketch, and printed 
it in his eight-volume edition. The American 
version has, together with a few various readings, 
a characteristic note, in which Landor says : 
* Francis and Henry IV. have always been the 
favorites of the French. They were a couple 
of brave scoundrels at the best ; each of them 
would have been gibeted had he been a 
private man.' 

A number of poems, long and short, found 
amongst Landor's manuscripts will be given in 
a later chapter, but there are some unpublished 



fragments in prose which it will be as well tO' 
deal with here. Many of them are mere 
jottings, though meant perhaps to be inserted 
in some conversation that was never written. 
Without a complete concordance one cannot 
indeed be absolutely certain that none of these 
fragments would be found, somewhere or other,, 
in Landor's printed works ; but I have done my 
best to avoid vain repetitions. Landor himself 
would occasionally say the same thing twice 
over. * They who are afraid,' he wrote, ' of 
repeating what they have said before, may 
sometimes think they have spoken or written 
what they never have, and thus an animated 
being (such is a thought) is lost to the creation. "^ 
Here are some of these detached thoughts : 

' We English are fond of quaffing diluted epi- 
grams out of crystal cups, diamond-cut, reflecting 
and refracting.' 

' It is usual with dogs to turn round before they 
lie down ; so do gentlemen in the House of Com- 

* * * * t- 

' Among the instances of absurd superlatives, I 
find in the " Aventure d' Amour of Dumas,' Dents 
magnifiqiies. Another, nous avians passe une apres- 
midi adorable.' 


It may be objected that magnifique and 
■adorable are not, strictly speaking, superlatives ; 
but Lander's meaning is clear enough. He 
somewhere says that Italian prose - writers are 
absurdly given to the use of superlatives, and 
styles the Italians the ' issimi nation.' In 
talking, he himself was not always over-careful 
to avoid the superlative of enthusiasm. His 
brother, Robert Eyres Landor, relates that in 
the course of a morning's walk at Oxford they 
would pass a dozen strangers of the fairer sex, 
■each one of whom Landor vowed was the most 
beautiful woman his eyes had ever rested on. 

In another of these fragments Landor says : 

* If I were askt what stanza or strophe I would 
rather have written than any other, I should doubt 
between Gray's "The boast of heraldry," etc., and 
George Herbert's 

' " Sweet day ! so cool, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky ; 
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night. 
For thou must die."''' 

' If what couplet, I would go to the Latin, and 
stand again in doubt between that of Tibullus' Te 

* The whole poem is quoted by Isaac Walton in 
his * Compleat Angler.' 


ieneam"^' and that of Johannes Secundus, Non est' 
suaviolum, etc.'f 

Landor has twice translated the verses from' 
Tibullus :J once in his ' Citation of William 
Shakespeare,' and again in a little poem, ' On- 
receiving a portrait,' which begins : 

' To gaze on you when life's last gleams decline, 
And hold your hand, to the last clasp, in mine.' 

Of the longer prose fragments the first is a 
retort to De Quincey's observations on Dr. 
Samuel Parr. Landor had been reading the 
essay on ' Whiggism in its Relation to Litera- 
ture,'§ wherein De Quincey, after expressing a 
doubt whether one reader in three thousand 
would know who Dr. Parr was, went on to 
describe the friend of Landor's early days as a 

* * Te spectem, suprema mihi cum venerit hora 
Te teneam moriens deficiente manu.' 

Tibullus, I. i. 59. 
i * Non est suaviolum dare, lux mea, sed dare 
Est desiderium flebile suavioli.' 

Basium, iii. 
X Works, 1876, ii. 531, and viii. 77. 
§ ' De Quincey's Works ' (1862), vol. v. 


man whom it was impossible either to Hke or 
respect. He was a lisping slander - monger, 
De Quincey said — a retailer of gossip fitter for 
washerwomen over their tea than for scholars 
and statesmen. His reputation for learning 
was undeserved ; his manners were unen- 
durable. A boundless license of personal 
invective, an extravagance of brutality, an 
' obstreperous laugh monstrously beyond the 
key of good society,' were also placed among 
the doctor's shortcomings. * My object is,' 
wrote De Quincey, ' to value Dr. Parr's claims 
and to assign his true station both in literature 
and in other walks of life upon which he has 
come forward as a public man.' We are more 
insidious in our literary depreciations now-a- 
days ; but De Quincey's method would have its 
advantages if one could trust his judgment and 
his honesty. Others had found much to like 
and even to love, in Dr. Parr's character. 
Robert Landor, though he admired Parr less 
than his brother did, pronounced De Quincey's 
attack to be grossly unfair. What Walter 
Landor thought of it may be seen from the 
following paper : 



* Mr. de Quincey's attack on Parr is insolent and 
flippant, therefor admirably suited to a Review or 
Magazine or any popular publication. Parr had 
his foibles, as even the strongest men have. We 
never say of a weak one he has his foibles. Where 
all is weak they are unnoticed. Parr was incapable 
of a long continuous work, such as Hooker's was. 
His mind was splintery. But he seldom wrote a 
sentence without something good and striking in it. 
They are too often tripartite, as Johnson's are bipar- 
tite. His style is on no occasion to be imitated. 
For a style we must have recourse to Goldsmith, 
Blackstone, and the hated and persecuted Payne. ■•= 
We need not go back to Addison, Swift, and Defoe. 
' And here I am forced to remark what small 
hearts and twisted heads have some otherwise 
great men. Swift was the reviler of Defoe. I am 
grateful to Parr for much kindness and much in- 
struction. He offered me the use of his library, 
but whenever I began to read a book, he would 
give it a running commentary. He wished me to 
write a history of England in Latin. This advice 
was injudicious. Few English names can be 
Latinized. The Dean of Westminster has lately 
desired me to write a Latin epitaph on Hallam ; 
and Milnes made to me the same request in regard 

* Thomas Paine, author of ' The Age of Reason.' 


to his father. That of Milnes I declined at the 
time, but it soon occurred to me that Miln« has 
a Latin termination and declension. Milnw or 
Milnetzs, and you have him in his toga. 

' Now I return to Parr. I saw him in all his 
glory, when he was invited by the Lord Mayor 
Combe to preach the Spital Sermon. ^= He took me 
with him in the carriage. Never was church so 
crowded. Commoners, Peers, whigs, tories, filled 
every pew ; I was favoured with a place in the 
Lord Mayor's. How few are now surviving of 
that multitude ! Canning, Frere, Mackintosh, 
Bobus Smith, I recognized. Swarms of insig- 
nificant authors crowded the aisles and galleries ; 
some of them doubtless wrote articles by order. 
When they went home, probably they were think- 
ing what a good dinner Parr was enjoying with 
the Mayor. This thought took away part of their 
appetites, which returned the next day with the 
half-crown, and the pewter pot of porter manthng 
with emblematic froth. I did hope that the genial 
soul of Parr had by this time fairly escaped out of 
Purgatory, and that the pincers of his little perse- 
cutors had been laid by. Porson is not to be repre- 
hended for smiling at him over his cups, but the 
Opium-eater is less easily to be pardoned his abusive 
intoxication. They who are incapable of doing 

* Preached on Easter Tuesday, 1800. 


justice may at least wish to do it, and may attempt 
it. No exercise is wholesomer.' 

In some of the fragments we seem to have 
portions of a projected essay on poetic com- 
position, and they might be pieced together 
without showing any more abrupt transitions 
than are met with in Landor's published 
writings. There is no warrant, however, for 
regarding them in this light, nor is it necessary 
to exhibit them except as unconnected passages. 
In the first Landor enlarges on the merits of 
Ovid, a favourite topic with him. Elsewhere 
he has made Petrarch say that of all the 
ancient Romans Ovid had the finest imagina- 
tion; and in the ' Imaginary Conversations' there 
are endless allusions to his own liking for Ovid's 
poetry. The observations I shall now quote 
begin with a reference to people who find many 
faults in Ovid and discover none in Virgil. 


* In the earlier [works] of Ovid there is greatly 
more poetical spirit than in the earlier of Virgil, and 
in my opinion all the Eclogues are not worth a single 
epistle of the Heroines. We must never suppose 


that the poet wrote the beginning in *' Dido to 
JEneas " : 

' " Sic ubi fata vocant, udis abjectus in herbis 
Ad vada Maeandri concinrtit albus olor."* 

For such trash as this a schoolmaster would pull a 
boy's hair. In the turbulence of her grief unhappy 
Dido thought little about a white swan, living or 
dying, and knew not whether there were shallows 
on the Maeander, or even whether there were such 
a river in the world. How affecting is the real com- 
mencement of the epistle : 

' " Non quia te nostra [sperem prece posse moveri, 

* Are there not here irrepressible sighs and irre- 
sistible sobs and hopeless anguish ? This poem 
had appeared before the ^neid, else we might 
believe that Ovid had copied in it the most beauti- 
ful pvt of that noble poem. 

* There is more invention and imagination in Ovid 
than in any poet between Homer and Shakespeare. 
Witches and faeries and allegorical impersonations 
afford no proof of imagination or originality. We 
find them in succession. Their moulted feathers 
drop and repullulate periodically. A short allegory 
may be very charming ; a longer is insufferably 

* Ovid, Heroid., vii. i. See also Landor, Works, 
1896, viii., p. 412. 


tedious. Did anyone ever read the " Faery Queene" 
a single hour at a sitting, without stretching his 
legs out and his arms up, and the ore rotundo of a 
gape, silent or sonorous ?' 

On the same sheet of paper are some re- 
marks concerning the difference between fancy, 
imagination, and invention, not inaptly illus- 
trated by references to English writers from 
Shakespeare to Southey. Wordsworth, in the 
preface to the volume of his poems published 
in 1815, had enlarged on the same topic. 
Landor writes : 

* It appears to me that fancy is somewhat lighter 
than imagination. We often hear that he or she 
has fancies, never imaginations. Weak intellects 
are swayed by fancy ; stronger bring images before 
them. Nothing is more incorrect than the expres- 
sion of Ben Jonson* in the verse : 

' " Where sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, 
Warbled his native woodnotes wild." 

Shakespeare was no warbler, nor were wood-notes 
his, nor was there any wildness [in] even his earlier 
poems. On the contrary they were elaborate, and 

* A lapsus penrns; the lines are Milton's. The 
same remark, with the name rightly given, is made 
by Landor elsewhere. See Works, 1876, v. 154. 


the thoughts were often far-sought and quaint. He 
played with Fancy when he was adult, and only for 
the hour and in brief moments of it. Imagination, 
not Fancy, possessed him when he made Caliban 
his slave, and when he possest the heart of 
Miranda. His invention was more copious than 
in any other poet, as were his fancy and imagina- 
tion more vivid. Both invention and imagination 
may exist in full vigour beyond the regions of 
poetry. Richardson, an author now neglected, 
created and imagined the characters of Clarissa and 
her persecutors, and placed them closely and dis- 
tinctly before our eyes. He was a great inventor. 
Scott was more of a poet in his novels than in his 
poems, wherein he was also great. Southey was a 
true poet in his " Kehama " as in many of his other 
works. In his *' Kehama " he has shown more 
imagination and invention than any other poet in 
the present or last century.' 

In another fragment, without beginning or 
end. Lander has noted down some reflections 
on the nature of poetry, together with opinions 
on certain of his own contemporaries. The 
manuscript is in places illegible, but the lacunce 
are of slight consequence. He says : 

' For the larger works of poetry the requisites are 
conciseness without abruptness, comprehensiveness 
without diffuseness ; for the smaller a portion of 


these qualities under the presidence of grace. But 
above all things, affectation of novelty is to be 
avoided and never to be taken for originality. 
Nothing in poetry is original. The best poets 
have labored with the same conceptions. . . .- 
But it happens more frequently that the ideas spring 
up before him [the poet] without his consciousness. 
They have sprung up before others from generation 
to generation. Do you believe that the noble 
speech of Sarpedon to Glaucost was never in the 
mind of others long before ? The clashing of 
characters brought out those sparks in Shake- 
speare which will be unextinguished in the breast 
of millions to all eternity. Men before him have 
thought and felt somewhat of the same. There 
was earth before God moulded it into man. 

' We must not overlook or undervalue our con- 
temporaries, but it is safer to abstain from the 
praise of one or other, else we may be called 
negligent or indifferent or ignorant. 

' We may walk back with impunity among the 
recently dead. We may revert to the " Ivan " and 
the " Casabianca " of Felicia Hemans ; to Camp- 
bell's «' Battle of Hohenlinden " and of " The Baltic " ; 
we may accompany Southey, and acknowledge in 
his " Kehama " the most imaginative of our modern 
poets in whatever country they may have been 

* A few words are illegible, 
f Homer, ' Iliad,' xii. 


flourishing. In reading some of his earlier works 
you perhaps will say : 

' " Lenibus at que utinam scriptis adjuncta foret 
vis !" 

' Cowper was grave and intellectual, but never is 
prosaic as Wordsworth often is, for example in his 
dedication to Lord Lonsdale : 

' " lUustriqus peer 
With high respect and gratitude sincere." 

' Moore is caught gilding refined gold, yet in 
the midst of pleasantry there is tenderness and 
grace. . . .'^' The " Lays of Rome " are vigorous ; 
his [Macaulay's] criticism and history are diluted 
epigrams, and are more ingenious than just. I 
have not spoken of Scott, Wordsworth, and Byron. 
Scott superseded Wordsworth, and Byron super- 
seded Scott, unjustly in both instances, Scott had 
a wider range than either, and excelled in more 

* A few words are illegible. 



' Certainly there is a middle state between love 
and friendship, more delightful than either, but 
more difficult to remain in.' 

W. S. Landor. 

' Rose Aylmer's hair.' This is the inscription 
in Landor's unmistakable hand* on a small 
paper packet containing a lock of hair of a 
light amber tint, or, should one say, of sunlit 
gold, and of a beautiful texture. Perhaps no 
lines that Landor ever composed are better 
known or more often quoted than the plaintive 
elegy in which he mourned this young lady's 
death : 

* Ah ! what avails the sceptred race, 
Ah ! what the form divine.' 

* The ink is of a peculiar kind which he some- 
times used. 


There is surely no need to repeat the rest ; 
yet not everyone, it may be, who knows the 
lines by heart could rightly interpret the allusion 
to a ' sceptred ' race. John Aylmer, Bishop of 
London in the latter half of the sixteenth 
century, is twice mentioned in Landor's ' Im- 
aginary Conversations.' A note appended to 
that between Lord Brooke and Sir Philip 
Sidney reminds the reader that Bishop Aylmer 
was wont to play bowls after Sunday service, 
and that when censured by the over-devout for 
so doing, the good prelate replied : ' The 
Sabbath was made for man, and not man for 
the Sabbath.' Landor also liked the Bishop 
for his orthography, and cited his spelling of 
the words monark and tetrark as an example 
worthy to be imitated. 

From Bishop Aylmer, as Landor believed, 
were descended the Irish peers who bear his 
name. The Honourable Rose Whitworth 
Aylmer was the only daughter of the fourth 
Baron Aylmer, and the sister of his successor, 
who was Governor - General of Canada from 
1830 to 1835. 

The story of Landor's acquaintance with 
Rose Aylmer has been touched on by Mr. 



Forster, and with a finer sympathy by Mr, 
Colvin. There are one or two points, however, 
in regard to which a few words may be said. It 
was at Swansea, and, I think, in the autumn of 
1796,* that Landor met Miss Aylmer. Her 
father had died in 1785, and she was living 
with Lady Aylmer at what was then a secluded 
watering-place, not yet bristling with the tall 
chimneys of copper smelting works. Landor 
was a young gentleman of one -and -twenty. 
Miss Aylmer being a few years younger- 
Born in October, 1779, she was now just 

I have been unable to find any portrait of 
Miss Aylmer. In Mr. Andrew Lang's collection 
of lyrics there is a picture of a ghost-like lady,, 
which is supposed to represent * that form 
divine ' ; but it is, I fear, merely a fancy sketch. 
A portrait of Lady Graves-Sawle, Miss Aylmer's 
niece, was published in the * Book of Beauty ^ 
for 1840, and General Mackinnon, C.B., has 
an oil painting of her brother, General Lord 
Aylmer : no portrait of herself is discoverable. 
There is nothing but this lock of hair. Nor 

-'- See Lander's poem, ' St. Clair,' in ' Dry 
Sticks,' p. 86. 


have we any portrait of Landor at this period. 
He had already pubHshed two little volumes of 
poetry, had spent a year at Oxford and been 
rusticated, had obtained glimpses of fashionable 
life in London, and had now betaken himself 
to South Wales, to read Milton and Pindar. 
When not engaged in these studies or in field- 
sports, he cultivated a far from hopeless passion 
at Tenby, and at Swansea a sentimental friend- 
ship with Miss Aylmer. She was his companion 
in walks to Briton Ferry and along the banks 
of the River Tawey ; and it was she who 
supplied a theme for the heroic narrative which 
made him known to some of the most dis- 
tinguished writers of the day. For Miss Aylmer 
lent him ' The Progress of Romance,' by Clara 
Reeve, getting the book from the Swansea 
circulating library. In one of the stories told 
by that once fashionable authoress he found 
the framework of * Gebir,' the work in which 
Southey discerned miraculous beauties and 
some of the most exquisite poetry in the 
English language ; which, years afterwards, 
Shelley was never tired of reciting to whoever 
would listen ; and which a Quarterly reviewer, 
in his blindness, pronounced to be * a thing dis- 



tressing to read and of an unconquerable 

Tenderly as Rose Aylmer's memory is 
evoked in the verses that Charles Lamb ' lived 
upon for weeks,' and fondly as Landor cherished 
the beautiful memento of those early days, there 
was more sentiment than passion in his devotion, 
and nothing of either, perhaps, in the girlish 
regard felt by Miss Aylmer for the young poet 
who was ready to worship at her shrine. Yet 
mourned she was and unforgotten all the days 
of his life ; and even in old age he would 
transcribe and emend the poems he had written 
for her in his boyhood. One at least of them 
will be found among those now printed for the 
first time. 

What is even more interesting than the 
verses is a letter of Landor's, which Lady 
Graves-Sawle allows me to quote here. It was 
written in reply to a question asked by her 
mother, Mrs. Paynter, and gives us, I think, for 
the first time an explicit allusion in Landor's 
own words to the ' torn romance ' of his 
youth : 

* Quarterly Review, 1837, p.. 143. 


* Bath, 

'Feb., 1853. 
' Dear Mrs. Paynter, 

' All this evening I have been trying to re- 
collect the verses, to which you alluded, to Rose 
Aylmer. I am quite certain I never wrote any of 
an amatory turn, nor ever offered a word of love to 
your lovely sister. After beating my brains, I 
picked up the only lines I wrote about her, until I 
heard, two years later, of her death. I took my 
boy's copy book (we had no Albums in those days) 
to show Mrs. Willoughby what I had written, the 
day before, on a forfeit I had won and had exacted 
on the evening of Twelfth Night. I will transcribe 
them for you ; my copy book was chiefly filled with 
Latin and Greek. I do not believe that any 
[? prize] was prefixt to the [verses] . Your sister 
had cut a nick at the end of her bonnet ribbon at 
Mrs. Thomas', where several girls and youths were. 
I picked up the little triangle, saying it was too 
precious to be lost, or for anyone to possess it with- 
out a contest, and proposed that we should draw- 
lots for it. I gave the verses to Mrs. Thomas, and 
nobody else. I was not successful in the drawing. 
In the autumn of that year I left Swansea for 

' " Where all must love, but one can win the prize, 
The others walk away with tears and sighs. 
With tears and sighs let them walk off, while I 
Walk for three miles in better company." 


' But I did not walk the three miles that morning, 
or for many after. The more serious verses I wrote 
six years later. 

* " I draw with trembling hand my doubtful lot ; 
Yet where are Fortune's frowns, if she frown not 
From whom I hope, from whom I fear the 
kiss ? 
O gentle Love ! if there be ought beyond 
That makes the bosom calm, but leaves it fond, 
O let her give me that and take back this." ' 

* * * >|; -Jf. 

The reader may recollect, with some surprise, 
that while the first of the two poemetti tran- 
scribed in this letter cannot be found anywhere 
in Landor's published writings ; the second was 
printed among the verses to lanthe. As will 
presently be seen, there are other instances of 
such unconscious or deliberate mystification. 

Before the close of the last century Miss 
Aylmer went out to India to stay with her 
mother's sister, the wife of Sir Henry Russell, 
a judge of the Supreme Court of Judicature in 

' Where is she now ? Called far away 
By one she dared not disobey, 
To those proud halls for youth unfit, 
Where princes stand and judges sit.'* 

* Landor's ' Heroic Idyls,' p. 158. 


JLandor's verses seem to suggest that Miss 
Aylmer went to India rather against her will, 
but I know not if there is any warrant for this 
theory. Sir Henry Russell was a noted man in 
his day. Appointed by the Crown to a puisne 
judgeship in Bengal, he went out to India in 
the Company's ship Earl Fitzwilliam, reaching 
Calcutta in May, 1798, a few days after the new 
Governor-General, Lord Mornington, had taken 
over charge of his high office. Lady Russell, 
with her niece Miss Aylmer and another niece, 
who afterwards married Sir Theophilus Metcalfe, 
followed Sir Henry some months later. 

Of Miss Aylmer's uncle, the judge, one may 
read in old volumes of the Asiatic Annual 
Register how he would address the grand 
jury * in an elegant, pertinent and perspicuous 
charge,' and how, on one occasion, he passed a 
capital sentence on a young Company's cadet 
who had set fire to a native's hut. The 
judgment created no small sensation in Cal- 
cutta, and was referred to by a local poet : 

' Truth and order seemed to shed a tear, 
And Russell's voice still sounded in my ear.'* 

-'- ' Calcutta: a Poem,' by J. J. London, 181 1. 


But of Miss Aylmer's life after she said fare- 
well to Landor we know nothing. Doubtless, 
she went to balls at Government House where 
she perhaps had a certain Colonel Arthur 
Wellesley as a partner. It is still more likely 
that she knew a lady whose charms have been 
celebrated by a great writer who, like Landor,. 
was a Warwickshire man. Writing to Boswell 
in March, 1774, Dr. Johnson said : ' Chambers, 
is either married, or almost married, to Miss 
Wilton, a girl of sixteen, exquisitely beautiful, 
whom he has with his lawyer's tongue persuaded 
to take her chance with him in the East.' Sir 
Robert Chambers resigned the Chief Justiceship 
of Bengal just before Sir Henry Russell took 
his seat on the bench ; but he lived in India till 
his death in 1803. 

The Asiatic Register for 1800 records the 
death, on March 3, of * the Hon. Miss Aylmer,, 
a young lady of great beauty and accomplish- 
ments.' She died of cholera : 

* Where Ganges rolls his widest wave 
She dropped her blossom in the grave ; 
Her noble name she never changed, 
Nor was her nobler heart estranged."'" 

* Landor's verses in ' Heroic Idyls,' p. 158. 

(From a Photograph.) 

To face p. 72. 


Her grave is in the cemetery in South Park 
Street, Calcutta; and I am able to give a 
sketch of the monument erected to her memory. 
It bears the following inscription : 

In Memory of 




MARCH THE 2ND, A.D. 180O, 


' What was her fate ? Long, long before her hour 
Death called her tender soul by break of bliss, 
From the first blossoms, from the bud of joy. 
Those few our noxious fate unblasted leaves 
In this unclement clime of human life.' 

Possibly it was of Rose Aylmer's death that 
Landor was thinking, when, years afterwards, 
he wrote those mournful stanzas : 

' My pictures blacken in their frames 
As night comes on ; 
And youthful maids and wrinkled dames 
Are now all one. 

* Death of the day ! a sterner Death 
Did worse before ; 
The fairest form, the sweetest breath, 
Away he bore.' 


The lock of Rose Aylmer's hair, found in the 
cedar-wood desk nearly a hundred years after 
her death, was given to Landor by her half- 
sister, Mrs. Paynter. The gift was acknow- 
ledged in the lines : 

• Beautiful spoils ! borne off from vanquish'd 
Upon my heart's high altar shall ye lie, 
Moved but by only one adorer's breath, 
Retaining youth, rewarding constancy."'' 

Leigh Hunt has related how he and Landor 
made acquaintance — 'as other acquaintances 
commence over a bottle ' — when looking at a 
solitary hair stolen by some froward tourist 
from a lock of Lucretia Borghia's hair exhibited 
in the Ambrosian library at Milan.f There 
may be some whom the sight of this lock of 
Rose Aylmer's hair would lead to a more 
intimate knowledge of Landor. It would be a 
pathetic introduction. 

Were it not for Landor's handwriting, one 
might have doubted to whom it belonged. 

* * Last Fruit off an old Tree,' p. 383. 

f See Landor's verses, Works, 1876, viii. 92; 
and an article by Leigh Hunt, reprinted in his 
London Journal, April 22, 1835. 


There are other * beautiful spoils ' that inspired r 

his rhymes. Mention has already been made of ^vef* ***^ 
tender passages at Tenby, where dwelt the lone ^^ ^^if 
of his verse. Some of Zone's 'golden hairs, '" / 

once mingled with my own,'* were also at one Vj ^q 

time among the trophies of his former loves. / 

No trace of them, however, was found in his 
desk, nor was there anything that could surely 
be described as a memento of this * gentle, 
young lone,' whom he named with the nymphs 
in ' Gebir,' and later with the Nereids in 

* Chrysaor ': 

' Sweet lone, youngest born, 
Of mortal race, but grown divine by song.' 

On the other hand there is more than one 
visible reminiscence of another page of love in 
his life's history ; the page, I think, which he 
recalled most often. I have already quoted the 
letter in which he referred to two miniatures to 
be kept for his sake, as he had kept them for 
theirs they represent. In another letter, written 
apparently a day or two later, that is, about the 
beginning of June, 1863, Landor said : 

* The smaller miniature is a portrait of the 
Countess {sic) de Moland^, who came to visit me 

* See Works, 1896, viii., pp. 77 and 296. 


at my villa thirty years after. The smaller (sic) 
one is of her grand-daughter, since married to 
Mr. O'Donnell of Baltimore. The civil war in 
America makes me anxious about her, since no 
letter from her has reacht me lately.' 

There were two miniatures in the desk, and 
any doubt arising from the confusion between 
smaller and larger is set at rest by the writing 
on the back of the larger one. Here is written 
in pencil, * Miss de Sodre,' and in ink, the 
signature of the artist, * C. Ford. Bath, 1849.* 
Miss de Sodre was the grand-daughter of the 
Countess de Molande, who is pictured in the 
smaller and older miniature. This represents a 
charming girl, with laughter -loving eyes and 
pouting lips, cheeks radiant with health, and 
brown hair clustering in curls on her smooth 

* O thou whose happy pencil strays 
Where I am call'd, nor dare to gaze. 

But lower my eye and check my tongue ; 
O, if thou valuest peaceful days, 
Pursue the ringlet's sunny maze, 

And dwell not on those lips too long.' 

The lines are printed among the verses 
addressed to lanthe in the volume published 


London- Kich^i'd BenU-t-y and 3du lb9 


by Landor in 1831. They were most likely 
written some time before ; though whether in- 
tended for a warning to the artist who painted 
this particular miniature is a problem that 
evades inquiry. What we do know is that the 
charming girl here depicted is the lanthe of a 
cycle of love-lyrics which it is hard to match ; 
lanthe, whose pleasures sprang like daisies on 
the grass ; ' she whom no Grace was tardy to 
adorn ' ; lanthe of the cherisht form and 
heavenly smile ; lanthe of the white hand and 
warm, wet cheek ; of happy days and fond 
regrets ; lanthe whose lovely name inspired 
the poet's song : 

' And dwelling in the heart 

Forever falters at the tongue 

And trembles to depart.' 

lanthe's genealogy and descent may be traced 
in Burke's ' Landed Gentry.' Her maiden name 
was Sophia Jane Swift, and her great-great- 
grandfather was Godwin Swift, the uncle of 
the famous Dean. Landor, who once declared 
that he read * The Tale of a Tub ' oftener than 
any prose work in the English language, fell 
an easy victim to the fascinations of a gentler 
member of the family. Dean Swift, as we know 


from Alexander Pope,* had * very particular 
eyes ; they are quite azure as the heavens, and 
there is a very uncommon archness in them.' 
There may have been a family likeness. 

Landor and his lanthe met first, I think, at 
Clifton. Inside Landor's writing - desk is 
fastened an engraving after a sketch by 
S. Jackson of the view from Clifton Church, 
and he always associated that neighbourhood 
with memories of lanthe : 

* The mossy bank, dim glade and dizzy hight, 
The sheep that, starting from the tufted thyme, 
Untune the distant Church's mellow chime.* 

Few poets who transmute their love affairs 
into song can be trusted to render a strictly 
impartial account either of raptures or torments. 
The loves of Landor and lanthe, as related by 
Landor, may bear little resemblance, in some 
details of the story, to the truer record lanthe 
could have given of their companionship. Still 
it is not difficult to make a fair guess at what 
happened. Of Landor, three years before his 
death, Browning wrote : * Whatever he may 
profess, the thing he really loves is a pretty 

* * Spence's Anecdotes,' p. 135. 


girl to talk nonsense with.' In such alluring 
pastime he had found solace and contentment, 
whatever else failed, all the days of his life ; and 
who can doubt that he discoursed oceans of 
nonsense with the pretty Irish girl ? How 
much of seriousness was mixed therein one 
cannot tell, but the fact is on record that 
lanthe, whose wisdom and foresight can never 
be too highly commended, married not the heir 
of Ipsley Court in Warwickshire, but her cousin, 
Mr. Godwin Swifte, of Lionsden, County Kil- 
kenny, and lived very happily with him. Even 
if she gave Landor more encouragement than 
should prudently have been accorded, who can 
blame the fair inciter of such exquisite lyrics ? 
Even were lanthe * fond, but fickle and untrue,* 
literature is the richer by tender, sad complaints 
like these : 

* Bid my bosom cease to grieve, 

Bid these eyes fresh objects see, 
Where's the comfort to believe 

None would once have rival'd me ? 
What, my freedom to receive ? 

Broken hearts, are they the free ? 
For another can I live 

If I may not live for thee ?' 


That lanthe was Miss Swift when Landor 
met her first is, I think, evident from more 
than one Httle poem, in which, as first printed, 
he calls her * sweet maid.' Moreover, there are 
Latin verses, * Ad lanthen ' : 

' O per virgineos, carissima dona, capillos, 
O mihi virginea non data dona manu.' 

According to family tradition, lanthe's marriage 
took place in 1803. Among the hitherto un- 
published poems printed in another part of the 
present volume there is one which seems to 
describe a highly indiscreet endeavour to see 
and converse with the lady after her hand had 
been finally bestowed on a happier rival. 
Perhaps it was no more than a dream. 

When seeking for autobiography in Landor's 
writings there are frequent pitfalls to beware 
of. Landor once accused himself — and not 
altogether unjustly — of being a horrible con- 
founder of historic facts. There was usually, 
he confessed, one history that he had read and 
another that he had invented. Invention some- 
times played its part in his verses, as it does in 
those of other poets who might be named. 
And there was another source of mystification. 


In one of his dialogues Landor unconsciously 
borrowed a notion from Sir Thomas Browne's 
* Religio Medici.' * A misery there is in affection 
that whom we truly love like our own selves, we 
forget their looks, nor can our memory retain 
the Idea of their faces.' So Sir Thomas 
Browne wrote ; and Landor makes Filippo 
Lippi repeat, as a saying of the corsair from 
Tunis who carried him into captivity, ' Alas ! 
when we most love the absent, when we most 
desire to see her, we try in vain to bring her 
image back to us.' Landor, I suspect, could 
not always bring to mind, when nearly a long 
lifetime afterwards he revised a poem for the 
printer, the name of her to whom it had been 
addressed. Then, again, he would alter a set 
of verses, intended originally for one fair en- 
chantress, so as to make them apply to another. 
To me it seems indisputable that a few, at any 
rate, of the poems labelled * To lanthe ' in the 
volume printed in 1831 were actually inspired, 
in the previous century, by lone. One in 
particular, when published in 1804 — it was 
doubtless written some years earlier — con- 
tained verses which were omitted in 1831, and 
which, though they may have referred to lone, 



would be altogether inadmissible in a poem 
about lanthe. This is a point which Landor's 
future editors must not overlook. As an instance 
of the permutation of names in Landor's love 
poetry the lines 

* Thank Heaven, Nesera, once again 
Our lips in ardent kisses meet,' 

may be quoted. That is how they were printed 
in 1802, and again in ' Heroic Idyls,' 1863 ; but 
in Mr. Forster's two editions (1846 and 1876) 
Neaera becomes lanthe. In the same way 
Psyche alternates with Zoe in the verses 

' Against the rocking mast I stand.' 

Last of all there are not wanting grounds for 
the suspicion that someone who harboured a 
grudge against the charming lanthe was re- 
sponsible for a use of her name in a way wholly 
unwarranted by the facts. * I printed,' Landor 
wrote to Southey, ' whatever was marked with 
a pencil by a woman who loved me, and I con- 
sulted all her caprices.' Some commentators 
have supposed that lanthe herself was the 
'woman who loved me,' and who made the 
selection. On the other hand, in another letter 


to the same address, Landor said : * But, Southey, 
I love a woman who will never love me, and am 
beloved by one who never ought.' Here be 
mysteries not to be fathomed. 

So I do not attach very great significance to 
a list, in Landor's hand, of * verses to lanthe.' 
When he sent a copy of his poems to Miss 
Mary Boyle, he protested that all the amatory 
ones were ideal. ' Someone,' he said, * has 
fancied that lanthe (stolen by Byron) is only 
Jane with the Greek 0. What noodles are 
commentators!' Still, the manuscript list may 
suffice to clear up some perplexities. It shows, 
for instance, that the beautiful lines to J. S., at 
whose identity Mr. Colvin would not even 
hazard a guess, were meant for lanthe, being 
addressed to Jane Sophia when she was Madame 
de Molande. They lend such charming colour 
to the portrait of lanthe that I cannot refrain 
from transcribing them : 

' Many may yet recall the hours 
That saw thy lover's chosen flowers 
Nodding and dancing in the shade 
Thy dark and wavy tresses made ; 
On many a brain is pictured yet 
Thy languid eye's dim violet ; 



But who among them all foresaw 
How the sad snows that never thaw 
Upon that head one day should lie, 
And love but glimmer from that eye ?' 

And one would not v^illingly lose the 
romance that might be woven from the chain 
of verses to an idealised lanthe. Remember 
only that lanthe does not invariably stand for 
Miss Swift, afterwards Mrs. Swifte (her cousin 
and husband added an e to the name), and as 
pretty a tale of love may be told as ever poet 
feigned. The lanthe of our imagination had a 
pleasing, yet perhaps not a very safe method, 
or to be commended to a susceptible genera- 
tion, of compelling her poet's attention : 

' lanthe took me by both ears, and said : 
" You are so rash, I own I am afraid. 
Prop, or keep hidden in your heart, my name, 
But be your love as lasting as your fame." ' 

Nor is it only once that the lover — the 
imaginary lover — finds himself in such tolerable 
durance. He repeats some of his Latin verses, 
whereupon ' she held me by both ears till I gave 
her the English.' In the language of Tibullus 
and Ovid the lines run : 


* Vita brevi est fugitura, prior fugitura voluptas, 
Hoc saltern exiguo tempore duret amor.' 

And, Englished by the audacious versifier, they 
become : 

'Too soon, lanthe, life is o'er, 

And sooner beauty's playful smile. 
Kiss me, and grant what I implore, 
Let love remain that little while.' 

One of Lander's ' Hellenics ' ends with a 
dubitation concerning a kiss : 

' A swain averr'd 
That he descried in the deep wood a cheek 
At first aslant, then lower, then eclipst. 
Another said it was not in the wood. 
But in the grotto near the water-fall, 
And he alone had seen it. 

The dispute 
Ran high ; a third declared that both were 

One is so apt to be mistaken at such times, 
and the better way is not to look. 

To return to the veritable lanthe. Much 
may be gathered about her life and character 
from a little volume of reminiscences written by 
her son. Her first husband, the father of her 


five children, died in 1814. She mourned him 
sincerely, and her acute grief brought on an 
attack of brain fever. Then followed a year 
or two of consolable widowhood, during which 
time Mrs. Swifte, young, pretty, and with a 
good income at her disposal, helped to em- 
bellish the reception-rooms of various pro- 
vincial towns and watering-places. Her son 
relates that on one occasion his mother's 
power of fascination was exerted in the interests 
of what local opinion looked upon as justice. 
Local opinion ran high in favour of two 
prisoners about to be tried on some capital 
charge. lanthe resolved that they should 
escape the law's extreme penalty ; and to that 
end invited the learned judge — no other than 
Lord Norbury — and the grand jury to dinner, 
after which there was dancing. The judge 
vowed he would dance with the lovely widow 
as long as he had a leg to stand on ; and his 
Lordship, we are to infer, was so mollified by 
the gracious attention he received, that, when 
the trial came on, he gave the prisoners the 
benefit of a doubt. Long before this, of course, 
Landor had married Miss Julia Thuillier ; and 
the same year that made lanthe a widow saw 


him, his mundane estate sadly encumbered by 
rash experiments at Llanthony, and by experi- 
ments still more unwise in litigation, an exile 
from his country, and estranged for weeks 
together from his young wife. That passing 
discord was quickly composed, and for the 
space of twenty years husband and wife lived 
together in Italy, except for a few months in 
1832, when Landor revisited England. 

Toward the end of 1829 he again met lanthe, 
now for the second time a widow. In 1816 she 
had married the Count Lepelletier de Molande, 
a Norman nobleman, who in his youth had 
been page to the beautiful and unfortunate 
Princesse de Lamballe, and who afterwards, 
emigrating to England, was attached to the 
person of George IV. He died in or about 
1827 ; and Madame de Molande, going to 
Florence in 1829, renewed her acquaintance 
with Landor. Writing to his sister Ellen, he 
styled this lady the dearest of all the friends he 
ever had or ever should have. Neither time 
nor bereavement had impaired her beauty, and 
she was now being entreated by two ardent 
suitors — an English earl and a French duke, 
to venture on a third essay in matrimony. 


' I wonder not,' Landor wrote, ' that youth 
remains with you :' 

« Where could he find such fair domains, 
Where bask beneath such sunny eyes?' 

He also addressed some verses to ' Madame 
de Molande about to marry the Duke of Luxem- 
burg'; but neither this nor the other match 
came off. During her residence in Florence, 
the Countess visited the Landors at their 
Fiesolan Villa. Moreover, at her host's re- 
quest, she planted four mimosa - trees in his 
garden, round the spot marked out by him as 
his last resting-place. Nor did Landor shrink 
from composing a suitable epitaph : 

' Lo ! where the four mimosas blend their shade 
In calm repose at last is Landor laid ; 
For ere he slept he saw them planted here 
By her his soul had ever held most dear.' 

In 1832, when Landor revisited England 
after an absence of eighteen years, he found 
Madame de Molande living at Brighton, * in 
the midst,' he wrote, ' of music, dancing, and 
fashionable people turned Radicals,' and he 
stayed a couple of days at her house. Of 
further meetings there is no record till Landor 


had left his wife and children in a fit of inex- 
tinguishable anger, and had once more taken 
up his abode among the ' peopled hills ' of 
Bath. There also Madame de Molande settled 
down for a while, and often helped him to bear 
the burden of advancing age. At Bath Mr. 
Forster was presented to the Countess. ' Even 
when I first saw her,' he wrote, ' a bright, good- 
humoured Irish face was all her beauty, but 
youth still lingered in her eyes and hair.' All 
too soon was Landor deprived of this and 
many another consolation in his solitude. The 
Laureate Southey, the accomplished Francis 
Hare, the generous Joseph Ablett, the glorious 
Lady Blessington — all were gone ; and in a 
letter, dated August 3, 1851, Landor wrote: 

* I have lost my beloved friend of half a century, 
Jane, the Countess de Molande. She died at Ver- 
sailles on the last of July after sixteen hours' illness. 
This most affecting intelligence was sent me by her 
son William, who was with her at her last hour. 
She will be brought over to the family vault, in 
County Meath, of her first husband, Swifte, great- 
great - grandson of the uncle of the Dean of 
St. Patrick's. I hoped she might have seen my 
grave. Hers I shall never see, but my thoughts 
will visit it often. Though other friends have 


died in other days (why cannot I help this running 
into verse ?) one grave there is whose memory 
sinks and stays.' 

In the volume of * Heroic Idyls ' is an elegy, 
beginning : 

* I dare not trust my pen, it trembles so.' 

The manuscript of these lines is now in the 
British Museum. 

With many among Landor's friends, the love 
he bore them descended from generation to 
generation. Of lanthe's daughters by her 
first husband, the elder, Jane Christiana, was 
married in 1835 to the Chevalier Sergio de 
Macedo, the Brazilian Minister in London. The 
younger, Maria, had married, five years earlier, 
the Chevalier Louis de Pereira Sodre, the 
Brazihan Minister at the Vatican. Madame 
de Pereira Sodre died in 1836, leaving a 
daughter, Luisina, whose girlhood was passed 
under the care of the Countess de Molande. 
Miss de Pereira Sodre became a great favourite 
of Landor's at Bath, and, as already stated, her 
portrait was found in his writing-desk. Several 
little poems were addressed to this young lady. 
In one of them, published in the Keepsake for 


1853, and also in ' Last Fruit,' mention is made 
of her having waltzed with the Emperor of 
Austria at Vienna, to whose court her uncle 
was at one time accredited : 

' Blush not to have been so chosen : 'twas that 
Which won the choice : 'twas not Pereira's name, 
'Twas not De Sodre's, not Mac^do's.' 

There are verses also on Luisina's portrait : 

' Afar was I when thou wast born 
More than one country to adorn, 
My Luisina ! and afar 
From me now shines thy morning star.' 

A poetical exhortation was likewise addressed 
to the young lady when she was about to visit 
Paris, bidding her * Listen not to the French- 
man's tongue.' 

A further reminiscence of Luisina, coupled 
with one of another friend, is preserved in a 
letter of Landor's to Mr. Forster. He was 
enlarging on the intelligence and amiability of 
his dog Pomero, and proceeds : 

* Last evening I took him to hear Luisina de 
Sodre play and sing. She is my friend, the 
Countess de Molandfe's grand-daughter. . . . Pomero 


was deeply affected and lay, close to the pedal, on 
her gown, singing in a great variety of tones, not 
always in time. It is unfortunate that he always 
will take a part where there is music, for he sings 
even worse than I do.' 

Among the memorials found in Landor's desk 
was a tuft of poor Pomero's hair; Pomero, who 
for thirteen years was his master's inseparable 
companion, and whose virtues were celebrated 
both in English and Latin. Here is his 
epitaph : 

' Canem amicum suum egregie cordatum 

qui appellatus fuit pomero, 

Savagius Landor infra sepelivit.' 

* Pray for me and Pomero,' Landor wrote to 
Miss Boyle ; * some people are wicked enough 
to believe that we shall never meet again.' 
Pomero had been sent to Bath from Italy. 
There was not an older family, his master 
vowed, in all Bologna. ' His ancestors pre- 
ceded the Bentivoglios, and were always staunch 



* How carelessly people say " I am delighted to 
hear from you." No other language has this 
beautiful expression.' 

W. S. Landor. 

By the kindness of a lady to whom Walter 
Savage Landor was greatly attached, I am able 
to print a number of letters of an earlier date 
than those addressed to Dr. Walker. A little 
while before he left his citron groves of Fiesole 
and the beloved villa, where 

' By the lake Boccaccio's " Fair Brigade " 
Beguiled the hours and tale for tale repaid,' 

he enjoyed the pleasure of meeting Miss Rose 
Aylmer's half-sister, Mrs. Paynter, who, with 
her daughter, a second * Rose from that same 
stem,' came to stay for a time in Florence. 


Out of fond recollections of the past, as well 
as from the enjoyment of present felicities 
such as he ever found in gracious company, 
there quickly arose an affectionate esteem that 
comforted his loneliness for another quarter of a 
century. And for Miss Rose Paynter, a little 
girl when he first knew her, but just released 
from the nursery, the gallant, kindly gentleman, 
now hard on sixty, entertained feelings not un- 
like the loving regard of Epicurus, in the 
' Imaginary Conversations,' for his charming 
pupils in philosophy, Leontion and Ternissa. 
Need it be said that for her also there was 
poetry in profusion ? In 1840 Miss Paynter's 
portrait, engraved from a painting in oils by 
Fisher, appeared in the * Book of Beauty,' 
along with verses by Landor. Six years later, 
on her marriage to Sir Charles Graves-Sawle, 

* She upon her wedding day 
Carried home my tenderest lay.' 

Later still, more verses had to be written in 
honour of a third Rose. 

The letters will speak for themselves. The 
first is addressed to Mrs. Paynter, the others to 
Miss Rose Paynter, now Lady Graves-Sawle. 


To Mrs. Payntcv at Rome. 

' Florence, 

'April 3 [? 1833]. 
' Dear Mrs. Paynter, 

* . . . Nothing would have been more un- 
conscionable in me than to have expressed a wish 
to hear from you while at Rome for the first time ; 
and nothing can be kinder than for you to cast a 
thought on me from amidst so many wonders and 
reflections. . . . Miss Mackenzie" is so charmed 
with you and the twin roses, for I will not allow 
one to be more rosy than the other. They will care 
no more for having charmed her than for having 
charmed me, who am rather the older of the two 
old women, though there cannot be more than 
twenty or thirty years' difference, which Is no great 
matter in such antiquities as you are getting used 
to. Since you left Florence I have rarely gone 
within the gates. Yesterday I finished the planting 
of two thousand vines, and in the autumn I shall 
plant as many more, besides seventy olives. I did 
think of going to England, but if I do, I shall 
return by November. Francis Hare is certainly 
the best informed as well as the best natured man 
you will meet in Italy. He will probably leave 
Rome about the same time as you do, but you take 
contrary directions. I am losing all my friends. 

-•' Miss Mackenzie of Seaforth. 


Mr. Brown,* an intelligent and most friendly man, 
is gone to England with a resolution never to return 
to Italy. Mr. Jamest goes to-morrow with the 
same resolution. I cannot bear the idea of seeing 
anything for the last time. There is something in 
those two monosyllables that weighs very heavily 
on the heart ; more heavily than volumes of school 
divinity. Coragio, coragio. We must not talk in 
this manner. Have we not both of us outlived the 
Last Days of Pompeii ? 

* When you are at Naples, you will hear some- 
thing of old Mathias, the man who -v^^rote a sort of 
satire called " The Pursuit of Literature." He now 
writes sonnets ; Italian ones, too. When I was at 
Naples he inspired me, as you shall see. 

* The piper's music fills the street, 
The piper's music makes the heat 

Hotter by ten degrees ; 
Hand us a sonnet, dear Mathias, 
Hand us a sonnet, cool and dry as 
Your very best, and we shall freeze.' 
* * t- t- * 

To Miss Rose Paynter. 

* Bath, 

* December, 1838. 
Dear Rose, 

' It is only the pleasure you are enjoying at 
Paris that would at all reconcile your circle here to 

* Mr. Charles ArmitageBrown, the friend of Keats, 
i Mr. G. P. R. James, the novelist. 


the loss of you, the bitterness of which at the first 
moments overflowed a little way beyond them. 
There were too many thoughts and too perplexing 
ones at bidding you farewell — I do not remember 
whether there was a voice to utter them : if there was 
it was forced into the service by a hard impressment. 

' Kenyon tells me that Southey is going to take a 
second wife, Miss Caroline Bowles.* She is repre- 
sented as extremely amiable — not very young, nor 
should she be. Southey is himself in his sixty-fifth 
year. Surely he might see the mellow fruit on the 
espalier without any hasty eagerness to gather it. 

Surely, having been married once, and happily- 

But in fear of running too far into the romantic, I 
will only say, I think I should have liked him rather 
the better had he been contented to stop short of 
matrimony. However, he is a more judicious and 
a better man than I am, and I trust his choice will 
be conducive to his happiness. In human life there 
is but one important event — may God prosper it to 
all my friends. 

' You tell me there are no pretty women in Paris. 
Pretty women, I fancy, are reserved to be the orna- 
ments of celebrated reigns. In the commencement 
of Napoleon's career I remember Madame Tallien, 
Madame Recamier and Pauline. The Duchesse de 
Grammont was handsome, rather past her perfection, 
but retaining a part of her bloom and all her graces. 

* The marriage took place on June 5, 1839. 



If you meet her you will be pleased with her. I 
cannot promise you quite so much in Lady Harriet 
d'Orsay, if you converse with her more than once. 

* When Southey was appointed Poet -Laureate, it 
was understood that he should not be obliged to 
write any birthday verses, as had always been done 
before. When you appointed me to the same office 
the law was not very clearly laid down — I may 
shuffle, and am half inclined. However, you shall 
have as little as ever was offered on a similar occa- 
sion. I believe the 19th was the martyrdom of 
St. Agnes — never mind if I am wrong. The poets 
have as great a power as tyrants have, and can 
order an execution or a reprieve ad libitum. 

* Slain was Agnes on the day 

That we bless for Rose's birth ; 
Heaven, who took a Saint away. 
Sent an Angel down to Earth. 

' I have been spending a few days with my friend 
Hare in Berkshire. The house''' was built by Inigo 
Jones — well adapted for Italy, better for Africa. 
The cold was intense, and I slept in a bed large 
enough for a company of comedians. Dear Rose, 
' Your sincere, affectionate friend, 

' W. S. L.' 

'■'• Westwood Way House, where Francis Hare 
was then living. In another letter Landor said the: 
house would have done passably well for Naples^ 
and better for Ti^Tlbuctoo. 


To Miss Rose Paynter. 

' [Bath,] 

' March, 1839. 
' Dear Rose, ^ 

* At last I am able to send you a little book-'f 
to occupy you on your voyage homeward. Do not 
censure me for representing Giovanna of Naples 
as an amiable and virtuous woman — her true 
character. In regard to the murder of h^j ;t?W-{ 
band there is no more doubt of her innocencej .^l^^n 
there is of Mary Stuart's guilt. Gianixo^i^e^f tjaf 
most dispassionate and impartial of histj9rjan^,f^4 
no favourer of Popes and Princes, mpij|^i^s -y^ith 
admiration her prudence, her gen,:iusi[;-^nj4'v%h!^r 
gentleness of disposition, and repudiatje^jtjh^^PpT^ar 
tions brought against her by the bjii^d^-^el^m^l^ 
of an adverse faction. Boccaccio dia/^'^_,e.^^(i^^x\ 
their private letters are profuse, j^i^Qtl^i|-yP5§.i^^S( of 
her, and bitterly lament over l^gy^j^flifg^rilie^-^^^lSr 
fortunes. They had been ditj^\\c^^-^Ji. .^^ioj^Py'Sj.r^ 
after her marriage. Now Pfij:j5^r9|i^j,-^a^^^{yn^j\j:la^^ 

I eAVrA ban a:)L^oizoJfir 
* * Andrea of Hungary and Giovanna of N.ap_les,' 

by W. S. Landor. Londoii, ^SiiiBpntiefyi i^B9- 

f Pietro Giannone's ^fdGivii HlatiOt;ynCjf')^j§tpJ,^s[' 

was translated into ;£nigli3h, j;eari'^e3(inl tfe^ ^j^ 

century, by Captain, QgilwiairoLaadofiiRteiJj qjUOl^s 

this writer's defence.of'GiovaiiKistt.oflNaple^-^i^,];^ 

* Essay on Petrarcha.' Works, 1876, viii. 44%£>;i 



addicted to censoriousness, and to conceal the fail- 
ings of ladies was not among the habitudes of 
Boccaccio. You will be inclined to pray that I may 
not have another sprained ankle,* if a couple of 
Dramas are to spring out of bran and vinegar, and 
you must read them. 

' I have been reading the " Old Men's Tales." 
Admirable ! admirable ! 

' Amidst the amusements of Paris you can have 
little time for study, and much that you would read 
would shock you as unprincipled. The harp of 
De Beranger, the only poet, is strung only for 
Paris. Lamartine is a mere versifier, fantastically 
grave, and epigrammatically devout. Mignet, De 
Tocqueville and Cousin write for politicians. Do 
you ever meet with any of these authors ? If they 
wish to keep up the illusion, they should rarely 
come into sight. We soon discover, when we step 
up close to it, of how petty materials the most solid 
granite is composed. Among their smaller authors 
it would be well if they exposed only the sugar and 
water that catch flies, without the poison that 
intoxicates and kills them. Exaggeration has 

* ' He who sprains an ankle breaks a resolution. 
I sprained my ankle a week ago. . . . On Sunday 
after tea I began a drama on Giovanna di Napoli 
(God defend us from the horrid sound, Joan of 
Naples !).' Landor to Mr. Forster, October, 


always been attractive. Voltaire alone is exempt 
from this fault. No language is purer or more 
perfect. We have no Bossuet, no Massillon. 
Milton, our only great proseman, is not always 
great as they are, although some pages of his are 
worth nearly all they ever wrote. In his " Treatise 
on Prelacy " are these words — printed, of course, as 
prose — " When God commands to take the trumpet 
and blow a dolorous or thrilling blast, it rests not 
in man's will what he shall say, or what he shall 
conceal. '"■= Is there anything more solemn or 
august in the whole range of poetry ? 

' When years have stored your mind with obser- 
vation, you will continue to prefer Goldsmith to 
Bulwer, Miss Edgeworth to Lady Morgan, Madame 
de Sevigne to Chateaubriand : in other words, the 
very best to the very worst. Well and wisely has 
Boileau said : " Rien n'est beau que le vrai, le vrai seul 
est aimable." 

* I am going into Devonshire. Should I happen 
to see a small cottage and garden to let, I hope to 
gather my own gooseberries and radishes, and plant 
my own rose-tree. O, that I could once more enjoy 
the noble terraces of Sorrento, or my own at Fiesole, 
no less delightful. Sorrento, I may perhaps; the 
other, never. I must break my promise with my 

* Landor had a great liking for this quotation, 
and more than once printed it in the form of blank 
verse. See Works, 1876, v. 561 ; viii. 389. 


four beautiful mimosas, to sit among them as long 
as I live on condition that they continue to scatter 
their sweet blossoms over me afterwards. These 
now only fall on the myrtles and oleanders, "plants 
of my hand and children of my care." Some of the 
oleanders were seven feet high when I left Tuscany, 
starring the ground and refreshing the air with their 

' I once occupied the small apartment of Marie 
Antoinette at the Petit Trianon for a fortnight.* 
The windows were of a single pane, and overlooked 
the English or rather Chinese garden. Happy 
days ! but not for memory. I have been writing 
for some hours ; none of your many friends think 
of you oftener or more affectionately than that tire- 
some old scribbler, 

' W. S. Landor.' 

To Miss Rose Paynter. 

* [Bath,] 

'May, 1839. 
' Dear Rose, 

' So you have met Lord Brougham. He 
has not quite so amiable or tranquil a face as 
Lamartine. In plain truth it is quite the worst, 
and very nearly the ugliest physiognomy in exist- 
ence. It has, however, one advantage over its 
proprietor — it does not lie. 

* This was in 1802. See Forster's 'Life,' i. 174. 


* When you visit Chantilly next, remember me 
affectionately to my old friends, the carp. When I 
saw them above thirty years ago, they were grayer 
than I was. Assure them that if I now wear their 
colours, it is not out of compliment to them. 
Nevertheless I follow them closely in their main 
opinion, which is always to keep out of hot 
water, . . .' 

To Miss Rose Payntev. 

' Gore House, 

'June, 1839. 

' . . . . An odd thing happened to me which I 
must tell you. I had given the Examiner'^' some 
remarks on Lord Brougham in which I brought 
down Bonaparte from the stilts on which our 
traitors have placed him. Prince Louis Napoleon, 
Montauban, and Persigny had been conversing 
with me in admirable good humour, when some- 
thing was said by Lady Blessington about an 
article in I know not what paper. " Apropos" said 
Louis, " I owe many thanks to the author of the 
Examiner for his notice of the Emperor." Luckily 
he had forgotten that my name was at the bottom, 
I could not help smiling. They say he is no fool — 
— he looks like one, which is unusual in that 
family. . . .' 

'•' The article in the Examiner is reprinted in 
Landor's Works, 1876, v. 553. 


To Miss Rose Paynter. 

* [London,] 

^June, 1840. 

' .... I sat at dinner [at Gore House] by 
Charles Forester, Lady Chesterfield's brother. In 
the last hunting season Lord Chesterfield, wanting- 
to address a letter to him, and not knowing exactly 
where to find him, gave it to D'Orsay to direct it. 
He directed it — Charles Forester, one field before 
the hounds. Melton Mowbray. Lord Alvanley 
took it, and (he himself told me) gave it to him on 
the very spot. 

Miss Caldwell* is returned from the sea-side — 
fanciullesca fnsca, fresca. " Sure, Landor, it is a 
beautiful book, your ' Periwinkle and Asparagus ' ; 
but faith ! I've no time to read it." Yesterday 
Colonel Napier,! who is not imaginative, told me 
this. " Sure, we have been to see St. John's latter 
end — mighty odd name, is it not ? — there beyond 
the Pope's." " The Vatican ?" " Not an idea of 

* ' My earliest Bath friend, Miss Caldwell, sister 
to dear, good Lady Belmore, of whose death I so 
lately wrote to you, died a few days ago. I had 
known them since the beginning of the century.* 
Landor to Mr. Forster, February 6, 1854. 

]■ Sir William Napier, the historian of the 
Peninsular War. 


it." "Perhaps you mean the Quirinal?" "The 
Quillinan, sure I know the name as well as our 
own house. James, put the Campanile on the 

' Bess Caldwell was a well-known and loved Mrs. 
Malaprop. She lived with her sister, the Dowager 
Countess of Belmore, at Bath. Sir William Gell, 
when they were at Naples, compiled — and I believe 
published — a book called " Caldwelliana " of her 
remarkable sayings. Hayward's very clever essay 
mentions her as having said, " She had been to see 
the house where Ariosto lived with the widow of 
Charles the First."'" She was a very intimate 
friend of my mother's.' 

In the spring of 1841 Landor went to Paris 
to meet his second son. ' Imagine my surprise,' 
he wrote to Mr. Forster (May 6, 1841), 'that 
any among the literary men knew even of my 
existence. Nothing can exceed the attention 
I receive from them. If their civilities are 
sufficient to make a place agreeable, I ought to 
be quite contented at Paris.' The amenities 
of the trip are described in the following 

* She was thinking of Alfieri and the Countess 
of Albany. See Edinburgh Review, July, 1861. 


To Miss Rose Payntev, 

' Paris, 

' [May, 1841] . 

' . . . I was invited to a sitting of the Institute, 
Cousin in the chair. Mignet, the great historian of 
the Revolution, and perpetual President, made an 
admirable speech on Merlin de Douai. Thiers was 
present. His countenance is like a mangy rat's. 
M. Colmarke, private secretary to Talleyrand, 
introduced me to Ledru, the Erskine of France. 
He conducted Lady Bulwer's case, and has under- 
taken the defence of the wretched fools who con- 
spired against Louis Philippe. I called on him 
yesterday, and he came out to see me and took me 
into his library, and after many civilities asked me 
if I would like to see the most noted man of France, 
meaning Vidocq. I said yes. He was admitted. 
He appears to be about sixty years old ; wonder- 
fully strong and of a physiognomy mild and intelli- 
gent. Ledru told me he was very trustworthy. 
On a former occasion Ledru had undertaken his 
defence, on condition that he gave 1,000 francs to 
the poor ; he performed his engagement honorably. 

' I have never anywhere received so much kind- 
ness and civility. I have been introduced to many 
literary ladies, but I neither know their works nor 
remember their names. On Monday the Princess 
Czartoryski has promised I shall meet Madame 
Recamier and la Guiccioli. . . .' 


To Miss Rose Paynter. 

^ July 16, 1842. 

' . . . To-morrow I go with Lord Pembroke to 
Brighton, where I leave him. As soon as I have 
sealed this I will pay my respects to your uncle and 
aunt, Lord and Lady Aylmer. Afterwards I make 
a visit by appointment to a most extraordinary 
personage, the Countess Vespucci, the only lineal 
descendant of the discoverer of America — of North 
America, at least. She began her career by escaping 
from a convent at sixteen, and by placing herself at 
the head of the insurgents. She received, in the 
first engagement, a severe sabre cut on her head, 
a ball broke her arm, and she was left on the field 
of battle. She continues singularly beautiful, and 
she has the longest and finest hair I ever saw. Her 
genius is quite as extraordinary as her beauty and 
courage. She has had many offers of marriage, 
but appears more disposed to deprive others of 
their liberty than to surrender her own. 

' The Due de Guiche is the handsomest man I 
ever saw. What poor animals other men seem in 
the presence of him and D'Orsay. He is also full 
of fun, of anecdote, of spirit and of information. 
The sorrowful death of the Duke of Orleans* was 

* Ferdinand, Due d'Orleans, eldest son of King 
Louis Philippe, died on July 13, 1842, from injuries 
sustained in a fall from his cabriolet, while driving 
in the Champs Elysees. 


rather a source of satisfaction to him. This vexed 
me, not only because the Duke of Orleans was a 
brave and kind-hearted young man, but because his 
death must be the bitterest grief to a most affec- 
tionate and virtuous mother. But politics make all 
men selfish, cold and calculating. To-day it will 
be amusing to meet the heads of both parties at 
dinner : the Due de Guiche, the Tankervilles, 
Lord Lyndhurst, Lord Abinger, Lord Brougham, 
etc., etc. Some of these people are desperately 
stupid, some villainously dishonest ; nevertheless 
they do not take away my appetite nor injure my 
digestion. Quiet Bath suits me better. I met 
Maclise at dinner at Dickens's. Landseer was at 
Gore House on Wednesday. 

' Yours affectionately, 

' W. S. L.' 

To Miss Rose Paynter. 

' Warwick, 

^ Sunday Night [July, 1843]. 

* Dear Rose, 

* . . . . Now for the first time my poetry 
deserves the greater part of a smile from you. At 
Mrs. Crampton's on Thursday our friend* (rather 
fond of causing occasionally a slight trepidation) 

* The late Mr. James Edward Fitzgerald, CM. G., 
Accountant-General, New Zealand. 


desired, in a laughing way, that I would write his 
epitaph in case he happened to be lost in the British 
Channel as he boated to Devonshire. I wrote on 
the spot four Greek verses, of which there are 
versions on the other side of the paper. . . . 

' Beloved by all Fitzgerald hes 

Where the sea waves for ever moan ; 
The dear delight of maiden eyes 

Is now embraced by Nymphs alone.' 

To Miss Rose Paynter. 

' [Bath,] 

' September 3, 1845. 
' Dear R., 

* You have taken the right view of F- 

What I had written on his poem was little different 
to that which I wrote to himself. I had remarked 
the absolute want of variety and invention in Byron, 
his model. Without these no poet can rise above 
a secondary station. Shakespeare took many of 
his characters and stories from other writers ; 
nevertheless his originality is greater and more 
exuberant than any other poet's. He breathed 
life into what he had formed out of the earth, and 
gave his fresh creation the universe for inheritance. 
The great poet must be conversant with a great 
variety of sentient beings and in a great variety of 
feelings, thoughts, and situations. He must keep 
them totally distinct from himself, and project 


them far before him. Striking characters, as they 
are called, are easily portrayed. A boy can draw 
a giant or a mountain, but how much care and 
ability is required, even in the greatest master, to 
catch the sparkles of a fountain or to calm the 
breast with a still and overshadowed water. The 
greatest achievements of poetry make no impression 
on ordinary minds. Tens of thousands were 
animated by the battles of the "Iliad" for one 
who struck his brow at the agony of Priam, or who 
prayed for the return of Hector when he lifted up 
his child, frightened at the radiance of his helmet. 
The last words of Lear that rive a great heart may 
perhaps be the ridicule of a less. Othello has been 
hated and execrated by more than have admired or 
pitied him. I once heard a man call him a coward, 
and it drove me into a gross imprudence, not to say 

' You might as well have thrown Kenyon's letter 
into the fire with mine. I had forgotten all its con- 
tents but his breach of promise, for which I intend 
to prosecute him. 

' Tell Fred never to use the American word 
realize for comprehend or conceive. 

' If there is a lodging cheap or dear to be pro- 
cured at Budleigh I will take it from the eighth of 
September, the day of the BleS9ed Virgin, as I find 
it in the almanack, liiitilU -Monday; the twenty- 
second, which I find te the '^sShig' authority is -the 
flight of MahonlfetJ'''M;^46^^*g^ttitist'be openj<l(» 


the sea, and have good water, my only beverage. 
I intend to be at church on Sunday, and may reach 
Budleigh that evening. 

* Affectionately yours, 

< W. S. L.' 

To Mrs. Sawle. 

* [1847.] 

' My dear, kind, hospitable friend, 

' I reached Exeter after one, and had no 
other accident but leaving my guide-book and gold 
spectacles. I must disburse half my patrimony for 
another pair. Vexatious ! as I have six or seven 
pairs already. 

' It is useful and providential to have met with 
some accident which turned my mind for an instant 
from my regrets at leaving Ristormel." Dear 
Ristormel ! its hanging woods, its sheltered gardens, 
its warm summer-house. In all these, my past 
days come back to me. I wish I could lift up face 
to face the little Rosebud this morning. I can 
fancy her splendid new sash falling over my elbow, 

■-'' Ristormel in Cornwall, where Mr. and Mrs. 
Sawle (now Sir Charles and Lady Graves-Sawle) 
were living. 

' Known as thou art to ancient fame, 
My praise, Ristormel, shall be scant ; 
The Muses gave thy sounding name, 
The Graces thy inhabitant.' 

* Last Fruit off an old Tree.' 


and her soft, cool little hand forbidding the ap- 
proaches of my lips. God's blessings on her. . . . 
' I have sent Mrs. Paynter the ' Reminiscences 
of Talleyrand." No memoirs (and memoirs are 
the forte of French literature) are comparable to 
( Q^ this work. They were collected by Mons. Colmarke, 
-r^^ the Prince's secretary. He is dead, and they are 

edited by his widow. I was very intimate with 
them both when I was in Paris, and she has made 
me a present of Talleyrand's spectacles. People 
like to keep themselves warm with the hatreds that 
cling about them. I confess I feel a relief in being 
able to think better than I used to think of this 
extraordinary man. I thought him much wiser but 
not much better than the statesmen of our oAvn 
country and of the Continent who were contempo- 

' My vision rests upon Ristormel. There is 
nothing half so pleasant to dwell upon. 

' Believe me, ^ 

' Your aifectionate old friend, 
*W. S. L.' 

To Mrs. Sawle. 

' [Bath,] 

^September 12, 1849. 

«... My brother Charles died tranquilly. He 
was at once the strongest, the handsomest and the 
wittiest man I ever knew. His family are well 
provided for; at seventy our portmanteaux are 


locked, and our carpet-bags can hold little more. 
I am quite ready to start whenever I am called.* 

' I may never see dear Ristormel again unless in 
dreams ; but I trust early in October to see what 
gave Ristormel all its charms. 

• The Grammonts and D'Orsay are desirous that 
I should write in latin an epitaph on my kind old 
friend Lady Blessington. I detest latin epitaphs, 
but obey. Death commits a sacrilege when he 
breaks into a friendship of twenty - two years' 
standing. She is buried in a wood of old chesnuts 
at St. Germain. There was enough money from 
her sale to pay all her debts, and to leave ;^3,ooo 
to her nieces. They will continue to live with the 
Duchesse de Grammont. . . .' 

The Countess of Blessington died on June 4, 
1849. Lander was one of her oldest friends : 

' Thou sleepest, not forgotten nor unmourn'd 
Beneath the chesnut shade of Saint Germain ; 
Meanwhile I wait the hour of my repose.' 

So he wrote in a little elegy, printed first in 
the Examiner. The Latin epitaph may be found 
in ' Last Fruit,' with an English translation. 
It ended : 

' Venit Lutetiam Parisiorum Aprili mense : 
Quarto Junii die supremum suum obiit.' 

* The Rev. Charles Landor died in July, 1849. 


In a memoir published in the Athenceum, this 
was changed to * Lutetiae Parisiorum ad meli- 
orem vitam abiit,' etc., which, Landor com- 
plained, would mean that she left Gore House 
for a better life at Paris. 

We now come to Landor's correspondence 
with his friend Arthur de Noe Walker. More 
than sixty years ago an English boy, living 
with his family at Florence, made the acquain- 
tance of Landor's sons. Going with a com- 
panion to see them at the Villa Gherardesca,. 
they saw Landor himself, of whom, from the 
idle stories they had heard in Florence, they 
stood not a little in awe. And just as Emerson 
found none of the ' Achillean wrath and untame- 
able petulance ' he had been warned to expect, 
but the most patient and gentle of hosts, so the 
two English lads were pleasantly disillusioned. 
It was no choleric, unapproachable man of 
wrath who came out to greet them, but the 
true Landor who, as his manner was, gave them 
a right royal welcome, and insisted on their 
staying to dinner. ' How kind he is,' whispered 
one of the boys ; and twenty years afterwards 
the other repeated the remark to Landor, who 
was delighted at the appreciation. 


This was Arthur Walker's first meeting with 
Landor, and shortly afterwards he went out to 
India as a Company's Cadet, being presently 
posted to the 6th Madras Infantry. It was 
then that he was induced by a friend in the 
Civil Service to read Landor's books ; and when 
his regiment was quartered at Cuttack, he met 
Landor's brother-in-law, at that time a captain 
in the Bengal Artillery. Invalided during the 
campaign in China, Captain Walker ' after hot 
days in the wild wastes of war,' left the service 
and came home. 

Landor was now living in Bath, and Captain 
Walker took the earliest opportunity of renew- 
ing his acquaintance with one whom he had 
since learnt to admire, not only as a genial 
friend, but as a great writer. An inscription in 
a copy of the two-volume edition of Landor's 
works — 'Walter Savage Landor, to his friend 
Arthur Walker, Feb. 5, '47 ' — commemorates 
this second meeting. Thenceforward they met 

The earliest letter I have found is dated from 
3, Rivers Street, Bath, and appears to have 
been written in 1853. Landor alludes to the 
beginnings of their friendship : 



' I do not remember the first visit you made to 
me, but I well remember the last, hoping that it 
may not bear that name much longer. I think I 
must have owed to Arnold* the former, but the 
next will be the result of your kindness towards me.' 

On leaving the Indian army, Captain Walker 
turned his attention to the study of medicine 
and surgery, and in 1854 he volunteered for 
service, as a surgeon, with the army in the 
Crimea. He arrived at the British camp a few 
days after the Battle of Inkermann. 

' He call'd thee forth and led thee unapall'd 
Where Pestilence smote cities, vainly wall'd. 
May He who rules the tempest, O may He 
Protect and guide thee on the Euxine sea.' 

So Landor wrote ; and in another poem he 
refers to an incident during the attack on the 
Malakoff on June 18, 1855 : 

' Thy strong shoulder bore 
Amid the fiery sleet and heavier hail 
The wretch whom Death lookt down on and past 

* Arnold, Landor's eldest son, born 181 8, died 

f ' Heroic Idyls,' p. 115. 


When the verses were published some years 
afterwards the printer * took it into his head ' to 
substitute ' freezing ' for * fiery.' * Dear Arthur,' 
Landor wrote, * evil genius has pursued me thro' 
life, and will soon bring me to its close. All my 
care about this cursed book has been in vain.' 
This letter, however, belongs to a later date. 
The following was written by Landor during the 
Crimean War : 

To A. de N. Walker. 

« Bath, 

* March 3, [1856]. 
' Dear Arthur, 

* Your letter dated 15 Feb. reached me this 
morning. It is so wise and humane that I could 
not resist my desire of sending it at once to the 
Times. Whatever you do does you honour, and 
the more because you have a higher motive. It is 
seldom that I myself have been able to perform 
any essential service to anyone. But it will please 
you to hear that I have procured a subscription for 
the descendant of Daniel Defoe by means of the 
Times.'' Enough has been collected to make him 
comfortable for life. There is also a laboring man 

* Lander's appeal on behalf of the descendants 
of Daniel Defoe was printed in the Times of Novem- 
ber 5, 1855. 


who writes wonderful poetry. For him also I 
have obtained subscribers, and have printed some 
dramatic scenes* for his benefit. This is all the 
little good I have been able to accomplish. Cap- 
pern's, the laborer's, poem on Balaclava I send en- 
closed. . . . Write to me again before you leave 
Balaclava, and tell me when I may probably see 
you. Meanwhile be sure how highly I esteem and 
love you. 

* W. S. Landor.' 

To A. de N. Walker. 

' Bath, 

'Jan. 12, 1857. 
' Dear Arthur, 

'. . . Your campaign in the Krimea is in- 
finitely more glorious than arms could have achieved. 
Welcome home again. Let me repeat these words 
to you in Bath ; and the sooner the better. You 
will find your old room and your old friend. . . . 
' I read little now, chiefly Punch and the Household 

* ' Antony and Octavius, Scenes for the Study,' 
by Walter Savage Landor. * These scenes are 
dedicated to Edward Cappern, Poet and day-laborer, 
at Bideford, Devon. The dedication concludes 
with a Landorian outburst : * Depend not on the 
favor of Royalty ; expect nothing from it ; for you 
are not a hound or a spaniel or a German prince.* 


Words. I want amusing ideas, not serious ones. 
... On the thirtieth* I enter my eighty-third 

' Ever affectionately yours, 

' W. S. Landor.' 

The remaining letters in this series were 
written after Landor's return to Italy in 1858. 
They mostly refer to the * Heroic Idyls,' which 
Dr. Walker, at his request, saw through the 
press ; but various other matters are touched 
on which are of interest from the biographical 
and bibliographical points of view. 

To A. de N. Walker. 

* Florence, 

'Feb. 23, [18] '60. 
' Dear Arthur, 

' You shall certainly have a photograph of 
me. . . . Here in Florence I have found several 
men worth knowing ; among the rest some 
Americans. Winthrop, a member of Congress. 
. . . Beside him, Story, son of the celebrated 
jurist, Judge Story. You know the poetry of the 
Brownings — most vigorous — she was Miss Barrett. 
He is indefatigable in his good offices. . . .' 

* January 30, 1857. 


To A. de N. Walker. 

* [Florence, 

'ply 5, i860.] 
' Dear Arthur, 

' Your sister permits me to write a few lines 
at the back of her letter. I go to a villa a mile 
from Siena the day after to-morrow. You will find 
it pleasanter than Florence this hot weather. There 
will be a room kept for you. . . . Come soon. We 
can return to Florence time enough. 

' Ever sincerely yours, 

' W. S. Landor.' 

The visit was duly paid, and Landor enlisted 
the services of his friend for the preparation and 
issue of another volume of poetry. In a letter 
dated December 2 (i860), he enclosed some 
verses, and promised to send more for the 
projected publication. * So judicious a man as 
Mr. Newby,' he writes, 'will perhaps take the 
trouble to arrange the small pieces, both English 
and Latin, in the order in which it may be 
supposed they were written, some bearing the 
appearance of a young man, and others of an 


To A. de N. Walker. 

* [Florence, 

^Jan.y 1 86 1.] 
* ... I am now meditating an imaginary con- 
versation between Virgil and Ovid {sic) on their 
journey to Brundusium. Do you know of any 
Periodical whose editor will give a few crowns for 
it to the subscription towards [? helping] the 
wounded under the command of Garibaldi ? This 
composition I promise you shall not be worse than 
he generality of the others, altho' written in my 
eighty - seventh year, which will commence before 
the end of the present month. ... I now read 
nothing but novels when I read at all, or turn back 
to Shakespeare.' 

It was not Ovid with whom Virgil was to 
converse. In a letter, dated March 6, 1861, 
Lander wrote : 

' Dear Arthur, 

* You are perfectly right in your remark that 
Ovid was only about 24 years old when Virgil died. 
But my conversation was between Virgil and Horace, 
not Ovid, who says, Virgilium tantum vidi. . . .' 

The conversation duly appeared in the 
AthencBum on March g, 1861, but Landor was 
vexed to find that there were mistakes in it. 


For Ovid he would read Ovidius. * We English 
say Ovid,' he remarked, 'but Romans say 
Ovidius. I have been careful in keeping the 
right names of the Antients.' Worse than this, 
three essential words had been omitted in an 
observation made by Horace. What Landor 
meant him to say to Virgil was: 'You have 
done wonders with a language so inflexible as 
ours, in which the close, of almost every heroic 
verse is either a dissyllable or a trisyllable.' 
The three words in italics have yet to be 
inserted in a correct copy of the conversation. 

A letter to Dr. Walker from his sister, the 
Contessa Baldelli, contains an interesting 
reference to Landor : 

To A. de N. Walker. 

' Florence, 

'March 14, 1861. 

* . . . . Mr. Landor has been very often here 
lately ; and on his expressing a wish to go to the 
Protestant burial-ground here, I sent to propose 
driving him there. He happened to be rather sad, 
however, that morning, and said he would go this 
summer *' before I am laid flat there." . . . The 
children had two peewits which they brought in to 
show him, and he nursed one in his arms for a long 


time. All at once he said : " This peewit will come 
to an untimely end ; I am sure of it." " Why," I 
replied, "what makes you think so?" "I feel 
sure of it," he answered. ** I have been thinking 
of it for the last two or three minutes." ' 

To A. de N. Walker. 

' Florence, 

^August, 1 86 1. 

' .... It would be worth a scholar's while to 
trace the different spellings of the same words from 
Chaucer down to the present day. Many are spelt 
better by him than by any author since. He avoids 
the reduplication of vowels ea, etc., and ends the 
word with e. . . . The Elizabethan age, so highly 
cried up, was the most corrupt of any, in language 
as in morals. Ben Jonson made a few good remarks 
on some words. For instance, he notices the 
absurdity of writing cannot, uniting the two words, 
and asks how you would decline its tenses. . . . 
Middleton, whose Letter from Rome is a treasure 
of higher value than even his life of Cicero, writes 
taste and haste without the final vowel, which is 
wrong and vulgar. Our best writer now is Arch- 
bishop Whately. In almost all the rest are 
neologisms and slang. . . . Horace Walpole was 
a Frenchman in manners and conduct, but he wrote 
pure English. There may have been rouge on his 
cheeks, but there was none in his writings. He 


wrote red when everybody else wrote and said rouge. 
His Historical Doubts are very ingenious and ad- 
mirably exprest. The family of Lucas in Glamorgan 
has always been reputed to be descended from Perkin 
Warbec. His tenants would have it that he was 
the only man in the principality who was equal in 
descent to Lord Dynevor.' 

To A. de N. Walker. 
* [Florence, 

'October, 1861.] 

* Dear Arthur, 

* . . . . You will receive a case containing 
two pictures — one is by Penni who worked with 
Raffael, and is thought to contain the touches of this 
master ; it is a copy, if not a duplicate of his larger 
picture. This is not for you, but a rarer is — con- 
taining many figures by Mazzolina da Ferrara. 
But take whichever you prefer, and forward the 
other to the Rev. Mr. Tate, Widcombe, near Bath. 
This gentleman had the kindness to keep a place 
for me in that churchyard ; and, as he may soon 
leave the parish, he thinks it advisable to have the 
grave made and brickt directly. . . .' 

To A. de N. Walker. 

' [? Florence, 

'October, 1861.] 

* Dear Arthur, 

* . . . . You are somewhat too indulgent to 
Lytton. He writes worse lately. Hood's " Song 


of the Shirt " is fairly worth all the poetry written 
since. It sinks sadly deep in the sands of Germany. 
Are Gray and Goldsmith, are Cowper and Southey, 
are Keats and Shelley so utterly forgotten ? 
Bembo's epigram to Venice is the best thing in 
Latin verse between Ovid and Bobus Smith — but 
Bembo had imbibed faintly the spirit of poetry. 
His Latin, and Pico's di Mirandola, is excel- 
lent. . . .' 

To A. de Noe Walker. 

* Florence, 

' [1862]. 
' Dear Arthur, 

' During the last fortnight I have been 
incessantly occupied in writing and transcribing 
over and over again what I now send to you. My 
poetry will find but little favour with the public, but 
I am confident that this will be red eagerly. There 
is enough for a pamphlet of twenty or more pages. 
If Mr. Newby is so occupied that he cannot bring 
it out within the week after he receives it, throw it 
[away], for, like fish and venison, it must not stay 
on the table to get cold. . . . 

* Ever affectionately yours, 

' W. S. Landor. 
* I hope to get some money by this — not for 
myself, as you shall see.' 

From subsequent letters it appears that this 
pamphlet was entitled, * Letters of a Canadian.' 


Nothing of the kind is even mentioned in any 
of the lives of Landor; but though careful 
inquiries have failed to bring to light a single 
copy, there is no doubt that the letters were 
written and printed. Landor's name was 
omitted from the title-page, the pamphlet was 
still-born, and but for the correspondence now 
discovered, would most likely never have been 
heard of. 

To A. de N. Walker. 

* [Florence, 

* 1862.] 

* Dear Arthur, 

< I had red the Laureate's Ode,* very spirited 
and poetical. But I discover a superfetation of 
rhymes — they are like the young frogs over the 
bodies of older. There are seven words that rhyme 
in the course of 13 lines. No ear can bear this 
buffeting. Rhymes are troublesome and capricious, 
sometimes holding back and sometimes coming un- 

' It is difficult to keep them away from the higher 
poetry. Milton must have found it so occasionally. 

* Tennyson's * Ode on the Opening of the Great 
Exhibition.' This poem was published in Fraser's 
Magazine, June, 1862 ; but an unauthorized version 
had previously appeared in the Times. 


... I wish our present poets would pay more atten- 
tion to immovable and solid models, and less to 
hollow and light plaster. The Laureate could well 
afford to throw away the last verse of his Ode, 
which, in fact, is two verses — an alexandrine in an 
overall. Do not think I undervalue this excellent 
man's poetry. He well deserves the station he 
holds. . . .' 

As usual, Landor was impatient at the delay 
in printing his pamphlet. * I am now anxious,' 
he writes in an undated note, * about the 
" Letters of a Canadian." Send me three 
copies of these, if they come into mouths which 
are now agape and would soon be filled with 
coarser stuff.' A note dated June 5 (1862) says : 
' The Canadian letters came safe. Thanks 
again.' In his next letter he says : * Let 
Monckton Milnes and Kenneth Mackenzie, 12, 
Newton Road, have one, and Mrs. Linton, 
Larrymore House, Hampstead.' He adds : 

* I wish I never had anything to do with pub- 
lishers. Duncan is the most honorable I have 
found among them. My only anxiety in these 
matters is that no incorrect copy of my last writings 
may ever come before the world.' 


To A. de N. Walker. 

' [Florence] 

^September ii [1862]. 

' . . . . Lately I have had one or two letters 
from America. Half the nation would utterly 
ruin the other half — would liberate the Blacks, who 
are well contented, and would enslave their masters 
under whom they were happy. Union is broken 
up for ever. Within half a century there will be 
fifty or more independent States : — Washington 
the capital of the Southern, New York of the 

To A. de N. Walker. 

' [Florence, 

' 1863]. 

* . . . . Above all things I am anxious that no 
copy of the book* be sent to me. God grant me 
patience to recover from what I have suffered 
already. The sight of anything relating to this 
accursed book might drive me distracted for another 
four days of the delirium it caused. 

' Believe me ever, dear Arthur, 

' Your affectionate old friend, 

' W. Landor.' 

* ' Heroic Idyls.' 


To A. de N. Walker. 

' [Florence, 

* 1863]. 
' Dear Arthur, 

* A folded sheet is come leaving a blank 
between pp. 240 and 257. I am made to write (in 
note to 158 which is numbered wrong), endurated 
for indurated, p. 262, v. 13, spread for sprad, and 
p. 264, V. 7, Ptolemies for Ptolemais. God has 
preserved me from cutting my throat after this. . . . 
May you be happier than your affectionate 

«W. L.' 



' There never was a right thing done, or a wise 
one spoken, in vain.' 

W. S. Landor. 

A NUMBER of fragments in print, some of them 
both rare and curious, were found in Landor's 
desk. The earliest in date is a copy — un- 
happily imperfect — of * Poems from the Arabic 
and Persian,' a thin quarto printed in 1800 by 
Mr. Sharpe of Warwick. Wrapper, title-page, 
and two pages of preface are needed to make 
the volume complete ; but what is left gains 
additional value from the author's manuscript 
corrections. These Arabic and Persian poems 
— whether written in imitation of Asiatic verse, 
or translated from a translation is uncertain — 
were reprinted, but without the bulk of the 
notes, in * Dry Sticks ' (Edinburgh, 1858). 


They cannot be found elsewhere ; and the 
original edition — the thin quarto — of which 
only a hundred copies were printed for friends, 
is very scarce indeed. Mrs. Browning, who 
accepted Lander's assurance that he wrote 
these poems for the mystification of scholars, 
described them as extremely beautiful, breathing 
the true Oriental spirit throughout, * ornate in 
fancy, graceful and full of unaffected tenderness.' 
Landor's annotations — as already said, they 
have all but dropped out of existence — are 
hardly less interesting than the text. Com- 
paring Persian erotic verse with that of Greek 
and Latin authors, he says, with the felicity of 
decision which was the keynote of his style 
from the very first, * Anacreon was the master, 
Tibullus the slave of Love ; and while the 
Orientals are engaged in perplexing us, the 
Classics have seized his arrows and exercised a 
portion of his power.' In a letter of a later 
date, to Robert Southey, Landor said : * I have 
read everything Oriental I could lay my hands 
on, and everything good may be comprised in 
thirty or forty lines. ... I would rather have 
written the worst page in the Odyssea than all 
the stuff Sir William Jones makes such a pother 



and palaver on. ... It is better to describe a 
girl getting a tumble over a skipping-rope made, 
of a wreath of flowers.' After all, Landor did 
not differ so widely from Edward Fitzgerald, 
translator of Omar Khayyam's Rubaiyat, who, 
writing to Professor Cowell, said : * O dear f 
when I look into Homer, Dante, and Virgil, 
iEschylus, Shakespeare, etc., those Orientals 
look — silly ! Don't resent my saying so. Don't 
they ?' I will quote the last of Landor's notes, 
printed after the lines 'To Rahdi.' The pre- 
tended translator says : * This poem resembles 
not those ridiculous quibbles which the English 
in particular call Epigrams, but rather, abating 
some little for Orientalism, those exquisite 
eidyllia, those carvings, as it were, in ivory or 
gems, which are modestly called Epigrams by 
the Greeks.' 

I have said that there is some uncertainty as 
to whether Landor invented these poems from 
the Arabic and Persian or translated them, as 
at first he professed to have done, from a 
French translation. The internal evidence can 
hardly be regarded as convincing either way. 
He ascribes the Arabic poems to the son of the 
Bedouin, Sheikh Dahir. Ahmed Dahir ruled 


over Acre from 1750 till 1776, when he was 
overthrown by Hassan Pacha and the soldier 
of fortune, Ahmed el Jezzar, who afterwards 
became celebrated for his defence of Acre 
against Bonaparte. According to the French 
traveller, M. Volney, Dahir had a son, Othman, 
who, ' on account of his extraordinary talents 
for poetry, was spared and carried to Con- 
stantinople.' Of this Othman, however, there 
is no further record. Moreover, according to 
some authorities, it was not Othman, but one 
Fazil Beg, a grandson of Ahmed Dahir, who 
was taken to Constantinople and became a 
poet ; though whether there is anything in his 
extant writings which bears any resemblance 
to Landor's Arabic poems I cannot ascertain. 
With regard to the poems from the Persian, 
Professor E. G. Browne, of Cambridge, who 
most kindly gave me his opinion, inclines to 
the belief that they are not genuine transla- 
tions. It might be worth while to reprint the 
poems, if only to find whether there is any 
means of arriving at a final decision as to 
their authenticity. 

Of the printed papers in Landor's desk, next 
in order of date is his mutilated copy (with his 


name in autograph on the cover) of a volume 
pubHshed in 1802 — * Poetry by the author of 
" Gebir." ' The missing portions are the title- 
page; pages I to II, containing * Chrysaor,' a 
narrative poem in blank verse, which made a 
deep impression on Wordsworth, and fore- 
shadowed, Mr. Colvin thinks, in subject and 
treatment the ' Hyperion ' of Keats ; and 
portions of pages 53 to 56. Here again there 
is compensation in the shape of notes in the 
author's hand. Of special significance are the 
additions made to another narrative poem, 
' From the Phoceans.' This was not reprinted 
either by Landor or Mr. Forster ; and Mr. 
Colvin found it * so fragmentary and obscure as 
to baffle the most tenacious student.' Landor, 
writing to Robert Browning the year before his 
death, said : * I am persuaded now that it is 
worth preserving as a curiosity of the kind ; 
but, years before, he admitted to Southey that 
it could never be expanded into a good poem. 
He had. begun it, he then said, in a wrong ke}' 
for English verse. In Mrs. Browning's opinion 
' From the Phoceans ' took * a high classic rank * 
along with * Gebir.' 


In a manuscript note which I have found 
among Landor's papers, he says : 

*"Gebir" and "From the Phoceans" were 
written in the last century, when our young English 
heads were turned towards the French Revolution, 
and were deluded by a phantom of Liberty, as if 
the French could ever be free or let others be.' 

* From the Phoceans ' has been reprinted, 
without later emendations, in Mr. Crump's 
selections from Landor's poetry ; but Mr. 
Crump was perhaps unaware of the fact that 
over three hundred verses, headed * Part of 
Protis's narrative ' (these he did not reprint) 
were a continuation of * From the Phoceans,' 
and should have been reprinted with it. In 
another section of the present volume, I will 
give, from Landor's manuscript, a page or two 
of verse which was to have formed the con- 
clusion of * From the Phoceans.' More to show 
the extent of the additions in Landor's copy of 
the book than to remove the obscurity of the 
poem, I add here the lines that were to serve 
as a connecting link between the first part and 
the narrative of Protis : 


* Here ended Hymneus : and the hall awhile 
Was silent, Arganthonius then arose. 
" My honored guests ! who bravely have endured 
The toils of exile and the storms of war, 
It will add little to your weariness," 
Said he, " if ye will trace to us the ways 
By land and sea ye have gone thro', before 
Ye reacht the port wherein ye now shall rest." 

' Then Protis, he who led them, thus replied : 
" O King ! the stranger finds in thee a friend 
Who found none in his kindred. But reproach 
Better becomes the weak than firmer breast. 
We will not turn to those who past us by 
In the dark hour : from such and from the land 
Where Pelops, in the days of heroes, reigned, 
We speed to Delphi : we consult the God, etc." ' 

At the end of Protis's narrative, Lander has 
written : 

' There would have been a second part of this 
poem, narrating a sea-fight with the Carthaginians 
recorded in history ; then conflicts with the natives. 
The main difficulty was to devise names for them. 
An approximation was attempted from the Welsh 
and Irish, many of which are harmonious in the 
termination, an essential in poetry. Druids, 
Druidesses, Bards, old oaks, and capacious wicker- 
baskets were at hand.' 


For the student's benefit another passage 
from Landor's letter to Browning may be 
quoted. ' At College,' he wrote, * I and Stack- 
house were examined by the college tutor in 
Justin, who mentions the expulsion of the 
Phoceans from their country. In my childish 
ambition, I fancied I could write an epic on it. 
Before the year's end I did what you see, and 
corrected it the year following.'* 

I now come to a copy of a little work in 
prose, rarer, I think, than either of the volumes 
of poetry mentioned above. In the last year of 
his residence at Llanthony, Landor sent a series 
of letters on the state of European politics to 
the Courier. It was in the latter half of 1813, 
just after Bonaparte had been defeated at the 
battle of Leipzic. Southey, poet laureate, was 
composing the ' Triumphal Ode ' to herald the 
new year, in which he proclaimed that 

' Justice must go before. 
And Retribution must make plain the way, 
Force must be crushed by Force, 
The power of evil by the power of good, 
Ere order bless the suffering world once more, 
Or peace return again.' 

* Forster's ' Life of Landor,' i. 178. 


* I, too,' Landor wrote to Southey, * had been 
employing some midnight hours to prove that 
'* Justice must go before " ; but the evil genius 
to whom I committed the manuscript has 
printed what he chose and omitted the rest.* 
But before seeing what the letters contained, a 
word or two may be said on Landor' s attitude 
toward politics at this particular period. He 
was the owner and occupier of a large landed 
estate, and he was also known, among men of 
letters of the first rank, as a writer of con- 
spicuous genius, even though he displayed no 
faculty either of arresting the popular attention 
or of disarming the criticism that had broken 
the heart of Keats, and would have crushed, if 
it could, Wordsworth and Southey. With all 
his poetry and scholarship, his excursions in 
literature and love-making, there was much 
that seemed to mark him out, during the third 
decade of his life, as one who might take a 
leading part in directing the affairs of his 
country. * Had avarice or ambition guided 
me,' he wrote afterwards, * remember I started 
with a larger hereditary estate than those of 
Pitt, Fox, Canning, and twenty more such 
amounted to. . . . My education and that 


which education works upon or produces was 
not below theirs.' It was Landor, the man of 
action, who, strange as it may seem to-day, 
once had thoughts of founding a kingdom in 
Crete — at least, I gather from one of Southey's 
letters* to him that he contemplated some such 
adventure. Certainly it was Landor, the man 
of action, who took up arms as a volunteer to 
help the Spaniards in their resistance to Bona- 
parte. Again, it was the resolute, energetic 
Landor who threw himself impetuously into 
the task of improving the Llanthony property. 
It was not the inditer of occasional epics and 
not occasional love-lyrics, nor was it a specula- 
tive philosopher, walking solitary on far eastern 
uplands, meditating and remembering, who 
addressed these letters to his countrymen on 
what was the burning topic of the day ; but 
rather one who, so long as his home was in 
England, kept alert watch on all that involved 
the glory and welfare of his country ; the interest 
he took therein being none the less real though 
he never ranked himself as a party man, and 
detested those who made politics a profes- 

* Southey to Landor, May 2, 1808. 


This reprint of the ' Letters of Calvus,' as the 
author entitled them, was meant, no doubt, for 
private circulation,* the portions omitted by the 
Courier being restored, and a fourteenth letter 
being added by way of postscript. Writing 
about them when they first appeared, Southey, 
in a letter to his brother, said : 

' You have seen the letters in the Courier with 
the signature of Calvus ? Lander is the writer. I 
entirely agree with him that this is the time for un- 
doing the mischief done by the Peace of Utrecht. 
France was then made too strong for the repose of 
Europe, and she ought now to be stript of Alsace, 
Lorraine, and Franche-Comte.' 

Since Mr. Forster merely makes passing 
reference to the letters, without quoting from 
them, a few extracts from what is probably the 
only unabridged copy in existence may not be 
unwelcome. Calvus addresses his remarks to 
Lord Liverpool and the Parliament. He claims 
a right to be heard : 

' I never wrote a pamphlet : I belong to no 
party, no faction, no club, no coterie ; I possess no 
seat in Parliament, by brevet or by purchase ; I can 
afford to live without it ; but I cannot afford that 

"-'' I know of no other copy of the reprint. 


accumulation of taxes which will arise from another 
war, if after our experience we conclude another 
probationary peace, and enter on a new course of 
experiments with all our instruments unscrewed and 
all our phials evaporated.' 

Then follows a brief statement of the author's 
proposals, in the shape of a series of questions 
intended to show that the time was opportune 
for destroying, once and for all, the offensive 
power of France, and putting an end to Bona- 
parte's ambition by compassing his execution 
or perpetual imprisonment. Is England, Lan- 
dor asks, again to be contented with an experi- 
mental peace ? 

* Shall we fight only until he consents to exchange 
some stone walls for some sugar-plantations, and 
throws down the bag of horse beans that he holds 
up against our coffee ? What scoffs, what bitter 
scorn would Lord Chatham have poured forth 
against England, crouching from an elevation to 
which she never rose before, down to a degradation 
to which the united world could not reduce her ! . . . 
" We are not to meddle," Lord Castlereagh says, 
" with that great and powerful country itself." 
Why not ? Has not that great and powerful 
country meddled with every other ? Is she not 
great and powerful because she has done so ?' 


No war, says Calvus, that is waged in vain 
can be glorious. Unless it brings an accession 
of power or freedom, blood will have flowed to 
no purpose. * To engage in war with so futile 
a design as merely to bind at last an atheist 
with an oath, and an assassin with a piece of 
red tape, is as foolish and as wicked as to dis- 
charge a cannon into a crowded market-place 
for a jubilee.' The object of the war for which 
Landor's voice was raised was to be the ex- 
tinction of Bonaparte ; such being necessary 
for the repose and independence of Europe. 
Now was the fitting opportunity. Let the 
French, dejected, discomfited and scattered, 
recover their former power and posture, and 
England would never again come forward 
with the prowess and terrors now at her 
command : 

'Your well-dressed ambassadors and your in- 
genious state-papers, in which I must observe that 
the weakest governments and the worst causes have 
generally shone most, may be very much admired 
in the drawing-room and at the breakfast-table, and 
you will have glorious opportunities of breeding up 
your children (I mean you who have seats in Parlia- 
ment) to the study of diplomacy ; but you will have 
lost for ever that bright pre-eminence on which you 


stand at present, and you must prepare the means 
of taxation for the support of indefinite and hope- 
less wars.' 

Readers of to-day may find it hard to compre- 
hend the feeling that inspired all this bellicosity. 
Landor's remarks on the respective merits of 
political parties in England will perhaps seem a 
trifle less antiquated : 

* Whenever the Tories ' (he wrote) ' have deviated 
from their tenets, they have enlarged their views 
and exceeded their promises. The Whigs have 
always taken an inverse course. Whenever they 
have come into power, they have previously been 
obliged to shift those maxims and to temporize with 
those duties, which they had not either the courage 
to follow or to renounce. The character of Lord 
Rockingham gave them a respectability, and the 
genius of Burke added a splendour, which have 
long since utterly passed away : and the nation sees 
at last that nothing is more unsound and perishable 
than what is founded on an oligarchy of gamesters 
and adventurers.' 

But an appeal to party passion was remote 
from Landor's purpose. It was the nation he 
called upon to inflict condign punishment on 
* the monster,' Bonaparte. * Six months of 
active warfare, with all our heart and all our 


strength, will complete the task.' Here is 
another typical utterance : 

' War, it has often been said, is a game of chance, 
in which governors are the players, and the things 
governed are the stakes. Bonaparte, with the con- 
sent and applause of all classes in France, played 
for the whole continent against his empire ; and 
every Frenchman took a share in the bank. After 
all sorts of packing and shuffling and tricking, to 
say nothing of mixing drugs of a soporific quality 
in the cakes and wine, he has lost all he played for. 
Yet we have such respect for his dexterity, such 
confidence in his honour, and such veneration for 
his goodness of heart, that we not only think of 
giving him back whatever he laid down, but also a 
great part of what he failed to win, and what, as 
belonging to others, we have no right to dispose of 
in any manner, without first obtaining their consent. 
Yet besides all this, we sweep the board for him, 
lift the candlesticks, and make him a present of the 

* The English are the only people in the Universe 
that ever played voluntarily this losing game. They 
sit down to it quietly, night after night, to the 
astonishment of their observers, the despair of 
their friends, and the derision of their adversaries.' 

There is much else in the * Letters of Calvus " 
one would like to quote, both in illustration of 


the writer's political opinions and also for the 
sake of those recurring flashes of insight and 
passages of the finest eloquence that are never 
long absent from Landor's pages. The exhorta- 
tion so often heard in the * Imaginary Conversa- 
tions,' that a closer attention should be paid to 
the lessons of history, by those whose duty or 
ambition it is to manage the affairs of States, 
is insisted on in language not always at a 
pamphleteer's command. Kings and statesmen, 
Calvus complains, will endure any insult rather 
than listen to those who entreat them to look 
to history for a guide. ' History would lead 
them into that chilly and awful chamber in 
which, under the suspended armour, they might 
read their own destinies.' 

The fourteenth letter, to which Landor pre- 
fixed, in his own hand, the word ' Postscript,' is 
dated December 20, 1813. Since the preceding 
letters had been sent to the Courier he had 
perused the Manifesto of the Allied Powers. 
* Who in the name of Heaven,' he asks, ' could 
have composed this flimsy tissue of folly, 
cowardice, and falsehood ?' But enough of 
the pamphlet has been quoted to show its 
nature, if not to gain for the letters of Calvus 



a place in any collection of Landor's works 
that can be regarded as complete. 

There remains to be noticed in this chapter 
a collection of shorter pieces, in prose and 
verse, of a later date. They are letters and 
poems sent by Landor, during his last residence 
in Bath, to the newspapers. With one or two 
unimportant exceptions, all the verses have been 
republished ; but the letters will be new, except 
to the industrious bibliographer who has 
searched the files of the Examiner and the 
Atlas. The earhest is a letter on 'the com- 
fortable state of Europe,' printed in the 
Examiner of September 8, 1849. Landor 
prophesied that there would be a great war in 
Europe before two years were out ; and he was 
not far wrong. He was alarmed at the pros- 
pect of Russian aggression. * Russia,' he wrote, 
'is guided systematically by watchful and 
thoughtful, prompt and energetic ministers. 
Every step of hers is considerate and firm, 
is short and sure ; she is exhausted by no hasty 
strides, she is enfeebled by no idle aspirations. 
France believes it to be her interest, and fancies 
it to be in her power to divide the world with 
her ; and if two such nations with ambitions in 


accord are resolved on it, what power upon 
earth can effectually interpose ?' Landor was 
no believer in dreams of universal peace. 
* There never can be universal peace, nor even 
general peace long together, while three-score 
families stand forth on the high grounds of 
Europe, and command a hundred millions to 
pour out their blood and earnings whereon to 
float enormous bulks of empty dignities.' 

In 1851, Landor was writing innumerable 
letters about Kossuth's visit to England. He 
had sold, or tried to sell, his pictures in order 
to raise money for the Hungarian revolt. 
When Kossuth sought a refuge in England, 
Landor organized a reception committee at Bath, 
and wrote a poem to be recited at a public 
meeting held in the patriot's honour at Birming- 
ham. Kossuth at first seemed to resent Lander's 
impetuous enthusiasm, but ended by thanking 
him civilly enough for his efforts. Landor 
replied in a letter dated Bath, October 28, 


* The chief glory of my life is that I was 
the first in subscribing for the assistance of the 
Hungarians at the commencement of their struggle. 

10 — 2 


The next is that I have received the approbation of 
their illustrious leader. I, who have held the hand 
of Kosciosko, now kiss with veneration the signature 
of Kossuth. No other man alive could confer an 
honour I would accept. 

* Believe me, Sir, 

* Ever yours most faithfully, 

* Walter Savage Landor.' 

About the same time, Landor sent the 
Examiner ten letters addressed to Cardinal 
Wiseman ; but these have been reprinted in 
' Last Fruit.' More interesting, however, and 
less accessible, are the letters he wrote during 
the Crimean War. The following protest 
against a form of intolerance, which is not 
without its counterpart in our own days, was 
printed in the Atlas of September 29, 1855 : 

*To THE Editor of the Atlas. 

' It is much to be regretted that the Chris- 
tian religion, from the decease of the Apostles 
down to the present day, has produced more 
animosity and discord in the East than all the 
religions which it encountered and struggled to 
supersede. The star of Bethlehem was a morning 
star, appearing but too short a time above the 
horizon, and extending its radiance but a little 


way beyond the circle it illuminated. I am led to 
these serious and sad reflections by seeing the 
Greek and Latin churches at daggers drawn still, 
after an incessant conflict for many centuries above 
a thousand years. All the religions in the world, 
innumerable as they have been and are, never shed 
so much innocent blood as that which arrogantly 
and falsely calls itself the Christian. The first 
lesson of its Divine teacher was goodwill toward 
all ; but no sooner were the scholars out of school 
than they tore out that page, and scribbled un- 
intelligible words over the remainder of the volume. 
The ushers at last turned out the master, and 
declared he never knew what he had been talking 
about. It was their business, they said, to set him 
right ; but he could not be set right until they had 
houses and lands to set him right in, with chains and 
padlocks for security. Story-tellers from the borders 
of the desert broke in among them as they were 
carousing, threw flask after flask upon the floor, 
called the people from round about, and told them a 
fresh series of equally marvellous and more pleasant 
stories. The candle, after flaring and glittering, 
went out ; but left behind it, and still leaves, a close 
unwholesome stench. 

' Recently there have been loud complaints against 
the followers of Mahomet for persecuting the Chris- 
tians. I shall now examine this matter. Twelve 
years ago there appeared in the Morning Chronicle a 
refutation of a cruel judgment against an Armenian 


subject of the Ottoman Empire. This lies now 
before me. It was based on a statement made by 
the highest officer of State, whose name I do not 
feel myself at liberty to announce. This, however, 
I will venture to say of him : I wish we had in 
England a functionary of the same station possess- 
ing the same solidity of judgment and the same 

* And now come forward fresh accusations against 
the most tolerant and indulgent government. It 
appears as if every priest and missionary were 
emulous of the Tzar. What portentous impudence 
is there in the Turkish Mission Aid Society, exprest 
as follows : " I am further directed by the committee 
most respectfully to submit to your lordship whether 
the present may not be a favourable juncture for 
the ' great community ' represented at the Porte to 
urge on his Highness the Sultan that inasmuch as 
the pledge of March 21, 1844, appears to admit a 
different interpretation, and as doubts exist respect- 
ing its application to the case, his Highness may be 
pleased to make it so comprehensive as to include 
the exemption from the punishment of death, on 
account of religious offences, of all classes of his 
Highness's subjects." This is a requisition that 
blasphemy may go for nothing in Turkey, and a 
presumptioij that God can only be blasphemed in 
Anglo-Saxon. Will the clergy never be quiet ? 
Will they never mind their own business, and their 
own laws, without an interference with foren 


institutions ? Did these noisy men who now appeal 
to Lord Clarendon, as I read in to-day's newspaper, 
ever raise a cry against Austria and Russia when 
those Christian potentates drove Kossuth and the 
other brave and virtuous defenders of their country 
far away from it ? Who at that hour of calamity 
gave help and asylum to the lovers of their native 
land, the defenders of their faith ? Who, but the 
most Christian of all Christian potentates, the 
Khalif Abdul Medjid ? 

' Walter Savage Landor. 
' September 25.' 



* We English are generally as fierce partizans in 
literary as in Parliamentary elections, and we cheer 
or jostle a candidate of whom we know nothing.' 

W. S. Landor. 

Some of Lander's opinions on the work of his 
fellow-labourers in * letter-land ' have already 
been brought to notice. It may not be alto- 
gether a vain undertaking to inquire more 
closely what he thought about the writers of 
his own time who, to use a phrase he liked, 
made a noise in the world ; and also what they 
in their turn thought of him. Such judgments, 
of course, do not amount to a final decision in 
either case. On the one hand, Landor's 
sympathies and antipathies, where a con- 
temporary was concerned, were not wholly 
exempt from personal bias. That is a failing 


which may often be observed in people who 
write books and read them ; but somehow or 
other he is reckoned to have been specially 
Hable to it. On the other hand, in regard to 
what his contemporaries said about him, 
posterity, as usual, will prefer to think for 
itself. A wiser generation consents to forget 
Mathias, ' the Pursuer of Literature,' and re- 
members Charles Lamb. It can cheerfully dis- 
pense with the * Rosciad,' but it wants endless 
editions of Boswell. So we need not listen too 
earnestly to what Southey said about ' Gebir,' 
or to Landor's laudations of ' Kehama.' Still 
it is a fact of some significance that many, if 
not all, the foremost Enghsh authors of the 
nineteenth century have agreed in recognizing 
his power. Southey, Wordsworth, Coleridge, 
Byron, and Shelley, as well as Dickens, Brown- 
ing, and Swinburne, have confessed his great- 
ness. As for his opinions on his coevals, if at 
times they are too laudatory, it rarely happens 
that they err in the other direction. Edward 
Fitzgerald said that Landor seemed to judge of 
books and men as he did of pictures, * with a 
most uncompromising perversity, which the 
phrenologists must explain to us after his 


death.'* But this was in conversation, when 
Landor's extravagance of enthusiasm always 
became more boisterous and more pronounced. 
In writing, he very seldom lays down a criti- 
cism which is altogether perverse ; while, as 
a general rule, his literary judgments, on 
ancients and moderns alike, bear the unmis- 
takable stamp of sound taste, extensive know- 
ledge both of books and men, and matured 

Wordsworth, Scott, Coleridge, Southey, and 
Lamb all came into the world about the same 
time as Landor. De Quincey and Byron, 
Shelley and Keats, were a little later. He was 
a man of five-and-twenty when Macaulay was 
born. Tennyson, Thackeray, Mr. Gladstone, 
Charles Dickens, and Robert Browning were 
all born during the third decade of his life. 
Of his immediate contemporaries, it was 
Robert Southey who had most influence over 
him. To Southey he owed the first public 
acclamation of his talents ; Southey writing 
in the Critical Review that he had read * Gebir ' 
repeatedly ' with more than common attention, 
and with far more than common delight.' That 
* Fitzgerald to F. Tennyson, May 7, 1854. 


was the foundation of a friendship, of the 
warmest kind, which lasted for forty years, 
unbroken by a single misunderstanding. * The 
Curse of Kehama' and 'Thalaba the Destroyer,' 
and even * Roderick,' have gone out of fashion 
nowadays ; and Landor's estimate of Southey's 
poetry would be thought too exalted. These 
three poems, he said, surpassed any three of 
Wordsworth's, who wanted Southey's diversity 
and invention as well as his humour. And yet 
it was the man, rather than his writings, that 
Landor more especially admired. * If his 
elegant prose and harmonious verse are in- 
sufficient to incite enthusiasm, turn to his 
virtues, to the ardour and constancy of his 
friendships, to his disinterestedness, to his 
generosity.' There, at any rate, Landor stands 
on safe ground. Southey also valued Landor 
more highly as a friend than as a maker of 
books. * Never did man,' he said, * represent 
himself in his writings so much less generous, 
less just, less compassionate, less noble in all 
respects than he really is. I certainly never 
knew anyone of brighter genius or of kinder 

With Wordsworth Landor was not always in 


touch. At first, and when Wordsworth's merits 
were edipsed by the popularity of Byron, Landor 
was loud in his praise. * In thoughts, feelings, 
and images not one amongst the antients 
equals him, and his language (a rare thing) is 
English.'* No poet since Milton, he makes 
Southey say, had exerted greater powers with 
less of strain and less of ostentation. ' Lao- 
damia ' was ' a composition such as Sophocles 
might have exulted to own.' This admiration 
was repaid in kind. * It could not but be 
grateful to me,' Wordsworth wrote, * to be 
praised by a poet who has written verses of 
which I would rather have been the author 
than of any produced in our time ; and what 
I now write to you I have frequently said to 
many.' The verses referred to were * Gebir ' 
and ' Count Julian.' 

But Landor's liking for Wordsworth, as they 
grew older, underwent diminution. At a break- 
fast party, where both were present, Words- 
worth said, or Landor fancied he said, that he 
would not give five shillings for all Southey's 
poetry. ' My spirit,' Landor afterwards wrote, 
* rose against his ingratitude toward the man 
* Landor to Southey, 181 8. 


who first, and with incessant effort and great 
difficulty, brought him into notice.'* In a 
second conversation between Southey and 
Person, published originally in Blackwood's 
Magazine,'^ Landor's disapproval of what he 
held to be flaws in Wordsworth's poetry was 
put in a shape that could hardly fail to vex and 
grieve the future Laureate's admirers. Porson 
is made to say that ' among all the bran in the 
little bins of Mr. Wordsworth's beer-cellar there 
is not a legal quart of that stout old English 
beverage with which the good Bishop of 
Dromore regaled us.' The insinuation is not 
outrageously unfair. After a course of ' Chevy 
Chase ' and ' Otterburne ' a good many people 
might find even the * Excursion ' a trifle flat. 
Nor is Porson so very wide of the mark when 
he says that Wordsworth's is an instrument 
which has no trumpet -stop. Descending to 
particulars, he lays his finger on inanities 
which even a devout Wordsworthian must 
deplore. Landor also makes Porson the 
vehicle for some parodies of Wordsworth. 
One of them begins : 

* ' Letter to Emerson.' 

t December, 1842. 


• Hetty, old Dinah Mitchell's daughter, 
Had left the side of Derwentwater 

About the end of Summer. 
I went to see her at her cot, 
Her and her mother, who were not 

Expecting a new comer. 

' They both were standing at one tub, 
You might have heard their knuckles rub 

The hempen sheet they wash'd. 
The mother suddenly turn'd round. 
The daughter cast upon the ground 

Her eyes, like one abasht.' 

And so on. The whole tone of Porson's 
remarks rather suggests that Landor regretted 
having praised Wordsworth so highly in former 

However this may be, it served to make 
Wordsworth's son-in-law, Edward Quillinan, 
exceedingly angry. Four months later there 
appeared in Blackwood's an Imaginary Con- 
versation written by Mr. Quillinan, who re- 
ferred, in a note, to Landor as a garrulous 
sexagenarian. Landor possibly would have 
pocketed this affront had not a charge of 


plagiarism been added thereto ; of plagiarism, 
moreover, from the very writer who, as the 
garrulous sexagenarian was never tired of re- 
iterating, had stolen a sea shell from * Gebir.' 
Landor had made Southey say ; * Wit appears 
to require a certain degree of unsteadiness in 
the character. Diamonds sparkle the most 
brilliantly on heads stricken by the palsy.' 
Now Wordsworth, in a little poem written in 
1818, and called * Inscriptions in a Hermit's 
Cell,' had said : 

' Diamonds dart their brightest lustre 
From a palsy-shaken head.' 

The resemblance was indisputable, but 
Landor never told his mortification. He only 
hastened to cancel the passage ; and when the 
dialogue was reprinted in 1846, not only had 
all traces of the plagiarism disappeared, but 
some of Person's sharpest criticisms, together 
with the parody quoted above, had been cut 

It is Mr. Forster who tells us that Sir Walter 
Scott found much to admire in * Gebir,' having 
read the poem on Southey's commendation. 
According to the same authority, Landor 


fancied that Scott's appreciation was shown by 
borrowing from ' Gebir ' without acknowledg- 
ment ; and Mr. Forster found a list of the 
alleged peculations in Landor's hand. Landor 
never quite forgave Sir Walter Scott either for 
this or for his loyal attentions to the Prince 
Regent ; but it did not prevent his expressing, 
in the highest terms, his regard for Scott's 
merits as a writer whether in prose or verse. 

* The trumpet blast of Marmion ' delighted him. 
No large poem of the time, not even Southey's 

* Roderick ' was so animated, or so truly heroic. 
The battle scene, he declared, was one of the 
four epic pieces transcending all others ; the other 
three being the colloquy of Achilles and Priam 
in Homer's * Iliad,' the contention of Ulysses 
and Ajax in Ovid's * Metamorphoses,' and the 
first book of Milton's * Paradise Lost.' He was 
no less ready to praise the Waverley Novels. 
At first, the * Heart of Midlothian ' was his 
favourite ; but in his old age, it was * Kenil- 
worth ' that he liked best. There is a freshness 
in all Scott's scenery, he makes Porson say to 
Southey, and a vigour and distinction in all his 
characters. * He seems the brother in arms of 
Froissart,' and it would not be easy to hit on a 


happier comparison. He also puts into Porson's 
mouth a wicked story about Wordsworth, who, 
being invited to read one of the Waverley Novels, 
and finding at the commencement a quotation 
from his own poetry, totally forgot the novel, 
and recited the poem from end to end, with 
many comments and more commendations. No 
doubt there are some people who will laugh at 
Landor for ranking Scott above Byron as a 
poet ; but a good deal might be said in favour 
of his choice, and he was always ready to 
vindicate it. 

In one of his letters to his sister, Landor 
told her of a visit he paid to Samuel Taylor 
Coleridge at Highgate, in 1832. Coleridge 
would not come downstairs till he had arrayed 
himself in the sumptuous splendour of a brand 
new suit of black, brought out in honour of the 
occasion. When at length he appeared, he 
welcomed his visitor with ' as many fine 
speeches as he could ever have made to a 
pretty girl '; though that sort of eloquence, 
may be, was less in Coleridge's line than 
Landor's. Possibly it was at the same solemn 
interview that, after quoting fourteen German 
poets of the first rank, Coleridge expressed his 



compassion for ^Eschylus and Homer, which is 
one of Landor's stories about him. The new 
suit of broadcloth was no doubt the outward 
and visible sign of a real regard for Landor's 
character and genius. Not that Coleridge 
rated Landor with first-class writers. A couple 
of years after this visit, he delivered himself of 
the following judgment : 

* What is it that Mr. Landor wants, to make him 
a poet ? His powers are certainly very consider- 
able, but he seems to be totally deficient in that 
modifying faculty which compresses several units 
into one whole. . . . His poems, taken as a whole, 
are unintelligible ; you have eminences excessively 
bright, and all the ground around and between them 
is darkness. Besides which, he has never learned, 
with all his energy, to write simple and lucid 

A raking criticism of that kind, however, is 
ineffective without examples, which Coleridge 
does not venture on. It is otherwise when 
Landor criticizes Coleridge. For instance, in a 
letter to Mr. Forster, after admitting that few 
men in our time have written more eloquently 
than Coleridge, he adds : ' But to say things 

" 'Table Talk,' January i, 1834. 


well is not enough for wisdom,' and he quotes 
from ' Lay Sermons ' what Coleridge said in 
favour of reviving * the ancient feeling of rank 
and ancestry as a counterbalance to the com- 
mercial spirit now prevalent.' * What,' Landor 
asks, * could be more contrary to the spirit of 
Christianity, or indeed more absurd in itself; 
for how extremely small a number can possibly 
be actuated by the antient feeling of rank and 
ancestry ?' Landor himself was by no means 
inclined to forego his own pride of descent. In 
spite, however, of all that has been said to the 
contrary, he cared little about other people's 
ancestors. The religious argument may sur- 
prise the reader ; but the truth is that Landor 
was never an irreligious man. He did not like 
priestcraft, and made no mystery of his feel- 
ings on that score. Yet he was far from 
being an agnostic. In his ' Letters of an 
American ' — a little book one seldom meets 
with — the supposed writer, Jonas Pottinger, 
says : ' I hope to be always a Christian, never a 
theologian ' ; and he adds in true Landorian style : 
* There are things which I believe, things which 
I disbelieve, things which I doubt. Among the 
latter is this, that I can ever be carried to heaven 

II — 2 


on the shoulders of a cod-fish, or get forward a 
good part of the journey on a smooth and level 
road, on a couple of eggs for rollers.' 

It might be mentioned here that the late 
Chief Justice, Lord Coleridge, was among 
Landor's constant readers, and what is more 
remarkable, he has convicted him of a mis- 
quotation from the Latin. The autograph of 
'John Duke Coleridge,' with the date 1853, is 
on the fly-leaf of my copy of ' Last Fruit off an 
old Tree,' published in that year ; and on page 
305 there is a marginal note in the same hand- 
writing. Landor had said : 

' How beautifully does Ovid, who is thought in 
general to have been less tender, and was probably 
less chaste [than Petrarch] , refer to the purer 
objects of his affection ! — 
* " Unica nata, mei justissima causa doloris," etc. 

The marginal note says, rightly enough : 

' This is not Ovid ; it is Propertius,* and the line 
in the original is somewhat different. Nata does 
not mean daughter in the context, and the mistake 
is curious for an accurate scholar like Landor.' 

Landor and Lord Byron were not formed for 
* Propertius, ii., xxv. i. 


mutual admiration. Still, they might have said 
nothing uncivil of each other had it not been 
for Landor's offensive and defensive alliance 
with Southey. When the opening cantos of 
* Don Juan ' appeared, Southey, in a preface 
to his * Vision of Judgment,' entered an angry 
protest against the wickedness and immodesty 
of the Satanic school, quoting in support of his 
animadversions a passage from Landor's * De 
cultu atque usu Latini sermonis.' Then a 
report got abroad in literary circles that 
Landor had said he would not or could not 
read Byron's poems ; and it may even be sur- 
mised that some verses of Landor's on Byron's 
marriage had obtained the same currency. 
They were not published till 1831, and are not 
reprinted in Mr. Forster'-s editions, so there is 
an excuse for quotation : 

* Weep, Venus, and ye 

Adorable Three 
Who Venus for ever environ ! 

Pounds, shillings, and pence 

And shrewd sober sense 
Have clapt the strait waistcoat on * * * 

Off, Mainot and Turk, 

With pistol and dirk, 


Nor palace nor pinnace set fire on : 

The cord's fatal jerk 

Has done its last work, 
And the noose is now slipt upon * * * ' 

To Southey, Byron replied in another ' Vision 
of Judgment,' praised by Leigh Hunt as the 
most masterly satire since Pope. In the pre- 
face Landor was referred to as one * who culti- 
vates much private renown in the shape of 
Latin verses.' There is an allusion also to 
' Gebir,' 'wherein,' said Byron, 'the aforesaid 
Savage Landor (for such is his grim cognomen) 
putteth into the infernal regions no less a 
person than the hero of his friend, Mr. Southey's 
heaven — yea, even George the Third.' A year 
later (1823) Byron found another opportunity 
for a hit at Landor, whom, in a note to * the 
Island,' he named as the author of Latin poems 
* which vie with Martial and Catullus ' in what 
is least admirable. Lastly, in the eleventh 
canto of ' Don Juan,' published in August of 
the same year, came the lines so often quoted 
when Landor is mentioned by people who do 
not take the trouble to read him : 

* That deep-mouth'd Boeotian, Savage Landor, 
Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander.' 


In private Byron would express his admira- 
tion of Landor's generosity and independence, 
of his profound erudition and brilliant talents. 
Such concessions, however, were unlikely to 
disarm a man of Landor's temper. In the 
Imaginary Conversation between Bishop Burnet 
and Humphrey Hardcastle, Byron is referred to 
as' George Nelly, reputed son of Lord Rochester. 
* Whenever he wrote a bad poem, he supported 
his sinking fame by some signal act of profligacy 
— an elegy by a seduction, a heroic by an 
adultery, a tragedy by a divorce.' Nor was a 
saving clause without its sting. ' Say what 
you will of him, once whispered a friend of 
mine, there are things in him strong as poison 
and original as sin.' 

The passage had hardly been printed when 
news came of Byron's death at Missolonghi. 
Landor was profoundly touched. In a note 
inserted in the second edition (1826) of the 
volume containing the conversation, he wrote : 

' Little did I imagine that the extraordinary man, 
the worst of whose character is here represented, 
should indeed have been carried to the tomb so 
prematurely. If before this dialogue was printed 
he had performed those services to Greece which 


will render his name illustrious to eternity . . . the 
performance of which I envy him from my soul, 
and as much as any other does the gifts of heaven 
he threw away so carelessly, never would I, from 
whatever provocation, have written a syllable 
against him.' 

Landor seems to have shared his mother's 
estimate of Byron, w^hose high abilities, that 
lady said, ' had given him the power of doing 
much good, which he failed to do.' Eleven 
years before, Byron had written in his private 
journal : ' The most I can hope is that someone 
will say — he might, perhaps, if he would.' 

As time went on, Landor's dislike, both of 
Byron and of much that he wrote, became 
more and more emphatic. Allowing him to be 
the keenest and most imaginative of satirists, 
Landor saw less to admire in ' the Oriental train 
and puffy turban,' only put on, he suggested, in 
order to attract feminine notice, and perfumed 
with a superabundance of musk. That is a 
fairer hit than the accusation which Byron 
brought against Landor. Nor was the ' Boeotian ' 
far wrong when he said that Byron lacks the 
freshness and sanity that delight us in Burns ; 
or again when he compares the author of ' Lara* 


and the ' Corsair ' to a horse that has good 
action but tires by fretting and tossing his 
head and rearing. In his own occasional verse 
Landor would often launch out in dispraise of 
Byron : 

' Say, Byron, why is thy attar 
Profusely dasht with vinegar?' 

In some verses addressed to * The Recruits 
of Poetry,' he exhorts them to leave in the rear 

' Asthmatic Wordsworth, Byron piping hot,' 

and to march with * manly Scott.' For 

* Marmion ' — 'at first too much applauded, 
now too much underrated ' — always pleased 
Landor better than ' Byron's trash.' But while 
he detested * Giaours ' and ' Corsairs,' he could 
praise Byron's ' Dream '; a poem, he said, that 
will always live. The Quarterly Review, years 
ago, charged Landor with speaking of Byron 
as a mere rhymer, wholly devoid of wit or 
genius. Landor's answer was that he had done 
nothing of the kind ; he was ready to admit 
that Byron possessed much of both qualities, 

* not always well applied.' And it was of 
Byron he spoke when he said that * an in- 

I70 waltp:r savage landor 

domitable fire of poetry, the more vivid for the 
gloom about it, bursts through crusts and 
crevices of an unsound and hollow mind.' 

If one wished to show how widely Landor 
and Byron stood apart from each other in their 
way of looking at things, no more striking 
instance could be given of their incompatibility 
of judgment than is contained in what each 
said about Keats. Byron talked of the drivelling 
idiotism of the poet who had already written 
his ' Endymion ' and the ' Ode on a Grecian 
Urn.' Some of the expressions he used, though 
they are scarcely veiled even in the latest editions 
of Moore's * Life of Lord Byron,' are unfit for 
publication. Almost worse is the coarse 
malignity which prompted Byron, in a letter 
to Mr. Murray, to say, ' No more of Keats, I 
entreat — flay him alive ; if some of you don't, I 
must do it myself.' Afterwards, indeed, when 
poor Keats was in his grave, Byron declared 
that he did not envy the man who had written 
the murderous article in the Quarterly ; but he 
nevertheless thought the affair a proper subject 
for an ill-natured jest. Which would one rather 
have written, Byron's doggerel, * Who killed 
John Keats ?' or Lander's verse : 


* Fair and free soul of poesy, O Keats ! 
O how my temples throb, my heart-blood beats, 

At every image, every word of thine ! 
Thy bosom, pierced by Envy, drops to rest ; 
Nor hearest thou the friendlier voice, nor seest 

The sun of fancy climb along thy line.'* 

Landor, who was living in Italy when Keats 
came there to die, regretted afterwards that 
they had never met. One would like to think 
that Keats was praised during his lifetime by 
Landor ; but this seems doubtful. In a letter 
to Southey, written in 1825, there is mention of 
the * sycophantic ruffian ' who had recommended 
the author of * Endymion ' to go back to his 
gallipots. A year or two later, in a letter to his 
sister Elizabeth, Landor said : ' By the way, 
you have not read Keats and Shelley ; read 
them.'' I do not know, however, of any earlier 
allusion to Keats ; and Keats was now dead. 
But thenceforward Landor's admiration found 
frequent utterance. Keats, he said, was the 
most imaginative of English poets, after 
Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, and Milton. 
There might be wild thoughts in his poetry 
and extravagant expressions ; * but in none of 

* ' Imaginary Conversations,' 1828, iii. 427. 


our poets, with the sole exception of Shakes- 
peare, do we find so many phrases so happy in 
their boldness.'* Landor, however, found fault 
with Shelley's remark that Keats was truly a 
Greek, which was Shelley's way of accounting 
for the fact that the author of * Hyperion ' 
could not read a line of Homer in the original. 
' Between you and me,' Landor wrote, * the 
style of Keats is extremely far removed from 
the very boundaries of Greece.' 

In one of the Imaginary Conversations in 
which Landor speaks in his own person, he 
protests that if ever again he visits Rome, it 
will be to spend an hour, in solitude, where the 
pyramid of Cestius points to the humbler tombs 
of Keats and Shelley. He had never met 
Shelley; for when they were both living at 
Pisa, someone had told him a story about the 
younger poet, which Landor thought so dis- 
agreeable, that he avoided him. It turned out 
to have been untrue. * I blush in anguish,' 
Landor then wrote, *at my prejudice and 
injustice ;' and whenever he spoke of Shelley 
afterwards, he would praise him both for his 

* Works, 1846, i. 339. The passage quoted does 
not appear in the 1876 edition. 


virtues and for his writings, and as one who 
united the ardour of the poet with the patience 
and virtue of the philosopher. * Shelley,' he 
said, * may have had less vigour than Byron, 
and less command of language than Keats ;' but 
he himself would rather have written his — 

' Music, when soft voices die, 
Vibrates in the memory ' 

than all the lyrics of the Elizabethans, Shake- 
speare's only excepted. Elsewhere he says 
that Shelley and Keats were inspired with a 
stronger spirit of poetry than any other writer 
since Milton, Robert Burns only excepted.* 
* I sometimes think,' he added, ' that Elizabeth 
Barrett Browning comes next '; an opinion 
which not many people would have endorsed 
forty years ago. 

Neither Shelley nor Keats lived long enough 
to judge Landor by his most finished work; 
but the former, at any rate, needed no further 
evidence of his poetic power than was displayed 
in his very earliest books. Shelley, when he 
was at Oxford, was always reading ' Gebir, 
either to himself or aloud to his friends, who 

* Letter to Mr. Forster, April 26, 1858. 


were not always tolerant of his infatuation. 
One of them, eager to tell him something of 
importance and finding him immersed in the 
volume, threw it out of the window ; but it was 
brought indoors again, and in a few minutes 
Shelley was as deep as ever in the woes of the 
Gadite king. 

But while recalling what Landor and some 
of his brother poets of the first half of the 
century said of each other, we ought not to 
overlook a writer of prose who, like Landor, 
also rhymed on occasions. Charles Lamb was 
born only a few weeks after Landor; and, unlike 
as they were in some respects, they also had 
much in common. To the superficial observer, 
perhaps, no two men would have seemed less 
akin than the shy, gentle Elia, quietly eking 
out his little pittance from the East India 
House by unobtrusive contributions to the 
periodicals of the day, and the confident, large- 
voiced country gentleman, who could squander 
in a few months as much as Lamb earned in 
as many years, and who grandly professed to 
despise the emoluments of literature. How 
would it have been with them, one is tempted 
to ask, had Lamb inherited a fortune and had 


Landor been forced to dip his daily bread in ink 
and to work for a living ? Yet if destiny not 
only led them along widely different paths of 
life, but also brought out qualities and capacities 
in the one altogether unlike those to which it 
allowed free play in the other, and if there were 
unmistakable divergencies of temper, intellect, 
and attainments, each alike had a genius and 
style of his own ; each in literature pursued the 
same ideal, so far as mere writing goes ; each, 
when his own taste and conscience were satisfied, 
cared nothing for the disapproval, and little for 
the applause, either of a coterie or of the crowd. 
So it is not strange that Charles Lamb and 
Walter Landor knew each other for kindred 
spirits. The recognition seems first to have 
come from Lamb. Describing his memorable 
voyage in the old Margate Hoy, Lamb quotes a 
line from ' Gebir ' : 

' Is this the mighty ocean ? Is this all ?' 

Doubtless, too, when he talked about the sweet 
security of London streets, a passage in * Count 
Julian "^' was running in his head. When Southey 
sent him a presentation copy of * Roderick,* 

* * Count Julian : a Tragedy,' Act ii., Scene 5. 


Lamb said he must read Lander's 'Julian' again. 
He could only recollect fine-sounding passages, 
and was inclined to think that Landor had 
failed in some of the characters. However, 
his memory, he confessed, was weak, and he 
would not by trusting to it ' wrong a fine poem.' 
A few years later, and after Lamb's gaol 
delivery from the bondage of the India House, 
we have evidence that he read the * Imaginary 
Conversations.' In one of the earliest of them 
Landor had started the odd theory that ' Don 
Quixote ' was nothing more nor less than a 
dexterous attack on the worship of the Virgin 
Mary. Cervantes, he makes President du Paty 
say, was never such a knight errant as to attack 
knight errantry — a folly, if it was one, which 
had disappeared a century before. Don 
Quixote was the Emperor Charles V., ' devoting 
his labours and vigils, his war^ and treaties, to 
the chimerical idea of making minds, like 
watches, turn their indexes, by a simultaneous 
movement, to one point ' ; while Sancho Panza 
symbolized the people, sensible in other matters, 
but ready to follow the most extravagant 
visionary in this. The notion did not com- 
mend itself to Charles Lamb, who protested 


against ' Lander's unfeeling allegorizing away of 
honest Quixote.'* Landor, he declared, might 
as well say that Strap, in Smollett's ' Roderick 
Random,' was meant to symbolize the Scottish 
nation before the Union, and Random the 
same nation after ; or that Fielding's Partridge 
stood for the mystical man, and Lady Bellaston 
for the ' woman upon many waters.' For all 
Lamb knew to the contrary, * Gebir ' might 
mean the state of the hop market a month ago. 
Landor, more likely than not, never heard of 
Lamb's objection to his gloss on Don Quixote ; 
but when a Quarterly Reviewer in 1837 cited the 
same theory as a notable instance of Landorian 
whim, he took some pains to elaborate this part 
of the conversation. 

Landor's liking for Lamb was unqualified. 
Writing to Henry Crabb Robinson in April, 
1831, he quoted a sentence or two from ' Mrs. 
Leicester's School,' and went on to say : * If 
your Germans can show us anything compar- 
able to what I have transcribed, I would almost 
undergo a year's gurgle of their language for it.' 
In another letter of the same year he declared 
that Elia's essays in the New Monthly Magazine 
* Letter to Mr. Southey, August 19, 1825. 



were admirable — 'the language truly English. 
We have none better, new or old.' In the 
following year Landor, revisiting England, 
called on the Lambs at Enfield. Crabb Robin- 
son was of the party, and describes the visit. 
Lamb and his sister, one can imagine, may 
have been a little embarrassed by the large 
utterance and expansive manner of their new 
friend. ' I thought Lamb by no means at his 
ease,' Crabb Robinson tells us, ' and Miss Lamb 
was quite silent.' Landor, however, was de- 
lighted with them both, as also with Miss Isola, 
for whose album he presently wrote some verses. 
It was his only meeting with Charles Lamb : 

* Once, and once only, have I seen thy face, 
Elia ! Once only has thy tripping tongue 
Run o'er my breast, yet never has been left 
Impression on it stronger or more sweet. 
Cordial old man ! what youth was in thy years !' 

These lines were written on receiving the 
news of Lamb's death, when, also, to the 
sister of Elia Landor addressed the well-known 
verses beginning : 

' Comfort thee, O thou mourner, yet awhile ! 
Again shall Elia's smile 
Refresh thy heart.' 


Both poems have been reprinted, but a letter 
of Landor's, published in Leigh Hunt's London 
Journal* is not to be found in his collected 
works. * The Essays of Elia,' he said, * will 
afford a greater portion of pure delight to the 
intellectual and the virtuous, to all who look 
into the human heart, for what is good and 
graceful in it, than any other two prose volumes, 
modern or ancient.' 

There is not much that can profitably be 
added to what Landor says, in the extracts 
that have been given from his private letters, 
about the later generation of English writers 
who began to flourish when he was an old man. 
Browning dedicated a volume of poetry to him, 
and came to his rescue in those dark days 
when he was a homeless wanderer in Florence. 
Landor had been among the first to welcome 
Browning as a great poet — 'A very great poet,' 
he wrote in 1845, ' as the world will have to 
agree with us in thinking.' He only wished 
that Browning would * atticize ' a little. ' Few 
of the Athenians had such a quarry on their 
property, but they constructed better roads for 
the conveyance of the material.' And Mrs. 

* July II, 1835. 

12 — 2 


Ritchie, in her delightful reminiscences, has 
told us how Browning would take down 
one of Landor's many books that stood on 
the book-shelves, and vow that he knew of 
no better reading. Nor had Landor been 
less ready to single out Tennyson from the 
band of minor poets who were trying their 
wings in the early days of the Victorian 

In 1837 a volume of poetry* for the draw- 
ing-room table was published by subscription, 
her Majesty the Queen heading the list of sub- 
scribers. Among those who contributed were 
Southey, Wordsworth, Tom Moore, James 
Montgomery, Henry Taylor, Monckton Milnes, 
the Tennysons, and Landor himself. Alfred 
Tennyson sent the stanzas : 

* Oh ! that 'twere possible 

After long grief and pain,' etc., 

which afterwards, with alterations, became part 
of ' Maud.' In that same year Landor was 
shown a manuscript poem by Tennyson, which 
he at once pronounced to be Homeric, rivalling 

* ' The Tribute.' 


some of the finest passages in the * Odyssey.' 
It was the ' Morte d'Arthur.' Six years later 
Landor was delighted with * Ulysses ' and 
* Godiva,' liking the last-named poem, perhaps, 
all the better because he himself had written 
verses about Godiva when he was a school- 
boy at Rugby. And when the finished ver- 
sion of * Maud ' came out, Tennyson rose yet 
higher in his estimation. What other modern 
poet, he asked, could have written the verse 
in the * Ballad of Oriana,' worth whole 
volumes — 

* O breaking heart that will not break '! 

Everyone knows, of course, that Landor and 
Dickens were close friends, and that Landor 
is Mr. Boythorn in * Bleak House.' Landor's 
liking for Dickens found expression in two or 
three of his poems, and in the dedication of the 
volume in which he collected his Greek and 
Roman Conversations. Possibly he did not 
think quite so highly of Thackeray, but he called 
* Esmond ' a noble story, and the * Lectures on 
the Four Georges ' were very much to his 
taste. Someone has written on the fly-leaf 
of my first edition of the * Imaginary Con- 


versations ' the following verses which, he 
says, Landor recited ex tempore for Thackeray's 
edification when he met him after the delivery 
of the lectures : 

* I sing the Georges four, 
For Providence could stand no more. 
Some say that far the worst 
Of all the four was George the First ; 
But still by some 'tis reckon'd 
That worser still was George the Second. 
No mortal ever said one word, 
Or good or bad of George the Third. 
When George the Fourth from earth descended, 
Thank Heaven ! this line of Georges ended.' 

A distinguished critic* has expressed his 
astonishment that Thackeray was seldom, *if 
ever,' mentioned by Landor. They moved in 
different planes, but Landor would have been 
the last man to affect indifference to the merits 
of a contemporary. 

Mr. Forster's biography fitly ends with the 
memorial verses written by Mr. Swinburne, 
who, a few months before Landor died, went 
to Florence on purpose to see him — 

* Professor Saintsbury. 


* The youngest to the oldest singer 
That England bore. 

I found him whom I shall not find 

Till all grief end, 
In holiest age our mightiest mind, 

Father and friend. 

To this felicitous determination of Landor's 
place among English writers of the nineteenth 
century, one may well hesitate to add so much 
as a single word. 



' Poetry was ever my amusement ; prose my 
study and business.' 

W. S. Landor. 

A number of miscellaneous poems by Landor, 
all of them found among the papers in his 
writing-desk, have now to be given. For reasons 
already stated, it has not been considered neces- 
sary to print the whole collection ; but an en- 
deavour has been made to rescue as much as 
seemed worth preserving. Only in a few cases 
has a heading been supplied by Landor ; nor 
was it possible to discover his wishes as to the 
order in which the poems should appear. A 
few explanatory notes have been added. First 
come a number of poems which should have a 
place among those quoted or referred to in the 
chapter on Lander's loves and friendships. 


Then follow verses embodying his views on 
various points of philosophy, politics and litera- 
ture, together with a few others which are 
mainly of interest for the light they may throw 
on his life and character. 


* Tell me what means that sigh,' lone said, 
When on her shoulder I reclined my head ; 
And I could only tell her that it meant 
The sigh that swells the bosom with content. 

THE FEARFUL (1801).* 

I would not see thee weep but there are hours 
When smiles may be less beautiful than tears, 

Some of those smiles, some of those tears were 
Ah ! why should either now give place to fears ? 

* This and the preceding poem have a particular 
interest, as they are dated by Lander himself. In 
1 80 1 he narrowly escaped marrying a rich heiress ; 
* but after committing a piece of foolery, in which I 
was the puppet, the farce ended.' The date ascribed 
to the verse in which lone is named was that of his 
first year at Oxford. His biographers, however, 
have supposed that he met lone in 1795. 



Along the seaboard sands there grows 
The tiniest and the thorniest rose, 
And tawny snapdragons stand round, 
Above it, on the level ground. 

* Here,' said I, * sit, or you will weary 
Before you come to Briton Ferry.' 
And I began to pluck away 

The stubborn twisting roots. 

'Stay! stay!' 
She cried ; ' your hand begins to bleed.' 
I hid it ; for it bled indeed. 

* Now do not hold it back,' said she, 

* No, nor deny it ; let me see.' 
With gentle violence she prevail'd, 
For when has gentle violence fail'd ? 

How sat we down ? who smooth'd the 

sand ? 
Who cured, and how was cured, that hand ? 
It was a dream ; which to explain 
I try (and so will you) in vain. 

* These lines, probably an earlier version of a 
little poem published in ' Heroic Idyls,' p. 157, 
and reprinted in the Works, 1876, viii., 320, un- 
doubtedly commemorate a walk with Miss Rose 




In her green vest and golden hair, 
Laura is coming, so prepare : 
The chaste Ristormel can alone 
Replace the loss of Avignon. 


If by my death I win a tear, 
O Rose, why should I linger here ? 
If my departure cost you two, 
Alas ! I shall be loth to go. 

* By Simone Memmi, on the inner cover of a 
missal. [Note by Lander.] 

The portrait is still in the possession of Lady 
Graves-Sawle, to whom Landor sent it. ' Simone 
Memmi,' Landor tells us elsewhere, ' the first 
of the moderns who gave roundness and beauty 
to the female face, neglected not the graceful air 
of Laura. Frequently did he repeat her modest 
features in the principal figure of his sacred com- 
positions, and Petrarcha was alternately tortured 
and consoled by the possession of her portrait 
from the hand of Memmi,' — Works, 1876, viii., 


The verses ' To Rose,' that follow, were also sent 
to Miss Paynter, now Lady Graves-Sawle. 


love's secrets. 

Poplar ! I will not write upon thy rind 

lanthe's cherisht name, 
Which it would grieve me should another 

And the same station claim. 

Ours, O lanthe, ours must never meet, 

Tho' here we tarry long. 
To hear the whisper of the leaves is sweet, 

And that bird's even-song. 

One sweeter I have bidden thee to check 

In fear of passer by, 
Who might have seen an arm about a 
neck ; 

So timorous am L 

ianthe's name.* 

* Cannot you make my name of Jane 
Sound pleasanter ? Now try again,' 
Said she. At once I thought about 
The matter, and at last cut out 

* Mr. Sidney Colvin has quoted some unpub- 
lished verses of Lander's on the invention of the 
names, lone and lanthe. The 'smart ring'd robber' 


A letter from Greek alphabet, 
And had it, as I thought, well set ; 
'Twas then ' lanthe.' Soon there came 
A smart ring'd robber with a claim, 
You find it in his wardrobe stil, 
More he would have, but never will. 


If I am proud, you surely know, 
lanthe ! who has made me so, 
And only should condemn the pride 
That can arise from aught beside. 

was Lord Byron ; and the phrase suggests an ex- 
planation of the lines : 

' Wearers of rings and chains ! 
Pray do not take the pains 
To set me right.' 

Curious that Landor makes no reference to Ovid's 
' lanthe.' In an unpublished fragment he says : 
' A name was converted by the magic of a Greek 
letter (6) from a monosyllable into a trisyllable ; 
and the fresh lanthe was seized by the pet poet of 
the day, and offered by him to a Deity in the clouds. 
No hue and cry was raised after it. Trespassers 
have carried off weighter materials from my higher 
quarries : it were uncharitable to close the gate 
against a gleaner, and indecorous to snatch a cock's 
feather from his hat-band.* 



Now thou art gone, tho' not gone far, 

It seems that there are worlds between us ; 

Shine here again, thou wandering star ! 
Earth's planet ! and return with Venus. 

At times thou broughtest me thy light 
When restless sleep had gone away; 

At other times more blessed night 
Stole over, and prolonged thy stay. 

A dreamer's tale. 

Dreamer I ever was by night and day. 

Strange was the dream that on an upland bank 

My horse and I were station'd, and I saw 

By a late gleam of an October sun 

The windows of a house wherein abode 

One whom I loved, and who loved me no less — 

And was she not drawn back ? and came not forth 

Two manly forms which would impede her steps ? 

I was too distant for them to discern 

My features, but they doubted : she retired ; 

"^^ This is Lander's heading to the lines, which 
may refer to the separation we read of in the 
beautiful poem, beginning : 

* lanthe ! you are called to cross the sea, 
A path forbidden me.' 


Was it into her chamber ? did she weep ? 
I did not at that hour, but in the next 
Silently flowed tear after tear profuse. 
There are sweet flowers that only blow at night, 
And sweet tears are there bursting then alone.* 

I turn'd the bridle back and rode away, 
Nor saw her more until a loosen'd bond 
Led her to find me a less happy man 
Than she had left me, little happy then. 
For hope had gone with her and not return'd. 
She lookt into my eyes, fixt upon hers. 
And said ' You are not cheerful, tho' you say 
How glad you are to see me here again. 
Is there a grievance ? I have heard there is. 
And the false heart slips down and breaks the 

I come to catch it first ; give it me back ; 
Sweet fruit is no less sweet for being bruiz'd.' 

Thus at brief intervals she spake and sigh'd ; 
I sigh'd, too, but spake not : she then pursued, 
' Tell me, could it be you who came so far 
Over the sea to catch a glance at one 
You could not have ? Rash creature ! to incur 

* These two lines, slightly altered, were printed 
by themselves in ' Heroic Idyls,' p. 228. The lady 
of the poet's dream was doubtless lanthe. 


Such danger ! was it you ? I often walkt 
Lonely and sad along that upland bank, 
Until the dew fell heavy on my shawl, 
And calls had reacht me more and more distinct. 
Ah me ! calls how less willingly obey'd 
Than some I well remember not so loud.' 


Spring smiles in Nature's face with fresh delight, 
With early flowers her mother's brow adorn- 
When morning comes, I wish again for night. 
And when night comes, I wish again for 


The violets of thine eyes are faded, 
[Surviving] ill their radiant noon. 

Nor will thy steps move on unaided 
By friendly arm, alas ! how soon. 

Well I remember whose it was 

They sought ; no help they wanted then ; 
Methinks I see the maidens pass 

In envy, and in worse the men. 

* Verses something like these may be found in 
' Last Fruit,' p. 394, with the date, Brighton, 1807. 



For me you wish you could retain 

The charms of youth ; the wish is vain, 

lanthe ! Let it now suffice 

To pick our way with weaker eyes : 

They cannot Hght it as of yore 

Where Pleasure's sparkhng fount ran o'er. 

Time spares not Beauty, Love he spares, 

Who covers with his wing grey hairs. 

ianthe's daughter.* 

To thee, Maria, now within thy tomb, 
God seem'd to promise many years to come. 
A gift beyond the rest to Him we owe. 
He left one image of thee here below. 


Sweet as it is to hear a voice 

Dense crowds and distant lands above, 
Yet in Luisina's I rejoice 

More deeply, voice of truth and love. 

* Madame de Pereira Sodre. See Landor's 
verses on this lady's marriage, Works, 1876, viii., 
p. 49. 

f Miss de Pereira Sodre was Ianthe's grand- 



To me was it bequeath'd by one 

Who little thought her nursling child, 

When she from earthly friends had gone 
In distant climes and deserts wild, 

Columbia's youth should melt or cheer, 
With plaintive and with sportive song, 

Or that her groves his name should bear 
Who loved so fondly and so long. 


The cattle in the common field 

Toss their flat heads in vain. 
And snort and stamp ; weak creatures yield 

And turn back home again. 

My mansion stands beyond it, high 

Above where rushes grow ; 
Its hedge of laurel dares defy 

The heavy-hooft below. 


He who sits thoughtful in a twilight grot 
Sees what in sunshine other men see not. 


I walk away from what they run to see, 
I know the world, but the world knows not 


If you are jealous as pug-dog, O poet, 
Button your bosom tight, and never show it. 
If you are angry at the world's disdain. 
What the world gives you, give the world again. 
The Muses take delight in poets' sighs, 
But they hear few ascending from the wise. 
* The more the merrier ' (wicked jades !) they say, 
Laugh in your face, and turn their own away. 


Mobs I abhor, yet bear a crowd 
Which speaks its mind, if not too loud. 
Willingly would I hear again 
The honest words of pelted Payne.* 
Few dared such homely truths to tell, 
Or wrote our English half so well. 

■'■ Thomas Paine, author of the ' Rights of Man,' 
for whom Landor professed to have a certain liking. 
See Works, 1876, vi., 157. De Quincey said that 
Aroar, in ' Gebir,' was too Tom Paineish. 




If there be any who would rather 
Short thyme from steep Hymettus gather^ 
Than thro' Hyrcanian forests trudge 
In heavy boots, knee-deep in sludge, 
Come, here is room enough for you, 
There will be round about but few. 


One day, when I was young, I read 
About a poet, long since dead,* 
Who fell asleep, as poets do 
In writing — and make others too. 
But herein lies the story's gist, 
How a gay queen came up and kist 
The sleeper. 

' Capital !' thought I. 
* A like good fortune let me try.' 

* Clement Marot, Landor says in a note, but he- 
was forgetting his history. It was Alain Chartier, 
the most ill-favoured man in France, whom Mar- 
garet Stuart, wife of the Dauphin, kissed on his 
mouth, ' de laquelle sont issus tant d'excellent 
propos, mati^res graves et paroles elegantes.' In 
prose Landor has told the story correctly. See 
Works, 1876, iii., 39. 


Many the things we poets feign. 
I feign'd to sleep, but tried in vain. 
I tost and turn'd from side to side, 
With open mouth and nostrils wide. 
At last there came a pretty maid. 
And gazed ; then to myself I said, 
* Now for it !' She, instead of kiss. 
Cried, ' What a lazy lout is this !' 


Kisses in former times I've seen 
Which, I confess it, rais'd my spleen : 
They were contrived by Love to mock 
The battledore and shuttlecock. 
Given, return'd : how strange a play 
Where neither loses all the day, 
And both are, e'en when night sets in. 
Again as ready to begin ! 
I am not sure I have not plaid 
This very game with some fair maid. 
Perhaps it was a dream ; but this 
I know was not : I know a kiss 
Was given me in the sight of more 
Than ever saw me kist before. 

* Written July 8, i860. 


Modest as winged angels are, 
And no less brave, and no less fair, 
She came across, nor greatly fear'd 
The horrid brake of wintery beard. 


A poet sate in bower ; there soon came nigh 
With flappings up and down a butterfly. 
Her name was Gloriosa ; 'twas a name 
Given at her birth by one who bore the same. 
He saw its-likeness, and he loved its ways 
And gaudy colours in all sunny days. 
* Ah !' sigh'd the poet, * soon such days are over. 
And our best plumage books and bindings cover. 
Vainly we flutter, vainly are we loth 
To leave our heritage to grub and moth. 


Widcombe ! few seek in thee their resting-place. 
Yet I, when I have run my weary race, 

Will throw my bones upon thy churchyard 

* Mr. Forster, in his ' Life of Landor,' gives the 
first stanza. Landor purchased a plot of ground in 
the churchyard at Widcombe, near Bath, where he 
hoped to be buried. 


Although malignant waves on foren shore 
Have stranded me, and I shall lift no more 

My hoary head above the hissing surf. 
Perhaps my dreams may not be over yet, 
And what I could not in long life forget 

May float around that image once too dear ; 
Perhaps some gentle maiden passing by, 
May heave from true-love heart a generous sigh, 

And say, ' Be happier, thou reposing here.' 


Cervantes was among my first delights. 
Nor was forgotten in maturer age ; 
I dare not ask myself if Freedom urged 
My steps to Spain more powerfully than he, 

* Lander's memory played him a strange trick 
when he wrote these verses. He never saw the 
birthplace of Cervantes, who, moreover, was born 
in Alcara de Henares, in New Castile. While 
serving in Spain as a volunteer in 1808, Landor's 
journeys were confined to the northern province. 
Most of his three months in the country he spent in 
the neighbourhood of Aguilar — ' impenetrable, 
marble-turreted,' and * in Reynosa's dry and thrift- 
less dale.' He would have liked to see Madrid, he 


When that inveterate and infuriate foe 
Of England and of Europe vaulted o'er 
The Pyrenees. I went there not unarm'd, 
Nor left unhonour'd, tho' my stay was brief. 
When Blake retreated to unsafe Seville 
I stayed behind, but would not go aboard, 
Tho' Digby call'd to welcome me, but went 
To view La Mancha, where no human step 
Disturb'd the silence, where the lizard clung 
Upright and panted on the sultry wall. 
My sword was idle, not the hand that bore it. 
There were who wanted that, nor sued in vain. 

told Southey, but feared lest a battle might be 
fought in his absence. It follows that he had no 
opportunity of visiting either La Mancha or New 
Castile. In an Imaginary Conversation, however, 
between Don Ferdinand and Don John Mary Luis, 
first printed in 1829, mention is made of a foolish, 
heretic Englishman who, on a hot day in August, 
when ' the very lizards panted for breath, and 
hardly clung against the walls,' visited Santillana, 
' the birthplace of one Gil Bias' (Works, 1876, vi., 
318). Landor was a great admirer of Le Sage. 
* Show me,' he wrote, * any style in any language 
so easy, so diversified.' But for ' the glorious wit, 
Cervantes, who shattered the last helmet of knight 
errantry,' his regard passed admiration. 


birthplace of Cervantes ! proud of him ! 
Proud of the giver of another world ! 
Proud of immortal poets ! hast thou risen 
Only to fall again ? Bring back the hour 
(Ah, couldst thou !) when I rode along thy 

While war raged under me ; some duty done, 

1 slept more soundly where the cistus helpt 
My slumber, and the weaker thyme gave way. 


Few will acknowledge all they owe 

To persecuted, brave Defoe. 

Achilles, in Homeric song, 

May, or he may not, live so long 

As Crusoe ; few their strength had tried 

Without so staunch and safe a guide. 

What boy is there who never laid 

Under his pillow, half afraid, 

That precious volume, lest the morrow 

For unlearnt lesson might bring sorrow ? 

But nobler lessons he has taught 

Wide-awake scholars who fear'd naught : 

A Rodney and a Nelson may 

Without him not have won the day. 



Strangers in vain enquire, for none can show 
Where rests thy mutilated frame, Defoe ! 
Small men find room enough within St. Paul's, 
The larger limb'd must rest outside the walls. 
Be thou content, no name hath spred so 

As thine, undamaged stil by time and tide. 
Never hath early valour been imprest 
On gallant Briton's highly-heaving breast 
So deeply as by Crusoe ; therefor Fame 
O'er every sea shall waft your social name. 


Jeffrey ! the rod and line lay by, 
Or only fish for little fry. 
On dace and gudgeon you may fare. 
Too deep for you lies Derwent Char. 

* Landor heartily disliked the Edinburgh Review 
and its editor. * I was once asked,' he wrote to 
Southey, 'whether I would be introduced to this 
gentleman. My reply was : " No, nor to any other 
rascal." I like to speak plainly, and particularly so 
when the person of whom I speak may profit 
by it.' 



Hold hard ! let puffing Giff reach first 
The sacred spring, for fierce his thirst. 
Press not too nigh lest he bespatter 
Each rival with the muddied water. 


There are few wits who never speak ill 
In prose or rhyme, such wits are Jekyl 
And Luttrell : like this couple let us 
Gather our honey from Thymettus : 

* Landor liked GifFord of the Quarterly even less 
than he liked Jeffrey. The animosity was reciprocal, 
and Gifford saw in Landor ' a most rancorous and 
malicious heart.' — ' Memoirs of John Murray,' 
i. 164. 

f Writing to Southey in August, 1832, Landor 
told a story of a breakfast-party, at which he him- 
self and Jekyl were present. It was at Dr. Parr's, 
and Sir James Mackintosh was also among the 
guests. Mackintosh — very inaccurate, Landor 
notes, not only in Greek but in Latin — said some- 
thing about the Anabasis. 'Very right, Jemmy,' 
was the Doctor's comment, ^Anabasis with you, 
but Anabasis with me and Walter Landor.' The 
anecdote is not altogether pertinent ; but I cannot 
recall any other mention of Mr. Jekyl in Landor's 
writings. Henry Luttrell wrote * Advice to Julia.' 


Let the kid suck, the mother graze, 
Nor pelt the poor old buck that strays. 
Those thirst the most who are as dry as 
Gifford or bell-weather Mathias. 
At flabby pens why frown offended ? 
By the best blade can they be mended. 


Disparage not our age, such thought were 

Ask not a poet is it worth a song ; 
To this ye might hear Tennyson reply 
At times in accents deep, at times in high. 
Here has been in our iland one great man 
Who, beyond all, the race of glory ran. 
Beneath the rising and the setting sun. 
The helm and scymeter of Wellesley shone. 
And who was he* who later [dared] to 

The icy barrier of the Baltic wave ? 
Nor have our gentle poets since been mute, 
Although contented with their softer flute. 
O'er the wide Continent, despotic Power 
Is seen in threatening thunder-clouds to lour, 

* Admiral Sir Charles Napier. 


And there if any loftier heads remain 
They raise them not, aware 'twould be in vain. 
From thousand city bards no voice is heard 
Above the twitterings of a household bird. 
While in our happy Britain there is stil 
Breath left the trumpet of fair fame to fill. 


Have I no sympathy for kings ? I have, 

And plant a laurel on a royal grave. 

James ! I will never call thy fortunes hard, 

A happy lover and unrival'd bard. 

For Chaucer, Britain's first born, was no more, 

And the Muse panted after heavy Gower. 


Regain, ye despots, if ye can your thrones, 
And drown with trumpeting a nation's groans. 
For you in vain do watchful dragons keep 
The lonely darksome intervals of sleep. 
Ere long shall justice from high heaven descend, 
And man's worst grief, when you she smites, 
shall end. 



Who would not throw up Hfe to be exempt 
From Europe's execration and contempt, 
From all the written and unwritten scorn 
Of thousands round, and thousands yet unborn, 
That withers with a tongue of quenchless 

Wilhelm and Nicholas and one more name ? 


March, tyrant, o'er Sarmatia's blooded plain. 
One hand may do what armies dare in vain. 
Few of thy race have died a natural death, 
Or drawn without fierce pangs their latest 

What have I spoken ? inconsiderate word ! 
Natural their death is, by the drug or sword. 
Who burn the cottage and the babe within. 
No doubt to purge him of original sin. 

* ' I am confident you would not willingly omit the 
verses I wrote last night, after reading the atrocious 
threat of the Czar, ordering the death-stroke to be 
given to Poland within ten days. . . . The shock 
given me by the Czar has made my head, after 
whirling round, come nearly right again.' — Lander 
to A. de Noe Walker. 


Some call it cruel, others think it odd 
In those who govern by the Grace of God : 
Others impatiently rush forth with arms 
Across the wastes which lately were their farms ; 
Sickle and scythe are all that now remain, 
But these shall reap their harvest — not of grain. 


William ! great men have sat upon the throne 
Beneath whose weight thy Prussian subjects 

Frederic and Frederic's father bravely fought, 
And did, tho' scepter'd, some things as they 

Illiterate was the latter, and severe 
To those about him, more so to those near. • 
The wittiest and the wisest of their times 
Bestow'd on him what he could spare of 

And in his closet saw no sin or shame 
(For who was there to do it or to blame ?) 
In washing what he call'd his dirty linen, 
Which, like us others, he was apt to sin in. 
Thy smear'd and daily change wants cleansing 

Than what those bloody ones required before. 



My eyes first saw the light upon the day* 
It dawn'd on thee, but shone not brightly yet, 
America ! and the first shout I heard 
Of a mad crowd, around a madder king, 
Was shout for glorious victory, for blood 
Of brethren shed by brethren. 

Few the years 
Before I threw my cricket bat along 
The beaten turf to catch the song of France 
For freedom — ah poor slave ! free one short 

Glorious her women : will she ever bear 
A man, whom God shall raise so near Himself 
As Roland, Corday, and the Maid of Arc, 
Deliverer of her country, vanquisher 
Of her most valiant chiefs, enraged to see 
The captive lilies droop above the Seine ? 
America ! proud as thou well mayst be 
Both of thy deeds and thy progenitors, 
Thy hero, Washington, stands not alone ; 
Cromwell was his precursor, he led forth 

* Lander was born on January 30, 1775. His 
earliest book of poetry contains an Ode to George 


Our sires from bondage, Truth's evangelist, 
And trod down, right and left, two hostile 

Brothers of thine are we, America ! 
Now comes a sister, too long held apart. 
Lo ! Italy hath snapt her double chain, 
And Garibaldi sounds from shore to shore. 


Again her brow Sicania rears 
Above the tomb : two thousand years 
Have smitten sore her beauteous breast. 
And War forbidden her to rest. 
Yet War at last becomes her friend 
And shouts aloud, * Thy grief shall end. 
Throw off the pall, and rise again, 
A homeless hero breaks thy chain.' 


Condemn'd I die, by one who once conspired 
With me, and stood behind me while I struck. 
Where are the Gracchi, where are those twin- 

* It was on January 14, 1858, that Felix Orsini 
attempted to assassinate the Emperor and Empress 
of the French by means of explosive bombs. Two 



Who guided men thro' tempests ? are they 

Never to rise again ? No, there remain 
For Italy, brave guides to lead her sons 
In the right path, altho' its end be death. 

I would live one day longer, only one. 

Not that a wife and children might embrace 

years earlier he had been Lander's guest at Bath, 
having come with letters of introduction from Italian 
gentlemen living in London. ' Miserable Orsini !' 
Landor wrote to Mr. Forster, on the day after the 
outrage ; ' he sat with me two years ago at the 
table on which I am now writing. Dreadful work ! 
horrible crime ! To inflict death on a hundred for 
the sin of one ! Such a blow can serve only to 
awaken Tyranny, reverberating on the brass helmets 
of her Satellites.' In the excitement of the time, 
says Mr. Forster, Landor was publicly named as 
friendly to Orsini's later opinions ; and was at some 
pains to declare, as publicly, that the imputation 
was grossly unjust. Landor was also acquainted 
with Allsop, in whose name Orsini's passport was 
made out, and who was accused of complicity in 
the plot against the Emperor. He had met 
him at Charles Lamb's. Landor's belief in the 
righteousness of tyrannicide was not without limita- 


A neck so soon to let its weight fall off, 
The eyes yet rolling round, nor seeing them ; 
For the worst stroke comes from that word 

And heavier than the stroke is the recoil. 

Rome's ravens feed not the deserted child, 
But God will feed it, and in God I trust : 
His breath shall cleanse the temple long pro- 
And the caged doves within the portico 
Flutter, leap up, and wildly flit around 
Hearing the scourge of him who lets them 

Free thou wast never long, beloved Rome ! 
But free thou wast, and shalt again be free. 


In fields of blood however brave, 
Base is the man who sells his slave ; 
But basest of the base is he 
Who sells the faithful and the free. 
Nicaea ! thou wast rear'd of those 
Who left Phocsea crusht by foes, 

* Written on June 13, i860. 



And swore they never would return 
Until the red-hot ploughshare burn 
Upon the waves whereon 'twas thrown : 
Such were thy sires, such thine alone. 
Cyrus had fail'd with myriad host 
To chain them down ; long tempest-tost. 
War-worn and unsubdued, they found 
No refuge on Hellenic ground. 
All fear'd the despot : far from home 
The Cimri saw the exiles come. 
Victorious o'er the Punic fleet. 
Seeking not conquest but retreat, 
A portion of a steril shore 
Soliciting, nor vantage more. 
There rose Massilia. Years had past 
And once again the Tyrian mast 
Display'd its banner, and once more 
Phocseans won it ; on thy shore. 
Landed their captives and raised high 
Thy city named from victory. 
Firmly thou stoodest ; not by Rome, 
Conqueror of Carthage, overcome. 
Fearing not war, but loving peace. 
Thou sawest thy just wealth increase. 
Alas ! What art thou at this hour ? 
Bound victim of perfidious Power. 


Bystanders we (oh shame !) have been 
And this foul traffic tamely seen. 

Thou wast not heart-broken yet, 
Nor thy past glories will forget ; 
No, no, that city is not lost 
Which one heroic soul can boast. 
So glorious none thy annals show 
As he whom God's own voice bade go 
And raise an empire, where the best 
And bravest of mankind may rest. 
Enna for them shall bloom again 
And peace hail Garibaldi's reign. 


Lately 'twas shown that usurpation 
Will suit no more the Spanish nation. 
The luckless king of Mountain Mill* 
In his campaign succeeded ill. 
Sadly we fear the holy oil 
In these hot days will waste and spoil ; 
Let those who vend it get fresh grease 
To smear him, chanting 'Rest in Peace.'' 

* The Count of Montemolin, who renounced his 
claim to the Spanish throne in April, i860. 



Ireland ! now restless these eight hundred years ! 
Thy harp sounds only discords ; day and night 
Thy cries are cries for murder, friend or foe 
It matters not. Ah ! when wilt thou repose ? 
When will thy teachers cease to preach against 
All human laws ? when bid obey thy prince, 
Nor listen to another who assumes 
To rule as God's vicegerent, yet who knows 
That God is truth and God's command is peace ? 
' Ye can not serve two masters,' so said He, 
Yet thou rejectest one who rules thy land. 
Obeying one who calls across the sea. 
Who claims the tribute and who girds the 


Milo of Croton with a stroke 

Of his clencht fist could fell an ox ; 

But when he tried to split an oak. 
He found himself ' in the wrong box.' 

He thrust both hands into the slit. 

It closed on them ; he stampt and swore. 
Would it not open ? Not a bit ; 

It only held him fast the more. 


Pio could bring down kings and princes 
By dozens, but there comes at last 

An ugly customer who winces 

And kicks amain, and holds him fast. 

O, Mother Church ! what hast thou done ? 

I hardly think thy fornications 
Deserve the curse of such a son ; 

A plague to thee, a scourge to nations. 

Ah ! but thou taughtest him to lie 
When first he sat upon thy knee ; 

Now thy weak frown he dares deny. 
And spits upon thy rotten see. 


Churchmen there are who, after one more 

Would even leave old port to kick the shin 
Of dissident, but would not push aside 
The last half-cup of luke-warm tea to loose 
A martyr from the stake. And some there are 
Who curb and spur, and make curvet and 

That piebald steed the jockies call Religion. 
By Jove ! what quarters has the jade ! what 

thews ! 



There was a clergyman who used to say 
(Morn, noon, and night) his prayers every day ; 
Perhaps they all do ; but this worthy priest 
Long before dinner-time outran the rest. 
Now mark the sequel of his earnest words, 
After the solemn reading of the Lord's, 
* O Lord ! be merciful to me a sinner ! 
Sally ! what is there in the house for dinner ?' 


Alas ! infidelity darkens the land, 

Which we must enlighten with faggot and 

For how can we ever expect any good 
From churchmen who question if hares chew 

the cud ? 

* ' This I wrote on seeing in the Times last 
Tuesday the persecution of Bishop Colenso. 
Lander to A. de Noe Walker — MS. correspon- 
dence [? March, 1863]. 



Arthur, who snatches from the flames 
Scraps which ObHvion vainly claims, 
And givest honest Newby those 
Which rhyme holds separate from prose, 
Add to the flyleaf or fag-end 
These few last scratches of a friend. 


How often have we spent the day 

In pleasant converse at Torquay ; 

Now genial, hospitable Garrow, 

Thy door is closed, thy house is narrow. 

No view from it of sunny lea 

Or vocal grove or silent sea. 


Azeglio is departed : what is left 

To Italy, of such a son bereft ? 

Hope, valour, virtue, all the Arts — they rest, 

Tho' sadly sighing, on a mother's breast. 

* The father of Theodosia Garrow, afterwards 
Mrs. T. A. Trollope. 

t Massimo Taparelli, Marchese di Azeglio, after 
distinguishing himself as painter, author, patriot, 



Of many I have mourn'd the death, 
But thou the most, Elizabeth ! 
Of all our house the first thou wast 
Who would thy Walter have embraced ; 
Therefor I will not dry the tears 
The daily thought of thee endears. 


How could you think to conquer Scinde, 
And leave no enemy behind ? 
Indus rolls onward fifty streams. 
But none so noisome as the Thames, 


Last of the Giants ! thou whose vigorous 

Bore many wounds, and sank by none opprest, 

and statesman, became Prime Minister to the King 
of Sardinia. The lines seem to refer to his journey 
to England. He outlived Lander, who dedicated 
to him his ' Last Fruits off an old Tree.' 

* Elizabeth Savage Landor, his eldest sister, 
died February 24, 1854, ^g^<^ seventy-seven years. 


Earth covers thee, like all, and War and Peace 
Upon thy tomb from equal discord cease. 
Heard was the trumpet that was blown from 

And the true brother would not halt behind. 


Bad little bird ! why art thou gone. 

Deserter of my breast ? 
Why to the wood ? In wood is none 

So soft and safe a nest. 

Good little birds fly not from home, 
Nor, when we call 'em, Hnger. 

I will not scold thee, only come 
And perch upon my finger. 

I long to feel thy claw, I long 

To hold thy beak in mine. 
Then loosen it. Come, bring thy song, 

No song so sweet as thine. 


And what became of that old man 

Whose name I could not spell, 
So fond of that sad boy who ran 

Pelting the birds ? Come, tell. 


My pretty child ! the tale all through 

I would have gladly told 
When I repeated all I knew 

About both young and old. 

But surely you will let me hear 

What, when QEnone died, 
Became of those two faithful deer, 

And how they must have cried ? 

They wept, I doubt not, but they left 

The shed, their haunt before, 
Of her who fondled 'em bereft, 

And fed them at the door. 

I am (and are not you ?) afraid 

The dogs who came from Troy 
Would presently find where they stray'd, 

Cheer'd on by wicked boy. 

A nswer. 
No hound (or hunter crueler 

Than hound) would hurt those two. 
Who lay upon the grave of her 

Whose love had been so true. 



Mastif ! why bark at me who love thy race ? 
To fear thee I should deem it foul disgrace. 
In thy dominions I have walked alone, 
Nor ever bore a stick or rais'd a stone. 
Against the little, low, and wiry-hair'd, 
I must confess it, I would go prepared : 
To the high-crested creature, dog or man, 
I do whatever services I can. 
But to caress or compliment a cur 
Of either species, stiffly I demurr, 


Giallo \* I shall not see thee dead 

Nor raise a stone above thy head, 

For I shall go some years before. 

And thou wilt leap up me no more. 

Nor bark, as now, to make one mind 

Asking me am I deaf or blind. 

No, Giallo ! but I must be soon, 

And thou wilt scratch my grave and moan. 

* * Poor Giallo died yesterday. Poor dog ! I 
miss his tender faithfulness.' Contessa Baldelli to 
her brother, November 30, 1872. 



Acacia, how short-lived is all thy race ! 
Slender was I, but thou wast slenderer, 
When I began to notice thee ; thy stem 
Hath long been wrinkled, long before my brow. 
Weil I remember tossing up against 
Thy lowest tassel my blue-ribbon'd hat. 
And how it hung there till the rake was call'd 
To rescue it, nor that light work refused. 
Well I remember the limp hat, and aim 
To bring the blossom down within my reach. 
And break it — boys too soon are mischiefous 
Almost as men — and how the blossom caught 
And held to it what would have caught the 

Thus happens it sometimes with weightier 


Acacia ! low thou liest, and the axe 

Hath scattered wide thy weak and wither'd 

But I will treasure up one particle 
Before some strangers take thy wonted place. 
Small, delicate, requiring nurse's aid ; 
Pamper'd and rear'd for parlour company 
They soon will be, thou not so soon, forgotten. 



Epigrams must be curt, nor seem 

Tail-pieces to a poet's dream. 

If they should anywhere be found 

Serious, or musical in sound 

Turn into prose the two worst pages 

And you will rank among the sages. 


' Turn on the anvil twice or thrice 
Your verse,' was Horace's advice : 
Religiously you follow that. 
And hammer it til cold and flat. 


Some if they're forced to tell the truth 
Tell it you with a sad, wry mouth, 
And make it plainly understood 
Such never was their natural food. 


Fugitive pieces ! no indeed. 

How can those be whose feet are lead ? 



Sonnet is easy in the Tuscan tongue, 

And poets drop it as they walk along. 

A young professor was invited once 

To try his hand, and this was the response 

* I never turn'd a sonnet in my life, 

I had no mistress, and I have a wife. 

If anything should happen, then the Muse 

To help me at a pinch might not refuse. 

Fancy and tenderness, I have enough 

For that occasion — but she is so tough.' 


They say that every idle word 

Is numbered by the Omniscient Lord. 

O Parliament ! 'tis well that He 

Endureth for Eternity, 

And that a thousand Angels wait 

To write them at thy inner gate. 


Germans there are who sweat to cram 

Conundrum into epigram ; 

And metaphysics overload 

A cart that creaks on sandy road. 


All who look out for quaint and queer 
Are sadly disappointed here : 
Our only aim has been to fit 
A ready rhyme to ready wit. 


Schlegel ; where first I met thee was at Bonn : 
I knew thee but by name, and little thought 
The only mortal who could comprehend 
Shakespeare, in all his vastness, stood before 

I wondered, when I lookt on thee, at tags 
Of ribbon, buckles, crosses, round thy breast ; 
As, on their birthday, boys display new drums, 
High feather in the hat and fierce cockade. 
Is this the man, thought I, but held my tongue, 
Who knew the heart of Shakespeare, and his 

Thro' every walk of life, o'er land and sea, 
And into regions where nor sea nor land 
Are peopled, but where other Beings dwell. 
Above, below. 

Schlegel, he recognized 
In thee his privy-counselor, bade step 



With him thro' treacherous courts, courts dark 

with blood, 
Bade thee bare witness how Othello stabb'd 
His Desdemona, bade thee hold the pall 
Of virgin white that cover'd Juliet's bier. 
Then gather daisies, rosemary and rue, 
And columbine, as crazed Ophelia will'd. 
No sadness ever toucht my heart like hers : 
r think, but dare not own it, I have cried 
As child, who to his tongue applies a bee 
And, as he tastes the honey, feels the sting. 
Master of mind, in every form it takes, 
And universal as the Universe, 
Is Shakespeare, ambient as the air we breathe. 
Bright as the sun that warms it, vast and high 
As that dispenser to all worlds around 
Of light and life, wherever life exists : 
Many are the stars that gem the throne of 

But veil their lustrous eyes when he walks forth. 
So are there poets in our hemisphere 
Who glimmer, not obscurely ; they approach. 
Gazing with bated breath and front abashed : 
Barr'd in a tower where none can touch them 

His sceptre, sword and coronation robes. 



Arndt ! in thy orchard we shall meet no more 

To talk of freedom and of peace revived. 

We stood, and looking down across the Rhine 

Heard fights and choral voices far below. 

* What an enthusiastic song, O Arndt !' said I, 

' Is that !' then smiled he, and he turn'd aside 

My question. 

' Why not deem our Teuton tongue 
Worthy to have been learnt with ancient 

Which we converse in ? When an Attila, 
Far less ferocious, far more provident, 

* Toward the end of 1832, after a visit to England, 
where he had met Charles Lamb and Coleridge, 
Lander, on his way back to Fiesole, spent a few 
days at Bonn. There he saw William von Schlegel 
and Arndt. Of the former he wrote to Crabb 
Robinson : ' He resembles a little pot-bellied pony 
tricked out with stars, buckles, and ribbons, looking 
askance from his ring and halter in the market for 
an apple from one, a morsel of bread from another, 
a fig of ginger from a third, and a pat from every- 
body.' His interview with Arndt the next day, he 
said, ' settled the bile this coxcomb of the bazaar 
had excited.' One poem to Arndt was published 
in * Last Fruits,' p. 475. 



Than his successor, storm'd the Capitol, 
He broke no oaths, no vows, no promises ; 
But he who since laid waste our fertile fields. 
And handcuft our weak princes, broke them all. 
I am among the many better men 
Whose head he had devoted : I am he, 
The framer of that anthem ; they who now 
Sing it would then have sung it o'er my grave, 
And found their own in singing it.' 

He stopt 
Suddenly, then ran forward ; swiftly ran 
The septuagint, and overtook the youth 
Who carried the light weight of ten years less, 
For he had seen an apple drop and roll 
Along the grass : he stoopt and took it up 
And wiped the dew away, and gave it me. 
* Keep it, for there are better in the house,' 
Said he, ' and this is over-ripe ; one pip 
Keep in remembrance of our converse here.' 
I sow'd them all ; but kill'd were the new-born 
Ere slender stem could rear its first twin-leaves, 
And all were swept away maliciously 
By one who never heeded sage or sire. 



Damon was sitting in the grove 
With PhylHs, and protesting love ; 
And she was listening ; but no word 
Of all he loudly swore she heard. 
How ! was she deaf then ? no, not she, 
Phyllis was quite the contrary. 
Tapping his elbow, she said, ' Hush ! 

what a darling of a thrush ! 

1 think he never sang so well 
As now, below us, in the dell.' 


I loved you once, while you loved me ; 

Altho' you flirted now and then. 
It only was with two or three. 

But now you more than flirt with ten. 

* Mr. Kenyon told the story, in a somewhat 
different form, to the late Mrs. Andrew Crosse. 
Lander, on his honeymoon, was entertaining his 
bride with a reading of his own poems. Suddenly 
she rose, with the exclamation : ' Oh, do stop, 
Walter ! There's that dear, delightful Punch per- 
forming in the street. I must look out of the 



I swore I would forget you ; but this oath 
Brought back your image closer to my breast : 

That oaths have little worth your broken troth 
Had taught me ; teach my heart like yours to 


Time has not made these eyes so dim ; 

I never have complain'd of him : 
Of one how different I complain ! 

Come, Phaon, bring them light again. 


My mule ! own brother of those eight 
Which carried Ferdinand in state ; 
Alas ! how many a dublado 
I paid for thee to Infantado. 
None but his Excellence and Grace 
Possesses thy unequal'd race. 
I grieve not that my gold is gone, 
My noble Mule ! I grieve alone 

* A reminiscence of Lander's campaigning days 
in Spain. 


That thou, the highest of the high 
And whitest of the white, shouldst die 
Under the plate some robber steals 
Stabb'd by another at his heels. 
Thou never stumbledst ; but my humble 
Prayer is that thou some day wilt stumble, 
And break the neck of him whose reign 
Is now extending over Spain. 


There are two rivals for the heart of Man, 
Pleasure and Power ; first comes into the field 
Power, while yet Pleasure has not learnt to 

At the fond teacher bending o'er the task. 
Years fly fast over him, then Pleasure calls 
Nor waits, but shows before him various paths. 
All verdant, fresh, and flowery : midst of these 
He wearies and he stretches out his arms 
To some fair object beckoning from beyond. 
Even at the feast of Love he sits morose 
If any should sit opposite this one 
And hold sly converse with prone ear too close 
To ear as prone. 

Tell me, ye whom the Muse 
Hath wean'd from Pleasure, tell me have not ye 


Been also jealous, tho' afar from Love, 
Afar from Beauty, and in dell or bower 
Immerst ; and have not oft your temples 

Withering the moss whereon they would repose 
When Power was leading, high above your 

A happier brother onward. 

We are all 
Babes at some moment of our after-life. 


Ah ! heap not canto upon canto 
Which you must drag a weary man to, 
But try such themes as may be brief 
And, if they tire, soon comes relief. 
The Greeks have done it, and our neigh- 
The French succeed in these light labours. 
Firm mansions oft are built of stone 
Less than a waggon-load each one ; 
And oaks that o'er the forest frown 
For pleasure-boats are not cut down. 
A poem of ten thousand verses 
Is parent of as many curses. 



At Pisa let me take my walk 
Alone, where stately camels stalk, 
And let me hope to catch the eye 
Of pheasant on the ilex by, 
That he alight and find the bread 
Crumbled for him, and none instead. 
Robins in earlier morn may come 
And make my winter house their home. 


Pisa ! I love thee well, altho' 
Compell'd by friendship now I go 
Where golden cones of pine illume 
No more with fragrant warmth my room. 
Nor patient camels crouch, or stand 
Awaiting from a well-known hand 
To crunch with palm-long teeth the tips 
Of stubborn thorn thro' hardy lips. 
Then stalk along with stately stride 
To rest again at Arno's side. 

* Where Landor lived, 1820-21. 'We gave a 
dinner yesterday in the forest of Pisa. . . • What 
adds considerably to the Oriental aspect of the 
scene are the droves of camels wandering through 
it.' (Lady Blessington.) 


But camels ! winter will return 

When cones from your old pines shall burn, 

Changeless in form : I wish that we 

The same throughout our lives could be, 

With warmth as temperate waste away 

And cheerful to the last as they. 

Some lower necks, good mothers, bring 

For me to pat ere pass the Spring. 


Avon ! why runnest thou away so fast ? 
Rest thee before that Chancel where repose 
The bones of him whose spirit moves the 

I have beheld thy birthplace, I have seen 
Thy tiny ripples where they played amid 
The golden cups and ever-waving blades. 
I have seen mighty rivers, I have seen 
Padus, recovered from his fiery wound, 
And Tiber, prouder than them all to bear 
Upon his tawny bosom men who crusht 
The world they trod on, heeding not the cries 
Of culprit kings and nations many-tongued. 
What are to me these rivers, once adorn'd 
With crowns they would not wear but swept 



Worthier art thou of worship, and I bend 

My knees upon thy bank, and call thy 

And hear, or think I hear, thy voice reply. 


Pretty Anne Boleyn made a joke 

On her thin neck, just when the stroke 

That was to sever it was nigh. 

And show'd how innocence should die. 

The wittier and the wiser More 

With equal pace had gone before. 

Earlier in Athens died the sage 

Who's death o'er Plato's puzzling page 

Sheds its best light : well matcht with 

Was shrewd and sturdy Socrates. 
He laught not at the gods aloud, 
For that would irritate the crowd ; 
But, not to die in debt, he said. 
To the few friends about his bed, 
* Let iEsculapius have his fee 
For radically curing me. 
A gamecock he deserves at least 
So catch and take one to his priest.' 



If ever there was man who loved 
And wept for it, that man has proved 
Our earher authors are less wrong 
Than we are in our native tongue ; 
That fond and foolish, tho' in name 
Unlike, are in effect the same. 


O'erpast was warfare : youths and maidens 

From the Ligurian shore, and the Tyrrhene 
And the far Latian, to console the brave 
After their toils, and celebrate the rites 
Of the same gods. Hymen stood up aloft ; 
His torch was brighter than the deadly glare 
Lately so reverenced by a crouching throng 
In Druid worship, over blacken'd oak 
Leafless and branchless : hymns were sung 

That smiling youth whose marble brow was 


* These lines, Landor says in a note, would have 
closed ' The Phocaeans.' See above, p. 135. 


With summer flowers, and Love's with eariier 

Apollo stood above them both, august. 
Nor bent his bow in anger more than Love. 
Here was no Python ; worse than Python one 
Had vext the land before his light came down. 
Here stood three maidens, who seem'd ministers 
To nine more stately, standing somewhat higher 
Than these demure ones of the downcast smile : 
Silent they seem'd ; not silent all the nine. 
One sang aloud, one was absorb'd in grief 
Apparently for youths who lately bled ; 
Others there were who, standing more elate, 
Their eyes upturn'd, their nostrils wide ex- 
Their lips archt largely ; and to raise the hymn 
Were lifted lyres ; so seemed it ; but the skill 
Of art Hellenic forged the grand deceit. 
Night closed around them, and the stars went 

Advising their departure : when they went 
I too had gone, for without them I felt 
I should be sad, when from above there came 
A voice — it must have been a voice of theirs, 
It was so musical — and said ' Arise, 
Loiterer, and sing what thou alone hast heard.' 


* Inspire me then,' said I, 'O thou who standest 
With the twelve maidens round ! 

Was it a dream ? 
I thought the Dehan left his pedestal 
A living God, I thought he toucht my brow ; 
Then issued forth this hymn, the very hymn 
I caught from the full choir, the last they sang, 
' Incline a willing ear, O thou supreme 
Above all Gods ! Jove liberator ! Jove 
Avenger ! to Phocsea's sons impart 
The gift of freedom all our days, and peace 
To hold it sacred and with blood unstain'd. 
And do thou, consort of the Omnipotent ! 
Bestow thy blessing on our rescued few. 
And grant the race, adoring thee, increase.' 


A voice descending from the Parthenon 

Cried * Rise up, sons of Hellas !' It was borne 

Beyond the land of Pelops, and beyond 

The ^gsean and Ionian sea, across 

The Adriatic, to that wounded man 

Who gave a kingdom and who lost a home. 

They whom he saved dared strike him. Death 

dared not, 
Standing above his head with lifted dart. 


The voice assuaged his anguish ; on his lips 
Ye might have fancied hung these warning 

words : 
' My friends, my future comrades ! stand com- 
And drive the intruder from your sacred soil. 
Be vigilant ; look westward ; he who feign'd 
Deliverance is enslaver ; he attunes 
His fiddle to the steps of dancing slaves, 
And stamps on toes that keep not to his time. 

The Briton has been free two hundred years, 
Longer the Hollander, Helvetia's son 
Preceded him, and won the upland race ; 
Be Hellas fourth, no sluggard in the field. 
Their glory none of those had merited 
Had they forbidden God to hear the prayers 
Of his weak children in their mother tongue. 
The human body rises not at once, 
But member after member ; its extremes 
Are first to stir, and they support the rest. 

Give freedom if thou wouldst thyself be free. 
Resurgent Hellas ! force not on the neck 
Of others that spiked yoke thou hast thrown 

Leave his one God to the quell'd Osmanli, 
Nor tread the papal slipper down at heel, 


Nor drive the quiet Martin from thy gate. 
Take and hold stedfastly one more advice. 
Remain within thy ancient boundary. 
Worst of all curses is the thirst of rule 
O'er wide dominion : where is Babylon ? 
Where Carthage ? Earth's proud giant brood, 

they lie 
Along the dust ; the dust alone remains 
Imperishable and by age unchanged. 
Marble and bronze may crowd the peopled 

Men will ask who were those ? I place my palm 
On a small volume which contains his words 
Who rous'd and shook and would have saved 

thy land, 
Demosthenes, the patriot who disdain'd 
To live if life must be a despot's gift. 
Cherish his memory, teach thy sons his lore.' 


None had yet tried to make men speak 

In English as they would in Greek. 

In Italy one chief alone 

Made all the Hellenic realms his own ; 

He was Alfieri, proud to teach 

In equally harmonious speech. 


Soon, wondering Romans heard again 

Brutus, who had been dumb, speak plain. 

Corneille stept forth, and taught to dance 

The wigs and furbelows of France. 

In long-drawn sighs the soft Racine 

Bestrewed with perfumed flowers the scene. 

I wish our bard, our sole dramatic, 

Had never overlookt the attic : 

Tho' dried the narrow rill whereby 

The bards of Athens loved to lie, 

Yet Avon's broader deeper stream 

Might have brought down some distant dream, 

Nor left for trembling hand like mine 

To point out forms and feats divine. 

Children, when they are tired with play. 

Make little figures out of clay, 

And many a mother then hath smiled 

At the rare genius of her child ; 

But neither child nor man will reach 

The godlike power of giving speech. 

Fantastic forms weak brains invent . . . 

Show me Achilles in his tent. 

And Hector drag'd round Troy, show me 

Where stood and wail'd Andromache ; 

Her tears through ages still flow on. 

Still rages, Peleus, thy stern son. 




Look up, thou consort of a king whose realm 
Is wider than our earth, and peopled more, 
A king, a god ; look up, Persephone ! 
Behold again the land where thou wast born, 
The field where first thy mother from her 

Let down, with both her hands, thy dimpled 

Cautiously, slowly, where the moss was soft 
And crowds of violets bow'd their heads around. 
From thy calm region cast thine eyes again 
On Enna, where sang once thy virgin choir. 
And gather'd flowers for thy untroubled brow ; 
Here never wilt thou shudder at a car 
Of ebony and iron, nor bite his arm 
Who lifted thee above the sable steeds. 
Snorting and rearing, and then rushing down, 
Nor hearing the shrill shrieks of those behind. 
Happy art thou, and happy all thou seest 
Around thee, far as stretch the Elysian plains, 
Where weapons bright as in the blaze of war 
Are interchanged by chiefs who strove at Troy, 
And music warbles round the concave orb 
Of golden cup, well-drain'd, of roseate wine. 


But, O Persephone ! what wasting herd 
O'erruns the meadow of thy joyous youth ! 
What monsters lurk amid those chestnut groves, 
And ilexes, and trample down the bank 
Of rivers where thou freshenedst thy limbs 
Glowing with brightness thro' the boughs 

above ! 
Dwarf Cyclopses, more hateful than the huge. 
Crunch daily in their cavern brave men's bones. 
And howl against the pilot who directs 
The sad survivers thro' the swelling sea. 
The largest hearts are overladen most, 
They swell to bursting ; wrath dries up the tear 
Of grief; strong men sink at the feet of weak ! 
Dastards, where once rose heroes, and where 

The hymn of triumph sang by bards as bold, 
Depopulated thy cities and thy fields, 
Follow'd by slaves in arms. 

Persephone ! 
Thou art persuasive ; none but thou alone 
Can bend the monark ; raise thy cheek against 
His rigid beard and kiss his awful brow ; 
Promise him, swear to him by Styx itself. 
That thou wilt give him twice the worth of 


16 — 2 


He once made drop from thee he well knows 

where ; 
Remind him how his true and constant love, 
While other gods swerv'd wide from constancy, 
Hath made him dearer than thy earlier friends. 
And charm'd away even thy fond mother's grief; 
Tell him that he, true king, must hate the false ; 
Tell him to let them pass the Styx unhurt, 
And walk, unstay'd, unterrified, until 
Phlegethon drown their cries in liquid fire. 

[From a Bust by Gibson.) 

To /ace />. 244. 



1795. — The Poems of Walter Savage 
Landor. London : Cadell and Davies. 

[Of the thirty -two poems contained in this 
volume, six are quoted, in part or at length, in 
Forster's ' Life of Landor.' The remainder have 
not been reprinted.] 

1795. — A Moral Epistle ; respectfully 
Dedicated to Earl Stanhope. 
London : Cadell and Davies. 
[In verse. An attack upon William Pitt.] 

1798. — Gebir; a Poem in Seven Books. 
London : Rivingtons. 

1800. — Poems from the Arabic and Persian, 
with Notes, by the author of * Gebir.' 


Warwick: printed by H. Sharpe, High 
Street, and sold by Messrs. Rivingtons, 
St. Paul's Churchyard, London. 

[Reprinted, but without some of the notes, in 
« Dry Sticks.' See 1858.] 

1800. — Poetry, by the Author of ' Gebir,' and 
a Postscript to that Poem, with Re- 
marks on some Critics. Warwick : 
Sharpe, Printer. 

[Lander's friend, Mr. Isaac Mocatta, persuaded 
him to suppress this volume (Forster's ' Life,' 
i. 140) ; but there are two copies of it, one im- 
perfect, at South Kensington Museum. Some of 
the' poetry was published in 1802 and afterwards; 
other pieces, of which Mr. Forster quotes a 
couple (' Life,' i. 191), were cancelled.] 

1802. — Poetry, by the author of ' Gebir.' 
London : Rivingtons. 

[This volume contained, ' The Story of 
Chrysaor ' ; two fragments of an epic, ' From 
the Phocaeans,' and ' Part of Protis's Narrative ' ; 
and some English and Latin verses. ' The Story 
of Chrysaor ' was reprinted by Mr, Forster ; the 
fragment ' From the Phocaeans ' by Mr. Crump. 
Of the shorter English poems all except one may 
be found in the 1876 edition of Landor's works. 


The verses beginning ' Is haughty Spain again in 
arms?' were reprinted in ' Heroic Idyls,' but not 

1803. — Gebir; a Poem in Seven Books, by 
Walter Savage Landor; second edition. 
Oxford : Slatter and Munday. 

1803. — Gebirius ; PoEMA. ScRiPSiT Savagius 
Landor. Oxford : Slatter and Mun- 
[The Latin version of ' Gebir.*] 

i8g6. — Simonidea. Bath: Meyler; and London: 

[English and Latin verses. All but two of the 
English poems and a portion of a third have been 

1809. — Three Letters, written in Spain, 
to D. Francisco Riguelme, command- 
ing the 3rd Division of the Gallician 
Army. Printed for G. Robinson and 
J. Harding, London. 

1810. — Ad Gustavem Regem. 

1812. — Count Julian : a Tragedy. London : 


1812. — Commentary on Memoirs of Mr. Fox. 
London : Murray. 

[Mr, Sidney Colvin believes that there is only 
one copy in existence, in the possession of Lord 

1813. — Letters to the Courier, signed Calvus. 

[These were reprinted in the form of a 
pamphlet, with an additional letter, dated De- 
cember 30, 1813. A copy of the pamphlet, with 
MS. corrections in Landor's hand, was among 
the papers in his desk.] 

1815. — Idyllia nova quinque Heroum atque 
Heroidum. Oxford. 

1820. — Idyllia Heroica decem. Partim jam 
primo partim iterum atque tertio edit 
Savagius Landor. Pisa. 

1821. — PocHE Osservazioni, ETC., di Walter 
Savage Landor. Naples. 

1824. — Imaginary Conversations of Liter- 
ary Men and Statesmen, by Walter 
Savage Landor, Esq. Vols. i. and ii. 
London : Taylor and Hessey. 

[Vol. i. contains a dedication, dated Florence, 
October 1822, to the author's brother-in-law. 


Major -General Stopford, Adjutant -General in 
the Army of Columbia ; Vol. ii. is dedicated from 
Florence, November, 1 823, to the Spanish General, 
Mina. Each volume contained eighteen conversa- 
tions, all of which reappeared in the same or an 
altered shape in later editions.] 

1826. — Imaginary Conversations of Liter- 
ary Men and Statesmen, etc. Vols. i. 
and ii. The second edition, corrected 
and enlarged. London : Colburn. 

[The order of the conversations is not the same 
as in the first edition.] 

1828. — Imaginary Conversations of Liter- 
ary Men and Statesmen, etc. Vol. iii. 
London : Colburn. 

[Contains twenty new conversations. That 
between Ines de Castro, Don Pedro and Dona 
Blanca was afterwards turned into blank verse. 
The remaining conversations were all reprinted, 
with more or less alterations. The dedication, 
dated June 3, 1825, with postscript, July i, 1827, 
is to ' Bolivar, the Liberator.'] 

1829. — Imaginary Conversations, etc. Vols. 
iv. and v. London : Duncan. De- 
scribed in a separate title - page as 


' Imaginary Conversations,' second 
series, vols. i. and ii. 
[Vol. iv. contained fifteen new conversations ; 
vol. V. twelve. The former was dedicated, 
May 5, 1826, to General Sir Robert Wilson ; 
the latter, on August 18, 1826, to the Earl of 
Guilford. In the preface Landor expresses his 
sorrow at the death of Dr. Parr. The old dedi- 
cations were omitted in later editions. ' Mina 
gave orders,' Landor wrote, * to kill a woman ; 
Bolivar was a coxcomb and imposter, having been 
200 miles distant from the battle he pretended to 
have won ; and Wilson is worse than a Whig.'] 

1831. — Gebir, Count Julian, and other 
Poems, by Walter Savage Landor, 
Esq. London : Moxon. Dedication 
to Francis George Hare, Florence, 
January i, 1827. 



Count Julian, a tragedy. 
Inesde Castro at Cintra. 
Ines de Castro at Coim- 

Ippolito di Este. 

Miscellaneous Poems. 
On the Dead. 

[Several of the poems had appeared in 
' Simonidea.' All but thirteen are reprinted in 
Works, 1846 and 1876.] 


1834. — Citation and Examination of William 
Shakespeare, etc. To which is 
added a conference of Master Edmund 
Spenser, a Gentleman of Note, with 
the Earl of Essex, Touching the State 
of Ireland in 1596. London: Saunders 
and Otley. 
[Reprinted in Works, 1846 and 1876.] 

1836. — Death of Clytemnestra. Friendly 
Contributions for the Benefit of Three 
Infant Schools in the Parish of Ken- 
sington. Printed solely for the Right 
Honourable Lady Mary Fox. 
[Reprinted in Works, 1846 and 1876.] 

1836. — Pericles and Aspasia, by Walter 
Savage Landor, Esq. Two vols. 
London : Saunders and Otley. 

[Vol. i. contains a dedication to the Earl of 
Mulgrave, Lord - Lieutenant of Ireland, and 
Advertisement, dated Villa Fiesolana, July 4, 
1835. Vol. ii. contains an Ode to General 
Andrew Jackson, President of the United States, 
dated July 3, 1835; ^^'^ ^^ appendix entitled 
' Reflections on Athens at the decease of Pericles.' 
For the Ode see Works, 1876, vol. viii., p. 134. 
Mr. Forster did not reprint the ' Reflections.' 


' Pericles and Aspasia ' was reprinted, with some 
alterations, in Works, 1846 and 1876.] 

1836. — The Letters of a Conservative ; in 
which are shown the only means of 
saving what is left to the English 
Church, addrest to Lord Melbourne. 
London : Saunders and Otley. 
[Not reprinted.] 

1836. — Terry Hogan ; an Eclogue lately dis- 
covered in the Library of the Propa- 
ganda at Rome, and now first Trans- 
lated from the Irish. Thereunto is 
subjoined a dissertation by the Editor, 
Phelim Octavius Quarle, S. T. P. 
TvvaLKe<i (oXeaav jxe. — Euripides. 
London : printed by J. Westheimer 
and Co. 
[Never reprinted, and not reprintable. The 
copy in the British Museum, the only one I have 
seen, was given to Dr. Garnett by the late Mrs. 
De Morgan in 1873.] 

1837. — A Satire on Satirists, and Admo- 
nition to Detractors. London : 
Saunders and Otley. 
[Not reprinted.] 


1837. — The Pentameron and Pentalogia. 
London : Saunders and Otley. 

[i. The Pentameron, or interviews of Messer 
Giovanni Boccaccio and Messer Fr. Petrarcha, 
when said Messer Giovanni lay infirm at his 
Viletta hard by Certaldo ; after which they saw 
not each other on our side of Paradise ; shewing 
how they discoursed upon that famous theologian, 
Messer Dante Alighieri, and sundry other matters. 
Edited by Pievano D. Grigi. 

[2. The Pentalogia, or five dramatic scenes : 

Essex and Bacon. 

Walter Tyrrel and William Rufus. 

The Parents of Luther. 

The Death of Clytemnestra. 

The Madness of Orestes. 
[Reprinted in Works, 1846 and 1876.] 

1839. — Andrea of Hungary and Giovanna 
OF Naples, by Walter Savage Landor. 
London : Richard Bentley. 

• [Two dramas ; reprinted in Works, 1 846 
and 1876.] 

1841. — Fra Rupert. London : Saunders and 

[Reprinted in Works, 1846 and 1876.] 


1846. — The Works of Walter Savage 
Landor. Two vols. London : Moxon. 

iS^y. — Poemata et Inscriptiones novis 
auxit Savagius Landor. Londini : Im- 
pensis Edwardi Moxon. 

1847. — The Hellenics of Walter Savage 
Landor, Enlarged and Completed. 
London : Moxon. 

[There is a dedication to Pope Pius IX., in 
which Landor says, * Cunning is not wisdom ; 
prevarication is not policy ; and — novel as the 
notion is, it is equally true — armies are not 
strength : Acre and Waterloo show it, and the 
flames of the Kremlin and the solitudes of Fon- 

1848. — Imaginary Conversation of King 
Carlo-Alberto and the Duchess 
Belgoioiso. London : Longmans. 
[Reprinted in 'Last Fruit' and in Works, 


The Italics of Walter Savage 
Landor. London : Reynell and Weight. 

[This volume, now a rare one, contained seven 
short poems ; all reprinted in ' Last Fruit,' and 
again in Works, 1876, vol. viii.] 


1851. — Popery ; British and Foreign, by 
Walter Savage Landor. London : 
Chapman and Hall. 

[Reprinted in ' Last Fruit.'] 

1853. — The Last Fruit off an Old Tree, 
by Walter Savage Landor. London : 

[The dedication, in Italian, to the Marchese di 
Azeglio. Reprinted, with some exceptions, in 
Works, 1876.] 

1853. — Imaginary Conversations of Greeks 
AND Romans, by Walter Savage 
Landor. London : Moxon. 

[With a dedication to Charles Dickens, * to 
register my judgment that, in breaking up and 
cultivating the unreclaimed wastes of Humanity, 
no labours have been so strenuous, so continuous, 
or half so successful, as yours.'] 

1854. — Letters of an American, Mainly on 
Russia and Revolution, edited by 
Walter Savage Landor. London : 
Chapman and Hall. 

[Not reprinted.] 


1856. — Antony and Octavius ; Scenes for 
THE Study, by Walter Savage Landor, 
London : Bradbury and Evans. 

[These scenes are dedicated to Edward Cap- 
pern, * poet and day-laborer at Bideford, Devon.' 
Reprinted in Works, 1876, vol. vii.] 

1856. — A Letter from W. S. Landor to 
R. W. Emerson. Bath : published 
by E. Williams. 

[Not reprinted.] 

1858. — Dry Sticks, fagoted by Walter 

Savage Landor. Edinburgh : James 

Nichol. London : James Nisbet and 


[These dry sticks kindled to anything but love, 

and the law's wrath well-nigh consumed him who 

collected them. The volume is dedicated to 

* L. Kossuth, President of Hungary.' Portions 

of the volume only were reprinted in Works, 


1859. — The Hellenics of Walter Savage 
Landor, comprising Heroic Idyls, 
etc. New edition, enlarged. Edin- 
burgh : J. Nichol. 
[The dedication is to General Sir W, Napier. 
Reprinted in Works, 1876.] 


1862. — Letters of a Canadian. [See above, 
p. 125.] 

1863. — Heroic Idyls, with additional 
Poems, by Walter Savage Landor. 
London : Newby. 

[Dedication to the Hon. Edward Twisleton, 
Florence, August 25, 1863. Portions of this 
volume were reprinted in Works, 1876.] 

1869. — Walter Savage Landor; A Biography, 
by John Forster. Two vols. London : 
Chapman and Hall. 

[This is the edition of Forster's Life of Landor 
cited in the text.] 

1876. — The Works and Life of Walter 
Savage Landor. Eight vols. London: 
Chapman and Hall. 

Vol. i. Biography, by John Forster. 

Vol. ii. Classical Dialogues, and 

Citation and Examination of 

William Shakespeare. 

Vol. iii. Conversations of Sovereigns 

and Statesmen. Five Dialogues 

of Boccaccio and Petrarcha. 

Vol. iv. Dialogues of Literary Men. 



Vol. V. Dialogues of Literary Men 
(continued) ; Dialogues of Famous 
Women ; Pericles and Aspasia ; 
Minor Prose pieces. 

Vol. vi. Miscellaneous Conversa- 

Vol. vii. Gebir ; Acts and Scenes 
and Hellenics. 

Vol. viii. Miscellaneous poems, and 
Criticisms on Theocritus, Ca- 
tullus, and Petrarcha. 


1882. — Selections from the Writings of Walter 
Savage Landor, arranged and edited by 
Sidney Colvin. London : Macmillan. 

1883. — Imaginary Conversations, by Walter 
Savage Landor. Five volumes. London : 
[A reprint of the prose Conversations in Works, 1876] 

1884. — English Men of Letters — Landor, by 
Sidney Colvin. London : Macmillan. 

1886. — Imaginary Conversations, by Walter 
Savage Landor. With introduction by 
Havelock Ellis. London : W. Scott. 
[Contains thirty-three Conversations.] 


1889. — The Pentameron and other Imaginary 
Conversations, by Walter Savage Lan- 
der. Edited by Havelock Ellis. London : 
W. Scott. 

1890. — Pericles and Aspasia, by Walter Savage 
Landor. Preface by Havelock Ellis. 
London : W. Scott. 

1890. — Pericles and Aspasia, by Walter Savage 
Landor. Edited by C. G. Crump. Two 
vols. London : Dent. 

1891. — Imaginary Conversations, by Walter 
Savage Landor. With bibliographical 
and critical notes by C. G. Crump. Six 
volumes. London : Dent. 

1892. — Poems, Dialogues in Verse, and Epi- 
grams, by Walter Savage Landor. 
Edited, with notes, by C. G. Crump. Two 
vols. London : Dent. 

[A selection.] 

1892. — Citation and Examination of William 
Shakespeare, by Walter Savage Landor. 
London : Chatto and Windus. 

1892. — The Longer Prose Works of Walter 
Savage Landor. Edited, with notes, by 

17 — 2 


C. G. Crump. Two vols. London : 

[Contains ' Citation and Examination of Shakespeare ' ; 
' Pericles and Aspasia,' ' Pentameron ' ; five Conversations 
not in Works, 1876 ; and Critical Essays on Theocritus, 
Catullus, and Petrarcha.] 

1895. — Walter Savage Landor ; a Biography, by 
John Forster. London : Chapman and 

[A new edition of the Biography, as published in Works, 



1823. — London Magazine, July. Imaginary 
Conversation : Southey and Person. 

1832. — Philological Museum. (Cambridge, 
edited by Julius Hare.) 
Vol I., Poemata Latina. 
[Signed ' W. S. L.'J 

Imaginary Conversation : Solon and 
[Reprinted in Works, 1846 and 1876.] 

1833. — Athen^um, January. Ode to Southey. 
[Reprinted in Works, 1846 and 1876.] 

* This list of Landor's innumerable contributions 
to magazines, reviews, and newspapers has yet to 
be completed. 


^^33' — Philological Museum. Vol. II., 
Imaginary Conversation : P. Scipio 
Emilianus, Polybius and Panaetius. 

[Reprinted in Works, 1846 and 1876.] 

[? A note on Cleon and Admiral Vernon. 
Signed ' W. S.'] 

1834. — Book of Beauty. Imaginary Con- 
versations : Rhadamistus and Zeno- 
bia ; Philip II. and Dona Juana 

[Reprinted in Works, 1846 and 1876.] 

1834. — Leigh Hunt's London Journal, 
December 3. Ode to Joseph Ablett. 

[Reprinted in Works, 1846 and 1876.] 

1835. — Book of Beauty. Imaginary Con- 
versation : Steel and Addison. 

[Reprinted in Works, 1846 and 1876.] 

1835. — Leigh Hunt's London Journal, 

June 13. Verses : 'To the Sister of 

Charles Lamb.' 
July II. Letter on 'Language and 


1836. — Book of BeAuty. 'The Parable of 

[Reprinted in ' Literary Hours ' and in Works, 
1876, v., 593.] 

1837. —Book of Beauty. 

Imaginary Conversation. Colonel 
Walker and Hattaji. 
[Reprinted in Works, 1846 and 1876.] 

Verses : * Farewell to Italy ! ' 
[Works, 1876, viii., 80.] 

1837. — The Monthly Repository (edited by 
Leigh Hunt). 'High and Low Life 
in Italy.' 
[A series of letters ; not reprinted.] 

1837. — Literary Hours by various Friends, 
printed by George Smith, Liverpool, 
for Joseph Ablett. This volume 
contained six Imaginary Conversa- 
tions, and ' The Parable of Asabel,' all 
reprinted from the Book of Beauty and 
Philological Museum; the Conversa- 
tion : ' Bishop Shipley and Benjamin 
Franklin'; and the 'Death of Hofer' — 


all in prose : and a number of occa- 
sional poems. 

[Reprinted, with one or two exceptions, in 
Works, 1876.] 

1837. — T HE Tribute (edited by Lord 

1. Orestes and Electra. Last 


2. Luther's Parents. Dialogue in 


[Reprinted in Works, 1876, vols, v., and vii,] 

1838. — Book of Beauty. 'The Dream of 

[Reprinted in Works, 1876, v., 590.] 

1839. — Book of Beauty. 

1. Anne Boleyn and the Constable 

of the Tower. 

[Reprinted, Works, 1876, vii.] 

2. Henry VIIL and Northumber- 


[Reprinted, Works, 1876, vol. vii.] 


1840. — Book of Beauty. Imaginary Con- 
versation ; Galileo, Milton and 
[Reprinted in Works, 1846 and 1876.] 

Verses to Miss Rose Paynter. 
[Reprinted, Works, 1876, viii., 145.] 

1841. — Book of Beauty. Verses : 

' Pleasures away, they please no 
[Reprinted, Works, 1876, v., 433.] 

1841. — Keepsake. Verses: 'Torbay.' 
[Reprinted, Works, 1876, viii., 78,] 

1842. — Book of Beauty. Verses: 'To Zoe,' 
June, 1808. 
[Reprinted, Works, 1876, viii., 45.] 

1842. — Keepsake. * A Skolion from the 

[Not reprinted.] 

1842. — Foreign Quarterly Review, July: 
* The Poems of Catullus.' 
[Reprinted in Works, 1876, vol. viii.] 


October : * The Poems of Theo- 
[Reprinted in Works, 1876, vol. viii.] 

1842. — Blackwood's Magazine, December. 
Imaginary Conversation : Southey 
and Porson. 
[Reprinted in Works, 1846 and 1876.] 

1843. — Book of Beauty. 

Imaginary Conversation : Vittoria 
Colonna and Michel Angelo. 
[Reprinted in Works, 1846 and 1876.] 

1843. — Keepsake. 

A Story of Santander. 
[Reprinted in Works, 1846 and 1876.] 

1843. — Blackwood's Magazine. 

January. Imaginary Conversation : 
Tasso and Cornelia. 

February. Imaginary Conversation : 
Oliver Cromwell and Sir O. Crom- 

March. Imaginary Conversation : 
Sandt and Kotzebue. 

Verses : * To my Daughter.' 
[All reprinted in Works, 1846 and 1876.] 


1843. — Foreign Quarterly Review. 
July. Francesco Petrarcha. 
[Reprinted in Works, 1876.] 

1844. — Book of Beauty. 

Imaginary Conversation : ^sop and 

A Vision. 

Verses to Lady Charles Beauclerk. 
[All reprinted in Works, 1846 and 1876.] 

1844. — Keepsake. 

Verses : ' Malvern.' 
[Reprinted in Works, 1846 and 1876.] 

1845. — Book of Beauty. 

Imaginary Conversation : ^sop and 
Rhodope, ii. 
[Reprinted in Works, 1846 and 1876.] 

1845. — Keepsake. 

Verses: 'Take the last flowers your 
natal day.' 
[Reprinted in Works, 1846 and 1876.] 

1846. — Book of Beauty. 

Imaginary Conversation : ' Tancredi 
and Constantia.' 
[Reprinted in Works, 1846 and 1876.] 


1846. — Keepsake. 

Verses : * One year ago my path was 
[Reprinted in Works, 1846 and 1876.] 

1847. — Book of Beauty. Italian verses : 
' Veglia di Partenza.' 

1847. — Keepsake. *A Dream of Youth and 

[Not reprinted.] 

ItaHan verses : ' Mi vien, mi vien da 

1848. — Keepsake. 

Verses : * On leaving my Villa.' 
[Not reprinted.] 

1848. — Examiner, March 25. Imaginary Con- 
versation : * Thiers and Lamartine.' 
[Reprinted, Works, 1876, vol. vi.] 

1849. — Examiner. Letters to the Editor : 

July 7. ' The Pope temporal and 

July 28. ' France, Italy and the 



August II. 'Austrian Cruelties.' 
September 8. * The comfortable state 
of Europe.' 

[Not reprinted.] 

1850. — Leigh Hunt's Journal, December 7. 
Verses : 

1. ' Instead of idling half my hours.' 

[Reprinted, Works, 1876, viii., 172.] 

2. 'Again to Paris? Few remain.' 

[Not reprinted.] 

3. ' Love flies with bow unstrung 

when Time appears.' 

[Reprinted, Works, 1876, viii., 166.] 

1851. — Keepsake. 

Dramatic Scene : ' Beatrice Cenci 
and Clement VIII.' 
[Reprinted, Works, 1876, vii., 342.] 

185 1 . — Examiner. 

March 13. 'Sir Benjamin Hall and 
the Bishop of St. David's.' 

[Letter, not reprinted.] 


June 21, June 28 and August 2. 
Imaginary Conversation : Nicholas 
and Nesselrode. 

[Reprinted, Works, 1876, vi., 585.] 

August 16. ' Naples and Rome.' 
[Letter, not reprinted.] 

August 20 and 23. Imaginary Con- 
versation : Antonelli and Gemeau. 

[Reprinted, Works, 1876, vi., 616.] 

September 27. Verses : ' To Meschid 
the Liberator.' 

[Reprinted, Works, 1876, viii., 248.] 

October 11. Verses : ' Hast thou 
forgotten, thou more vile.' 

[Reprinted, Works, 1876, viii., 251.] 

October 25. Verses : ' To Beranger 
at Tours.' 

[Reprinted, Works, 1876, viii., 249.] 

Verses : * Hymn to America.' 
[Reprinted, ' Last Fruit,' 477.] 


December 13. * Tranquillity in 
[Letter. Reprinted in ' Last Fruit,' 348.] 

Verses : * Made our God again, Pope 
[Reprinted, Works, 1876, viii., 253.] 

December 20. * Finality in Politics.' 
[Letter, not reprinted.] 

Verses : * Save from Thee, most Holy 

[Not reprinted.] 

December 27. Verses : ' City of men, 

[Reprinted, ' Last Fruit,' 481.] 

* Ten letters to Cardinal Wiseman,' 
reprinted in Last Fruit, were also 
first published in the Examiner this 

1851. — Leigh Hunt's Journal. 
February i. Verses : 
* To Luisina at Paris.' 
[Not reprinted.] 


Verses to a Lizard : 

' You pant like one in love, my 

[Reprinted, Works, 1876, viii., 188.] 

Verses : 

' If you go on with ode so trashy 
Cupples will seize the crutch and 
thrash ye.' 
[Not reprinted.] 

February 15. Verses : 

* So then, I feel not deeply ! !f I 

[Reprinted, "Works, 1876, viii., 233.] 

March i. Verses : 

* Nay, thank me not again for 

[Reprinted, Works, 1876, viii., 175.] 

March 22. Verses : 
' Horace and Creech !' 
[Reprinted, Works, 1876, viii., 190.] 

1852. — Athen^um. 

January 10. Imaginary Conversa- 
tion : Alcibiades and Xenophon. 
[Reprinted, Works, 1876, ii., 122.] 


1853. — Examiner. 

February 19. Imaginary Conversa- 
tion : Archbishop of Florence and 
Francesco Madiai. 

[Reprinted, Works, 1876, vi., 631.] 

June II. Imaginary Conversation: 
Nicholas and Nesselrode. 
[Reprinted in Mr. Crump's edition.] 

1854. — Examiner. 

February 11. Imaginary Conversa- 
tion : Nicholas and Diogenes. 
[Reprinted in Mr. Crump's edition.] 

December 2. Imaginary Conversa- 
tion : Pio Nono and Antonelli. 
[Reprinted in Mr, Crump's edition.] 

1855. — Life and Correspondence of the 
Countess of Blessington, by 
Madden, contains an unpublished 
Imaginary Conversation : * Lord 
Mountjoy and Lord Edward Fitz- 

1855. — The Atlas. 

April 28. ' To the, people of England.' 
[Not reprinted.] 



Verses : ' The Four Georges.' 

[Not reprinted.] 

May ig. ' Failure of Negotiations.' 
[Not reprinted.] 

May 23. ' House of Commons' 

[Letter. Not reprinted.] 

June g. Verses : ' A most puissant 
picture-scouring prince.' 
[Reprinted in ' Dry Sticks,' p. 35.] 

July 14. ' A Lesson from the Crystal 

[Letter. Not reprinted.] 

September 22. ' The Fall of Sebas- 
[Letter, not reprinted.] 

September 2g. Verses : ' Why should 

not A meet the Czar ?' 

[Reprinted in ' Dry Sticks,' p. 50.] 

* The Christian and the Mahomedan.' 

[Letter : see above, p. 148.] 


October 6. A long letter on the 
execution of Count Louis Batthy- 

[Not reprinted.] 

October 13. Two letters : 

1. ' Dishonest conduct of the War.' 

2. ' Royal Marriages.' 

[Not reprinted.] 

1855.-— Examiner. 

April 17. Imaginary Conversation : 
Ovid and the Prince of the Getae. 
[Reprinted in Mr. Crump's edition.] 

August 4. Verses : 
' Under the Lindens.' 

[Reprinted in Works, 1876, viii., 281.] 

1855. — Fraser's Magazine, November. 
Imaginary Conversation : Asinius 
Pollio and Licinius Calvus. 

[Reprinted, Works, 1876, ii., 433.] 

1856. — Eraser's Magazine, April. Imaginary 
Conversations : Alfieri and Metas- 
tasio ; Menander and Epicurus, ii. 
[Both reprinted in Works, 1876.] 



1861. — Athen^um. 

March 2. Letter on the Pope's 
Temporal Power, dated Florence, 
February 26. 

[Not reprinted.] 

March g. Imaginary Conversation : 
Virgil and Horace. 
[Reprinted in Works, 1876, ii., 428.] 

April 20. Letter on ' Fashions in 

[Not reprinted.] 

May 18. Imaginary Conversation : 
Milton and Marvel. 
[Reprinted in Works, 1876, v., 150.] 

October 12. Imaginary Conversa- 
tion : Machiavelli and Guicciar- 
[Reprinted in Works, 1876, v., 145.] 

1862. — Athenaeum. 

August 16, Imaginary Conversation : 
Milton and Marvel, ii. 
[Reprinted in Works, 1876, v., 156.] 


Ablett (Joseph), 20, 21, 89 

Ablett's ' Literary Hours,' 14, 21, 

Abdul Medj id (Sultan 1839-1861), 

Abertawy (River), 67 ; verses on, 

^schylus, Coleridge on, 162 

Ahmed el Jezzar, 133 

Albany (Countess of), 41-44, 
105 n. 

Alexander VI. (Pope), 30 

Alfieri (Victor), 19, 41, 105 ; death 
of, 44 ; and the Countess of 
Albany, an imaginary conver- 
sation, 41-43 

Alvanley (Lord), 104 

America, Landor and, 10, 128 ; 
verses to, 208, 270 

' Andrea of Hungary ' (by W. S. 
Landor), 99, 253 

' Anthony and Octavius : Scenes 
for the Study ' (by W. S. Lan- 
dor), 118, 256 

Apology for the Hellenics, verses, 

Armenian question, the, 149, 150 

Amdt (Ernest Maurice), verses 
to, 227 

' Atlas,' Landor's contributions to 
the, 146, 273-275 

Austin (Alfred), his ' Savonarola, 
a Tragedy,' 26, 36 

Avon, verses to the river. 234 

Aylmer (Bishop), 65 

Ayliner (the Hon. Rose), 16, 
64-74, 186 ; a lock of her hair, 
74 ; tomb at Calcutta, 73 

Azeglio (Marchese di), 217, 255 

Baldelli (Contessa Geltrude), 5 ; 
Letters from, 6, 122, 221 n. 

Bath, Landor at, 89, 108, 115, 
146, 147, 210 n. 

Bembo (Cardinal), epigram on 
Venice, 125 

Beranger (Jean de), 100, 270 

Bewick (William), portraits of 
Landor by, 17, 19 

Blackstone (Sir William), 56 

Blackwood s Magazine and Lan- 
dor, 157, 158 ; Landor's con- 
tributions to, 266 

Blessington (Countess of), 89 
103, 273 ; her account of W. S. 
Landor, 20 ; death and epitaph 
on, 113, 114 

Boccaccio, 33, 93, 99, 100, 253 

Boileau (Nicolas), loi 

Bolivar (Simon), 10, 249, 250 

Bonaparte (Napoleon), 137, 142- 

Botm, Landor at, 227 n. 

' Book of Beauty,' 66, 94, 262-268 

Borgia (Lucretiaj, lock of hair, 

Bossuet (James de, Bishop of 
Meaux), loi 



Bowles (Caroline, Mrs. Southey), 

Boxall (Sir William, R.A.), por- 
traits of Lander, 17, 23, 24 
Boyle (Miss Mary), 23, 83, 92 
Brougham (Lord), 102, 103, 108 
Brown (Charles Armitage), 96 
Browne (Professor E. G. ), 133 
Browne (Sir Thomas), ' Religio 

Medici,' 81 
Browning (Mrs.), 119, 131, 134, 

Browning (Robert), 78, 119 ; 

Landor on, 179, 180 
Brownings, the, 119 
Bulwer (Sir Henry Lytton-Bul- 

wer, afterwards Lord Bailing), 

Bulwer (Sir Edward Lytton), loi. 

See Lytton 
Burke (Edmund), 143 
Burns (Robert), 168, 173 
Byron (Lord) , 63, 109, 189 ; ' The 

Island,' 166 ; ' Don Juan,' 166; 

' A Vision of Judgment,' 165 ; 

Landor and, 165-170 ; Landor 

on Byron's death, 167 

Caldwell (Miss), 104, 105 
Calvus,' ' Letters of, 140-145, 

Campbell (Thomas), 62 
Canova (Anthony), monument to 

Dante, 44 
Cappern (Edward), 118, 256 
Carlyle (Thomas), 41 
Castlereagh (Viscount), 141 
Cedar-tree, verses on, 4, 5 
Cedar-wood, scent of, s 
Century Magazine, 23 
Cervantes, verses on, 199 
Chambers (Sir Robert and Lady), 

Chantilly, 103 
Chantrey (Sir Francis), 19 
Chartier (Alain), 196 
Chateaubriand, loi 
Chatham (Lord), 141 
Chaucer, spelling of, 123 

Chesterfield (Lord), 104 

' Chrysaor,' by W. S. Landor, 75, 

134, 246 
Clifton, Landor at, 78 
Colenso (Bishop), 216 n. 
Coleridge (Samuel Taylor) and 

Landor, 161-163 ; ' Lay Ser- 
mons,' 163 
Coleridge, Lord, 164 
Colvin (Mr. Sidney), 12, 24, 66, 

83. 134. 248, 258 
Combe (Lord Mayor), 57 
Commons, House of, 52, 224 
'Count Julian: a Tragedy,' by 

W. S. Landor, 247 ; Charles 

Lamb on, 175 ; Wordsworth 

on, 156 
Courier, Letters to the, 137, 140, 

Cousin (Victor), 100, 106 
Cowper (William), 63, 125 
Crimean War, Landor on, 148, 

274, 275 ; Dr. Walker in, 116 
Crosse (Mrs. Andrew), 229 n. 
Crump (C. G. ), editor of Lander's 

Works, 12, 13, 24, 135, 259 
Czartoryski (Princess), 106 

Dance (Nathaniel), portrait of 

Landor, 18 
Dante, 33, 39 ; ' Divina Comedia,' 

34, 44 ; monument at Florence, 

44 ; tomb at Ravenna, 39 
Dashwood (Mrs.), 14 
Defoe (Daniel), 56 ; descendants 

of, 117 ; verses on, 201, 202 
De Molande, Countess. See 

De Quincey (Thomas), 54, 195 n. 
De Tocqueville (Alexis), 100 
Diana of Poictiers, 51 
Dickens (Charles), 108, 181, 255 
Don Quixote, Landor on, 176 
D'Orleans, (Ferdinand, Due), 

death of, 107 
D'Orsay (Count Alfred), 104, 107, 

113 ; portraits of Landor by, 

D'Orsay (Lady Harriet). 98 



' Dry Sticks,' by W. S. Landor, 

66 n., 130, 256 
Dumas (Alexandre), 52 
Duncan (James, publisher), 127, 


Edgeworth (Maria), loi 
Eliot (George), ' Romola,' 26 
Emerson (Ralph Waldo), 10, 114; 

Landor's letter to, 256 
Evelyn (John), quoted, 4 
Examiner, lender's contribu- 
tions to the, 103, 113, 146, 148, 
273. 27s 

Fabre (M.), 42, 43 

Field (Mr.), of Boston, publisher, 

9, II, 29, 41 
Fiesole, Landor's villa at, 5, 88, 

loi, 114 
Fisher (William), portraits of 

Landor by, 17, 22 ; portrait of 

Miss Rose Paynter, 94 
Fitzgerald (Edward), 132 ; on 

Landor, 153 
Fitzgerald (Mr. J. E., C.M.G.), 

108, 109 
'Florentines, 35 
Forester (Major the Hon.Charles), 

Forster (Mr. John), 17 ; meeting 

with lanthe, 89 ; his editions 

of Landor's Works, 12, 51, 82, 

254, 257 ; Life of Landor by, 

18, 23, 137, 245, 246, 257, 260 
France, 34, 241 ; and Russia, 146 
Francis I. (King of France), 51 
French Revolution, the, 135; Al- 

fieri on, 41 

Garibaldi (Guiseppe), 29, 121, 
209 ; verses on his birthplace, 

Grarrow (Mr. Joseph), verses on, 

' Gebir,' by W. S. Landor, 67, 
75, 134, 135, 153, 154, 245-247 ; 
Byron on, 166 ; Charles Lamb 
and, 175-177 ; de Quincey on. 

195 n. ; Sir Walter Scott and, 

159; the sea -shell in, 159; 

Shelley and, 173 ; Wordsworth 

on, 156 
Gell (Sir William), 105 
Germany, poets of, 125, 224 
Gherardesca Villa, 114. See 

Giallo (Landor's dog), verses to, 

221 ; his death, ib. 
Giannone (Pietro), 99; 'History 

of Naples ' by, 99 n. 
Gibson (John, R.A.), bust of 

Landor by, 19, 20 
Gifford (William), verses on, 203 
' Gil Bias,' 200 n. 
Giovanna di Napoli, 99, 100, 253 
Goldsmith (Oliver), 125 ; his style, 

56, lOI 
Gore House, Kensington, 22, 108, 

Grammont (Duchesse de), 97 
Grammonts, the, 113 
Graves - Sawle (Lady), 23, 66, 

III n. ; letters to, 111-113 ; por- 
trait of, 66, 94 ; verses to, 187 
Graves- Sawle (Sir Charles, Bart.), 

94, III n. 
Gray (Thomas), 125 ; ' Elegy in 

a Country Churchyard,' 53 
Greece, verses on, 238 
Guiccioli (Countess), 106 
Guiche (Due de), 107, 108 

Hallam (Henry), 56 
Hare (Archdeacon Julius), 261 
Hare (Francis), 95, 98 
Hayward (Mr. Abraham), 105 
Hellenics, the, 85, 254, 256 ; 

Apology for (verses), 240 
Hemans (Mrs. Felicia), 62 
Henry IV. (King of France), 

Henry of Luxemburg (Emperor), 


Herbert (George), 53 

Heroic Idyls, 70, 72, 82, 90, 116, 
128, 129, 186, 191, 257; manu- 
script of, 9, II 



Holland (Sir N. D.). See Dance 

Homer, no; S. T. Coleridge on, 
162 ; his ' Iliad,' 62, i6o ; his 
' Odyssey,' 131 

Hood (Thomas), ' The Song of 
the Shirt,' 124. 125 

Hooker (Richard), 56 

Houghton (Richard, Lord), 18. 
See Milnes. 

Hunt (Leigh), meeting with Lan- 
dor, 74 ; ' London Journal,' 
179, 262 ; ' Monthly Reposi- 
tory,' 263; 'Journal,' 269 

Hymn to Proserpine (verses), 

lanthe, 70, 75-90 ; death of, 89 ; 
miniature of, 75-77 ; her name, 
188, 189 ; verses to, 188, 190- 

lone, 75, 81 ; verses to, 185 
Ipsley Court, Warwickshire, i, 

3. 15 
Ireland, verses on, 214 
Italians, the issimi nation, 53 

Jackson (Andrew), 251 

James I. of Scotland, verses on, 

James (G. P. R.), 96 
Jeffrey (Francis, Lord), verses on, 

Jekyl (Mr.), 203 
'Joan of Arc and her Judge,' 

dramatic scene, 45-51 
Johnson (Doctor), 72; his style, 56 
Jones (Sir William), 131 
Jonson (Ben), on spelling, 123 

Keats (John), 125 ; ' Hyperion,' 

134; Landor and, 170-173; 

verses on, 171 
Keepsake, Landor's contributions 

to the, 265-269 
Kenyon (Mr. John), 23, 97, 229 n. 
Kosciosko, 148 
Kossuth (Louis), 16, 256 ; in 

England, 147 ; and the Turks, 


Lamartine ( Alphonse de), 100, 268 

Lamb (Charles) and Landor, 174- 
179 ; verses on, 178 

Landor (Arnold), 116 n. 

Landor (Rev. Charles), 112, 113 

Landor (Miss Elizabeth), i, 19 
letter to, 171 ; verses on, 218 

Landor (Miss Ellen), 87 

Landor (Rev. Robert), 19, 53 ; 
on Parr and de Quincey, 55 

Landor (Walter Savage), Alfieri 
and, 41 ; on America, 9, 128; 
Lady Blessingion on, 20; at 
Bonn, 227 ; Browning on, 78 ; 
on his contemporaries, 152-183 ; 
Garibaldi and, 29 ; visit to the 
Lambs, 178 ; on literary ex- 
humations, 7 ; portraits of, 17- 
24 ; on repetitions, 52 ; Spanish 
campaign, 199, 230; on him- 
self, 138 

Landor (Walter Savage), Biblio- 
graphy, 245-276 

Landor's Letters, to Contessa G. 
Baldelli, 5 ; to R. Browning, 
i34> 137 ; tt) R. W. Emerson 
157, 256 ; to Mr. Field, of 
Boston, 30 ; to Mr. Forster, 23, 
100, 105, 162, 173, 210; to Lady 
Graves-Sawle, 96-113; to Kos- 
suth, 147 ; to Mrs. Paynter, 
69, 95; to Crabb Robmson, 
177; to R. Southey, 82, 131, 
138, 156, 171, 203; to A. de 
N. Walker, 7, 11, 17, 116-129, 
206, 216 

Landor (Mrs. Elizabeth) on 
Byron, 168 

Landor (Mrs. W. S.), 86 ; anec- 
dote of, 229 n. 

Landseer (Sir Edwin), 108 

' Last Fruit off an old Tree,' by 
W. S. Landor, 74, 91, in, 192, 
218, 25s 

Laura, Petrarch's, 187 

Ledru-Rollin, 106 

Leipzig, battle of (1813), 137 

Le Sage (Alain Ren6), 200 

Lesbia, verses to, 229, 230 



'Letters of an American,' by 
W. S. Landor, 163, 255 

' Letters of a Canadian," by W. S. 
Landor, 125-127, 257 

Linton (A'lrs. Lynn), 127 

' Literary Hours by Various 
Friends.' See Ablett 

Liverpool (Lord), 140 

Llanthony, 87, 137, 139 ; cedar- 
trees at, 4 

Lorenzo (de Medici) the Magni- 
ficent, 36, 37 

Lowell (James Russell), 10, 23 

Luttrell (Henry), 203 

Lyndhurst (Lord), 108 

Lytton (Sir E. Bulwer-Lytton, 
Lord Lytton), loi, 124 

Macaulay (Lord), ' Lays of An- 
cient Rome,' 63 
Mackenzie (Miss, of Seaforth), 


Mackenzie (Mr. Hector), 127 

Mackintosh (Sir James), 57,203 n. 

Maclise (Sir D.), 108 

Malakoff, the attack on the, 116 

Marie Antoinette at Petit Tria- 
non, 102 

Marot (Clement), 196 

Mary Stuart (Queen), 99 

Massillon, loi 

Mathias (Thomas James), author 
of ' Pursuits of Literature,' 

Mazzolina da Ferrara, 124 

Memmi (Simone), 187 

Middleton (Dr. Conyers), ' Letters 
from Rome,' 123 

Mignet (F. A. ), 100 

Milnes (R. Monckton, Lord 
Houghton), 56, 127 

Milton's ' Paradise Lost,' 160 ; 
prose writings, loi ; verifica- 
tion, 126 

Mina (General), 249, 250 

Mocatta (Mr. Isaac), 246 

Molande (Count de), 87. See 

Montemolin (Count of), 213 

Moore (Thomas), 63 ; ' Life of 

Byron,' 170 
Morgan (Lady), loi 
Mulgrave (Earl of), 251 

Napier (Admiral Sir Charles), 

204 ; verses on, 218 
Napier (Sir William), 104, 256 ; 

verses on, 218 
Napoleon IIL (Emperor), 103, 

Nardi, monument to Alfieri by, 

Newby (Mr. E.), 120, 125, 257 
Nicholas I. (Czar of Russia), 

206, 273 
Norbury (Lord), 86 

Omar Khayyam, 132 
Orsini (Felix), 209, 210 
j Othman, an Arab poet, 133 
Ovid, ' Metamorphoses,' 160 ; in 

praise of, 58-60 ; spelling of the 

name, 122 

Paine (Thomas), 56, 195 

Parr (Dr. Samuel), 54, 203 250; 

Landor on, 56 
Paynter (Miss Rose), 265 ; Lan- 

dor's letters to, 96-111. See 

Graves-Sawle (Lady) 
Paynter (Mrs.), 68, 74, 93 ; Lan- 

dor's letters to, 69, 95 
Penni (Giov. Fr. ), a picture by, 124 
' Pericles and Aspasia, ' by W. S. 

Landor, 104, 251, 259 
Petrarcha, 33, 99, 253 
Phoceans,' ' From the,' by W. S. 

Landor, 134, 135, 236, 246 
Pico di Mirandola, 125 
Pio Nono (Pope), verses on, 214, 

254, 271 
Pisa, Landor at, 172 ; camels at, 
j 233 ; verses on, 233 
Pius IX. (Pope), 254 
Plato, 38 

Poems from the Arabic and Per- 
sian, by W. S. Landor, 130-133, 



' Poetry by the author of Gebir,' 

134, 246 
Poland and the Czar, verses, 206 
Poland, Rising in, 206 
Pomero (Landor's dog), 91 ; his 

death and epitaph, 92 
Pope (Alexander), 78 
Porson (Richard), 57, 157-159 
Propertius, Landor misquotes, 

' Protis's narrative,' 135, 136, 246 

Qtiarterly Review, on ' Gebir,' 
68 ; Landor and, 169, 203 

Quillinan (Mr. Edward) and 
Landor, 158, 159 

Raphael, 19 

R^camier (Madame), 97, 106 
Reeve (Miss Clara), 67 
Richardson (Samuel), ' Clarissa 

Harlowe,' 61 
Ristormel, 111-113, 187 
Ritchie (Mrs. Richmond), 180 
Robinson (H. Crabb), 23, 177 
Rockingham (Marquis of), 143 
Russell (Sir Henry), 16, 70, 71 
Russia, Landor on, 146 

Santillana, Landor at, 200 
Sappho to Phaon, verses, 230 
Savonarola, 26, 29 ; and the Prior 
of San Marco, Imaginary Con- 
versation, 30-41 
Schlegel (William von), verses to, 

225, 227 n. 

Scott (Sir Walter), 61, 63 ; com- 
pared to Froissart, 160 ; Landor 
and, 159-161 ; ' Marmion,' 160, 
169; 'Waverley Novels,' 160, 
Secundus (Johannes), 54 
S6vign6 (Madame de), loi 
Shakespeare, 60, 109, no, 121, 

226, 251 

Sheikh Dahir (Tahir), 132, 133 
Shelley, 67, 125 ; Landor and, 

Sicily, verses on, 209 

Siena, Landor at, 120 

Smith (Bobus), 57, 125 

Smith (James), 43 

Sodre (Madame de Pereira), 90, 

Sodre (Miss Luisina de Pereira), 
76, 90, 193 ; portrait of, 76, 91 
Sorrento, loi 

Southey (Robert), 22, 89, 98, 125, 
134 ; ' Kehama,' 61, 62, 153 ; 
' Triumphal Ode,' 137 ; ' Vision 
of Judgment,' 165 ; Byron and, 
166 ; his second marriage. 97 ; 
Landor and, 154, 155 ; on 
' Gebir,' 67, 153, 154 ; on the 
' Letters of Calvus,' 140 ; letter 
to Landor from, 139 
Spain, Landor in, 139, 230 n. ; 

verses on, 213 
Spenser (Edmund), ' Faery 

Queene,' 60 
Stopford (General), 10, 249 
Story (Miss Edith), verses to, 15 
Story (Mr. William), 10, 119 
Superlatives, absurd, 52 
Swansea, Landor at, 67, 69 
Swift (Dean), jj, 89; and Defoe, 

Swift (Godwin), yj 
Swift (Miss). See lanthe 
Swifte (Mr. Godwin), 79; death 

of, 86 
Swifte (Mrs.). See lanthe 
Swinburne (Mr. Algernon), 183 

Talleyrand, 106; ' Reminiscences,' 

112 ; his spectacles, 15, 112 
Tallien (Madame), 97 
Tenby, Landor at, 67, 69, 75 
Tennyson (Alfred, Lord), 204 ; 

' Exhibition Ode,' 126 ; Landor 

and, 180, 181 
Thackeray (William Makepeace), 

Landor and, 181, 182 
Thiers (Louis Adolphe), 106, 268 
Thorwaldsen (Albert), 19 
Thuillier (General Sir H. Landor), 

16, 20, 115 
TibuUus, 54, 131 



Tories, the, 143 
Tribute, the, 180, 264 
Turkey and the Armenians, 150 
Twisleton (Hon. E. ), 6, 257 

Utrecht, Peace of, 140 

Vespucci (Countess), 107 

Vidocq, 106 

Villari (Professor), 'Savonarola 

and his Times,' 26 
Virgil and Horace, Imaginary 

Conversation, 121, 276 
Virgil, compared with Ovid, 59 
Voltaire, loi 

Walker (Dr. Arthur de N06), 2, 
17 ; Lander's first meeting with, 

114; verses to, 217; Lander's 
letters to, 115-129 
Walpole (Horace), 123, 124 
Walton's ' Com pleat Angler,' 53 
Washington (George), 208 
Whateley (Archbishop), 123 
Whigs and Tories, 143 
Widcombe, 124, 198 
William \. (King of Prussia), 206, 

Wilson (Sir Robert), 250 
Wiseman (Cardinal), 148, 271 
Wordsworth (William), 63 ; ' In- 
scriptions in a Hermit's Cell,' 
159; ' Laodamia," 156; Lan- 
dor and, 155 ; Landor's parody 
on. 158 ; the Waverley Novels 
and, 161 







PR Landor, Walter Savage 
4873 Letters and other unpub- 
A4, lished writings