No More Learning

It is generally said that the heat and turmoil of Landor's outward
life are absent from his literary creations. In some degree this is
certainly true. His workmanship-above all, the finished detail in
word and phrase — gives a certain sculpturesque calm and coolness
to his work. Nevertheless, his fierce hatred of tyranny and of brutal
selfishness, his tender sympathy with helpless innocence, may be felt
throbbing beneath every word of such scenes as Henry VIII. 's last
interview with Anne Boleyn. There is no purer patriot than the
dying Marcellus, who gives his generous foeman Hannibal a new con-
ception of Roman character. Polybius, as he rides in sad triumph
through burning Carthage, receives from the vanquished an awful
lesson in retributive justice. The womanly tenderness of Godiva is
set in a dazzling light which makes the last laureate's graceful
verses seem tame. The sweetness of human destiny is wonderfully
touched in the words of Thetis, herself an immortal, when her husband
grieves that he grows old: There is a loveliness which youth may
XV-555


## p. 8866 (#494) ###########################################

8866
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
be without, and which the gods want. To the voice of compassion
not a shell in all the ocean is attuned; and no tear ever dropped
upon Olympus.
The happiest subject and the most perfect execution, however,
must be sought in “Pericles and Aspasia. While largely true to the
outlines as we know them from Thucydides and others, this is still
a creative romance, depicting adequately a noble attachment which
ended only with life.
It is with the greater reluctance, therefore, with pity, and even
with bewilderment, that we recall how, in the very days when this
supreme and happy masterpiece was approaching completion, the
sixty-year-old Landor deserted his wife and children in Fiesole, and
after a few months' leisurely sojourn in other parts of Italy, passed
on with little evidence of regret to England. The quarrel was in its
origin almost trivial. Mrs. Landor, we are told, had indulged once
too often in the lifelong habit of criticizing her husband in the child-
ren's presence! He indulged, we believe, in no abusive Latin verses
on this occasion. He promptly stripped himself of nearly his entire
income, leaving the deserted family in comparative affluence; but all
the well-meant intercession of friends proved vain. He established
a modest home in England. Some stanch friends remained to him.
His literary career was by no means ended; indeed, his fame grew
in the next decade.
Twenty-three years later, quite penniless, fleeing from the disastrous
results of an ignoble libel, the incorrigible octogenarian schoolboy
arrived, wild-eyed and combative as ever, at his own gate! After
repeated quarrels had made his longer stay there impossible, Mr.
Browning took the old lion under his protection. Prosperous brothers
in England provided a modest pension. In these days Swinburne
made a pilgrimage to Italy expressly to see his revered master;
and among the most faithful to the end, Kate Field has an honored
place.
Some of our judgments on Landor's character as inan and poet we
have already attempted to deliver. Yet the Titanic, the elemental
type of humanity is peculiarly difficult for ephemeral man to see
fairly or to describe rationally. The mistakes and sins of Landor's
career seem un pardonable. Yet a thousand incidents prove him the
tenderest, the most self-sacrificing — we had nearly said the most
heroic — of men. His life was not, we incline to believe, even
happy upon the whole. Certainly it was most fruitful. A sort of
dæmonic good fortune, indeed, seemed to attend him and his. Even
his great Welsh estate was not actually ruined, after all, by his early
extravagance. His family was not disgraced, nor plunged into pov-
erty, by his desertion twenty years later.
un-


## p. 8867 (#495) ###########################################

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
8867
As for his literary creations, his proudly modest prediction seems
already more than fulfilled. He himself saw the scattered children of
his genius gathered up in two tall octavos in 1846. The fuller library
edition, since his death, and the exhaustive biography, we owe to
Landor's faithful friend John Forster. We wish however to refer with
especial gratitude to two little books by Sidney Colvin. To the ad-
mirable biography in the 'English Men of Letters' the present essay-
ist confesses a heavy debt. Moreover, the Golden Treasury' series
includes a capital anthology from Landor, culled by the same hand.
As we have indicated, our author lends himself better to this treat-
ment than almost any other. We know of no volume which contains
more helpful example and suggestion for the aspiring literary artist.
Landor is not one of those single-throated purely lyric natures,
like Heine or Burns, whose every utterance comes straight from the
singer's own heart. He could enjoy the full development of both
sides in an argument. He could realize vividly, and even tolerate
patiently, characters with which he was in very imperfect sympathy.
In this he reminds us of Browning, or that ancient author whom he
signally failed to appreciate, Plato. His sense of poetic limitation
would never have permitted so merciless a creation as “The Ring
and the Book. With a tithe of Browning's or Plato's ethical purpose
and staying power, he might have created a really great drama. He
has left us, perhaps, nothing which can be set among the indispensable
masterpieces of humanity. Yet he may always remain, as painters
say of Andrea del Sarto, an all-but faultless master of technique, and
so, indispensable among the models for his fellow craftsmen.
In spite of much graceful verse, and at least one perfect lyric,
Landor seems on the whole to have felt the fixed rhythmical form as
a fetter, not as an inspiration. As with Emerson, nearly all his most
poetic utterances are in polished prose. In the selections given
below, we have endeavored usually to choose passages where Landor
speaks in deepest earnest, and with the loftiest purpose.
Nizziam Cranston Lawton
.


## p. 8868 (#496) ###########################################

8868
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
IMAGINARY CORRESPONDENCE OF PERICLES AND ASPASIA
ASPASIA TO PERICLES
I
-
APPREHEND, O Pericles, not only that I may become an object
of jealousy and hatred to the Athenians by the notice you
have taken of me, but that you yourself — which affects me
greatly more - may cease to retain the whole of their respect
and veneration.
Whether, to acquire a great authority over the people, some
things are not necessary to be done on which Virtue and Wisdom
are at variance, it becomes not me to argue or consider; but
let me suggest the inquiry to you, whether he who is desirous of
supremacy should devote the larger portion of his time to one
person.
Three affections of the soul predominate: Love, Religion, and
Power. The first two are often united; the other stands widely
apart from them, and neither is admitted nor seeks admittance
to their society. I wonder then how you can love so truly and
tenderly. Ought I not rather to say I did wonder? Was Pisis-
tratus affectionate ?
Do not be angry. It is certainly the first
time a friend has ever ventured to discover a resemblance, al-
though you are habituated to it from your opponents. In these
you forgive it: do you in me?
PERICLES TO ASPASIA
PisistrATUS was affectionate; the rest of his character you
know as well as I do. You know that he was eloquent, that he
was humane, that he was contemplative, that he was learned; that
he not only was profuse to men of genius, but cordial, and that
it was only with such men he was familiar and intimate. You
know that he was the greatest, the wisest, the most virtuous,
excepting Solon and Lycurgus, that ever ruled any portion of
the human race. Is it not happy and glorious for mortals, when
instead of being led by the ears under the clumsy and violent
hand of vulgar and clamorous adventurers, a Pisistratus leaves
the volumes of Homer and the conversation of Solon for them ?
We may be introduced to Power by Humanity, and at first
may love her less for her own sake than for Humanity's; but by
degrees we become so accustomed to her as to be quite uneasy
without her.


## p. 8869 (#497) ###########################################

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
8869
Religion and Power, like the Caryatides in sculpture, never
face one another; they sometimes look the same way, but oftener
stand back to back.
We will argue about them one at a time, and about the other
in the triad too: let me have the choice.
ASPASIA TO PERICLES
WE MUST talk over again the subject of your letter; no, not
talk, but write about it.
I think, Pericles, you who are so sincere with me are never
quite sincere with others. You have contracted this bad habitude
from your custom of addressing the people. But among friends
and philosophers, would it not be better to speak exactly as we
think, whether ingeniously or not? Ingenious things, I am afraid,
are never perfectly true: however, I would not exclude them, the
difference being wide between perfect truth and violated truth;
I would not even leave them in a minority; I would hear and
say as many as may be, letting them pass current for what they
are worth. Anaxagoras rightly remarked that Love always makes
us better, Religion sometimes, Power never.
ASPASIA TO PERICLES
Never tell me, O my Pericles, that you are suddenly changed
in appearance. May every change of your figure and counte-
nance be gradual, so that I shall not perceive it; but if you really
are altered to such a degree as you describe, I must transfer my
affection from the first Pericles to the second. Are you jeal-
ous? If you are, it is I who am to be pitied, whose heart is
destined to fly from the one to the other incessantly. In the end
it will rest, it shall, it must, on the nearest. I would write a
longer letter; but it is a sad and wearisome thing to aim at play-
fulness where the hand is palsied by affliction. Be well; and all
is well: be happy; and Athens rises up again, alert and bloom-
ing and vigorous, from between war and pestilence.
for love cures all but love. How can we fear to die, how can
we die, while we cling or are clung to by the beloved ?
Love me;


## p. 8870 (#498) ###########################################

8870
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
PERICLES TO ASPASIA
The pestilence has taken from me both my sons. You, who
were ever so kind and affectionate to them, will receive a tardy
recompense in hearing that the least gentle and the least grate-
ful did acknowledge it.
I mourn for Paralos because he loved me; for Xanthippos
because he loved me not.
Preserve with all your maternal care our little Pericles. I
cannot be fonder of him than I have always been; I can only
fear more for him.
Is he not with my Aspasia ? What fears then are
so irra-
tional as mine? But oh! I am living in a widowed house, a
house of desolation; I am living in a city of tombs and torches,
and the last I saw before me were for my children.
PERICLES TO ASPASIA
It is right and orderly, that he who has partaken so largely
in the prosperity of the Athenians should close the procession of
their calamities. The fever that has depopulated our city returned
upon me last night, and Hippocrates and Acron tell me that my
end is near.
When we agreed, O Aspasia, in the beginning of our loves, to
cominunicate our thoughts by writing, even while we were both
in Athens, and when we had many reasons for it, we little fore-
saw the more powerful one that has rendered it necessary of late.
We never can meet again: the laws forbid it, and love itself
enforces them. Let wisdom be heard by you as imperturbably,
and affection as authoritatively, as ever; and remember that the
sorrow of Pericles can arise but from the bosom of Aspasia.
There is only one word of tenderness we could say, which we
have not said oftentimes before; and there is no consolation in it.
The happy never say, and never hear said, farewell.
Reviewing the course of my life, it appears to me at one
moment as if we met but yesterday; at another as if centuries
had passed within it,- for within it have existed the greater
part of those who, since the origin of the world, have been the
luminaries of the human race. Damon called me from my music
to look at Aristides on his way to exile; and my father pressed
the wrist by which he was leading me along, and whispered in


## p. 8871 (#499) ###########################################

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
8871
(
>
my ear: “Walk quickly by; glance cautiously; it is there Miltia-
des is in prison.
In my boyhood Pindar took me up in his arms, when he
brought to our house the dirge he had composed for the funeral
of my grandfather; in my adolescence I offered the rites of hos-
pitality to Empedocles; not long afterward I embraced the neck
of Æschylus, about to abandon his country. With Sophocles I
have argued on eloquence; with Euripides on polity and ethics;
I have discoursed, as became an inquirer, with Protagoras and
Democritus, with Anaxagoras and Meton. From Herodotus I have
listened to the most instructive history, conveyed in a language
the most copious and the most harmonious;-a man worthy
to carry away the collected suffrages of universal Greece; a man
worthy to throw open the temples of Egypt, and to celebrate the
exploits of Cyrus. And from Thucydides, who alone can succeed
to him, how recently did my Aspasia hear with me the energetic
praises of his just supremacy!
As if the festival of life were incomplete, and wanted one
great ornament to crown it, Phidias placed before us, in ivory
and gold, the tutelary Deity of this land, and the Zeus of Homer
and Olympus.
To have lived with such men, to have enjoyed their famil-
iarity and esteem, overpays all labors and anxieties. I were
unworthy of the friendships I have commemorated, were I for-
getful of the latest. Sacred it ought to be, formed as it was
under the portico of Death,— my friendship with the most
sagacious, the most scientific, the most beneficent of philosophers,
Acron and Hippocrates. If mortal could war against Pestilence
and Destiny, they had been victorious. I leave them in the
field: unfortunate he who finds them among the fallen!
And now, at the close of my day, when every light is dim
and every guest departed, let me own that these wane before me:
remembering as I do, in the pride and fullness of my heart, that
Athens confided her glory, and Aspasia her happiness, to me.
Have I been a faithful guardian ? do I resign them to the
custody of the gods undiminished and unimpaired ? Welcome
then, welcome, my last hour! After enjoying for so great a
number of years, in my public and my private life, what I
believe has never been the lot of any other, I now extend my
hand to the urn, and take without reluctance or hesitation what
is the lot of all.


## p. 8872 (#500) ###########################################

8872
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
THE SACK OF CARTHAGE
I
N A part of the city where the fire had subsided, we were ex-
cited by loud cries; rather of indignation, we thought, than of
such as fear or lament or threaten or exhort: and we pressed
forward to disperse the multitude. Our horses often plunged in
the soft dust, and in the holes whence the pavement had been
removed for missiles; and often reared up and snorted violently
at smells which we could not perceive, but which we discovered
to rise from bodies, mutilated and half burnt, of soldiers and
horses,-laid bare, some partly, some wholly, by the march of
the troop. Although the distance from the place whence we
parted to that where we heard the cries was very short, yet from
the incumbrances in that street, and from the dust and smoke
issuing out of others, we were some time before we reached it.
On our
near approach, two old men threw themselves on the
ground before us, and the elder spake thus: “Our age, O Romans,
neither will nor ought to be our protection: we are, or rather
we have been, judges of this land; and to the uttermost of our
power we have invited our countrymen to resist you. The laws
are now yours. ”
The expectation of the people was intense and silent: we had
heard some groans; and now the last words of the old man were
taken up by others,— by men in agony.
“Yes, O Romans! ” said the elder who accompanied him that
had addressed us, “the laws are yours; and none punish more
severely than you do treason and parricide. Let your horses
turn this corner, and you will see before you traitors and parri-
cides. "
We entered a small square: it had been a market-place; the
roofs of the stalls were demolished, and the stones of several
columns (thrown down to extract the cramps of iron and the lead
that fastened them) served for the spectators, male and female, to
mount on. Five men were nailed on crosses; two others were
nailed against a wall, from scarcity (as we were told) of wood.
«Can seven men have murdered their parents in the same
year? ” cried 1.
“No, nor has any of the seven,” replied the first who had
spoken. “But when heavy impositions were laid upon those who
were backward in voluntary contributions, these men, among the
»
»


## p. 8873 (#501) ###########################################

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
8873
>
richest in our city, protested by the gods that they had no gold
or silver left. They protested truly. ”
“ "And they die for this! inhuman, insatiable, inexorable
wretch ! »
« Their books,” added he, unmoved at my reproaches, were
seized by public authority and examined. It was discovered that
instead of employing their riches in external or internal com-
merce, or in manufactories, or in agriculture; instead of reserv-
ing it for the embellishment of the city or the utility of the
citizens; instead of lending it on interest to the industrious and
the needy,- they had lent it to foreign kings and tyrants, some
of whom were waging unjust wars by these very means, and oth-
ers were enslaving their own country. For so heinous a crime
the laws had appointed no specific punishment. On such occasions
the people and elders vote in what manner the delinquent shall
be prosecuted, lest any offender should escape with impunity,
from their humanity or improvidence. Some voted that these
wretches should be cast amid the panthers; the majority decreed
them (I think wisely) a more lingering and more ignominious
death. "
The men upon the crosses held down their heads, whether
from shame or pain or feebleness. The sunbeams were striking
them fiercely; sweat ran from them, liquefying the blood that
had blackened and hardened on their hands and feet. A soldier
stood by the side of each, lowering the point of his spear to the
ground; but no one of them gave it up to us. A centurion asked
the nearest of them how he dared to stand armed before him.
“Because the city is in ruins and the laws still live,” said he.
"At the first order of the conqueror or the elders, I surrender
my spear.
What is your pleasure, O commander ? ” said the elder.
« That an act of justice be the last public act performed by
the citizens of Carthage, and that the sufferings of these wretches
be not abridged. ”
GODIVA'S PLEA
G
ODIVA - Give them life, peace, comfort, contentment. There
are those among them who kissed me in my infancy, and
who blessed me at the baptismal font. Leofric, Leofric! the
first old man I meet I shall think is one of those; and I shall


## p. 8874 (#502) ###########################################

3874
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
think on the blessing he gave, and (ah me! ) on the blessing
I bring back to him. My heart will bleed, will burst — and he
,
will weep at it! he will weep, poor soul! for the wife of a cruel
lord who denounces vengeance on him, who carries death into
his family.
Leofric — We must hold solemn festivals.
Godiva — We must indeed.
Leofric— Well, then.
Godiva - Is the clamorousness that succeeds the death of
God's dumb creatures, are crowded halls, are slaughtered cattle,
festivals ? Are maddening songs and giddy dances, and hireling
praises from particolored coats ? Can the voice of a minstrel
tell us better things of ourselves than our own internal one
might tell us; or can his breath make our breath softer in sleep?
O my beloved! let everything be a joyance to us: it will if we
will. Sad is the day, and worse must follow, when we hear the
blackbird in the garden and do not throb with joy. But, Leofric,
the high estival is strown by ne servant of God upon the heart
of man.
It is gladness, it is thanksgiving; it is the orphan, the
starveling, pressed to the bosom, and bidden as its first com-
mandment to remember its benefactor. We will hold this festi-
val: the guests are ready; we may keep it up for weeks and
months and years together, and always be the happier and the
richer for it. The beverage of this feast, O Leofric, is sweeter
than bee or flower or vine can give us: it flows from heaven;
and in heaven will it abundantly be poured out again to him
who pours it out here unsparingly.
Leofric - Thou art wild.
Godiva --I have indeed lost myself. Some Power, some good
kind Power, melts me (body and soul and voice) into tenderness
and love. O my husband, we must obey it. Look upon me!
look upon me! lift your sweet eyes from the ground! I will not
cease to supplicate; I dare not.
Leofric - We may think upon it.
Godiva — Never say that! What! think upon goodness when
you can be good ? Let not the infants cry for sustenance! The
mother of our blessed Lord will hear them; us never, never
afterward.


## p. 8875 (#503) ###########################################

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
8875
A DREAM ALLEGORY
W*. FI
EARIED with the length of my walk over the mountains, and
finding a soft old molehill, covered with gray grass, by
the wayside, I laid my head upon it and slept. I can-
not tell how long it was before a species of dream or vision
came over me.
Two beautiful youths appeared beside me: each was winged;
but the wings were hanging down, and seemed ill adapted to
flight. One of them, whose voice was the softest I ever heard,
looking at me frequently, said to the other:-
“He is under my guardianship for the present: do not awaken
him with that feather. ”
Methought, hearing the whisper, I saw something like the
feather on an arrow, and then the arrow itself: the whole of it,
even to the point, although he carried it in such a manner that
it was difficult at first to discover more than a palm’s-length of
it; the rest of the shaft and the whole of the barb was behind
his ankles.
« This feather never awakens any one,” replied he rather petu-
lantly; “but it brings more of confident security, and more of
cherished dreams, than you without me are capable of impart-
ing. ”
>
“Be it so! ” answered the gentler: “none is less inclined to
quarrel or dispute than I am. Many whom you have wounded
grievously, call upon me for succor. But so little am I disposed
to thwart you, it is seldom I venture to do more for them than
to whisper a few words of comfort in passing. How many re-
proaches on these occasions have been cast upon me for indiffer-
ence and infidelity! Nearly as many, and nearly in the same
terms, as upon you! ”
“Odd enough that we, O Sleep! should be thought so alike! ”
said Love contemptuously. "Yonder is he who bears a nearer
resemblance to you: the dullest have observed it. ” I fancied I
turned my eyes to where he was pointing, and saw at a distance
the figure he designated. Meanwhile the contention went on
uninterruptedly. Sleep was slow in asserting his power or his
benefits. Love recapitulated them; but only that he might assert
his own above them. Suddenly he called on me to decide, and
to choose my patron. Under the influence first of the one, then
of the other, I sprang from repose to rapture, I alighted from


## p. 8876 (#504) ###########################################

8876
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
cross
me
near us.
coun-
(
rapture on repose
and knew not which was sweetest. Love
was very angry with me, and declared he would
throughout the whole of my existence. Whatever I might on
.
other occasions have thought of his veracity, I now felt too surely
the conviction that he would keep his word. At last, before the
close of the altercation, the third Genius had advanced, and stood
I cannot tell how I knew him, but I knew him to be
the Genius of Death. Breathless as I was at beholding him, I
soon became familiar with his features. First they seemed only
calm; presently they grew contemplative; and lastly beautiful:
those of the Graces themselves are less regular, less harmonious,
less composed. Love glanced at him unsteadily, with a
tenance in which there was somewhat of anxiety, somewhat of
disdain; and cried, "Go away! go away! nothing that thou
touchest lives. »
Say rather, child! ” replied the advancing form, and advancing
grew loftier and statelier, «say rather that nothing of beautiful
or of glorious lives its own true life until my wing hath passed
over it. »
Love pouted, and rumpled and bent down with his forefinger
the stiff short feathers on his arrow-head; but he replied not.
Although he frowned worse than ever, and at me, I dreaded him
less and less, and scarcely looked toward him. The milder and
calmer Genius, the third, in proportion as I took courage to con-
template him, regarded me with more and more complacency.
He had neither flower nor arrow, as the others had; but throwing
back the clusters of dark curls that overshadowed his counte-
nance, he presented to me his hand, openly and benignly. I shrank
on looking at him so near, and yet I sighed to love him. He
smiled, not with an expression of pity, at perceiving my diffi-
dence, my timidity: for I remembered how soft was the hand
of Sleep, how warm and entrancing was Love's. By degrees I
became ashamed of my ingratitude; and turning my face away
I held out my arms, and felt my neck within his. Composure
strewed and allayed all the throbbings of my bosom; the coolness
of freshest morning breathed around; the heavens seemed to open
above me; while the beautiful cheek of my deliverer rested on
my head. I would now have looked for those others; but know-
ing my intention by my gesture, he said consolatorily:-
“Sleep is on his way to the earth, where many are calling
him: but it is not to these he hastens; for every call only makes


## p. 8877 (#505) ###########################################

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
8877
him fly farther off. Sedately and gravely as he looks, he is
nearly as capricious and volatile as the more arrogant and fero-
cious one. ”
“And Love! ” said I, “whither is he departed ? If not too
late, I would propitiate and appease him. ”
“He who cannot follow me, he who cannot overtake and pass
me,” said the Genius, “is unworthy of the name, the most glorious
in earth or heaven. Look up! Love is yonder, and ready to
receive thee. "
I looked: the earth was under me; I saw only the clear blue
sky, and something brighter above it.
(
ROSE AYLMER
A“
H, what avails the sceptred race,
Ah, what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.
FAREWELL TO ITALY
I
LEAVE thee, beauteous Italy! no more
From the high terraces, at even-tide,
To look supine into thy depths of sky,
Thy golden moon between the cliff and me,
Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses
Bordering the channel of the Milky Way.
Fiesole and Val d'Arno must be dreams
Hereafter, and my own lost Affrico
Murmur to me but in the poet's song.
I did believe (what have I not believed ? )
Weary with age, but unopprest by pain,
To close in thy soft clime my quiet day,
And rest my bones in the mimosa's shade.
Hope! Hope! few ever cherisht thee so little;
Few are the heads thou hast so rarely raised;
But thou didst promise this, and all was well.


## p. 8878 (#506) ###########################################

8878
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
ART CRITICISM
FK
IRST bring me Raffael, who alone hath seen
In all her purity heaven's virgin queen,
Alone hath felt true beauty; bring me then
Titian, ennobler of the noblest men;
And next the sweet Correggio, nor chastise
His little Cupids for those wicked eyes.
I want not Rubens's pink puffy bloom,
Nor Rembrandt's glimmer in a dusty room.
With those, and Poussin's nymph-frequented woods,
His templed heights and long-drawn solitudes,
I am content, yet fain would look abroad
On one warm sunset of Ausonian Claude.
LINES FROM GEBIR)
[The first passage here given was Shelley's favorite. ]
O
NCE a fair city — courted then by kings,
Mistress of nations, thronged by palaces,
Raising her head o'er destiny, her face
Glowing with pleasure and with palms refresht;
Now pointed at by Wisdom or by Wealth,
Bereft of beauty, bare of ornament-
Stood in the wilderness of woe, Masar.
Now To Aurora borne by dappled steeds,
The sacred gate of orient pearl and gold,
Smitten with Lucifer's light silver wand,
Expanded slow to strains of harmony.
The waves beneath in purpling rows, like doves
Glancing with wanton coyness toward their queen,
Heaved softly; thus the damsel's bosom heaves
When from her sleeping lover's downy cheek,
To which so warily her own she brings
Each moment nearer, she perceives the warmth
Of coming kisses fanned by playful Dreams.
Ocean and earth and heaven was jubilee;
For 'twas the morning pointed out by Fate
When an immortal maid and mortal man
Should share each other's nature knit in bliss.


## p. 8879 (#507) ###########################################

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
8879
THE LIFE OF FLOWERS
W*
THEN hath wind or rain
Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted me,
And I (however they might bluster round)
Walkt off? 'Twere most ungrateful; for sweet scents
Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts,
And nurse and pillow the dull memory
That would let drop without them her best stores.
They bring me tales of youth and tones of love,
And 'tis and ever was my wish and way
To let all flowers live freely, and all die
(Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart)
Among their kindred in their native place.
I never pluck the rose; the violet's head
Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank
And not reproacht me; the ever-sacred cup
Of the pure lily hath between my hands
Felt safe, unsoiled, nor lost one grain of gold.
A WELCOME TO DEATH
A
S HE who baskt in sunshine loves to go
Where in dim coolness graceful laurels grow;
In that lone narrow path whose silent sand
Hears of no footstep, while some gentle hand
Beckons, or seems to beckon, to the seat
Where ivied wall and trellised woodbine meet:
Thus I, of ear that tingles not to praise,
And feet that, weary of the world's highways,
Recline on moldering tree or jutting stone,
And (though at last I feel I am alone)
Think by a gentle hand mine too is prest
In kindly welcome to a calmer rest.
FAREWELL
I
STROVE with none, for none was worth my strife;
Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art;
I warmed both hands before the fire of life,-
It sinks, and I am ready to depart.


## p. 8880 (#508) ###########################################

8880
ANDREW LANG
(1844-)
NDREW LANG is an active and conspicuous figure among the
British writing men whose work belongs in the late nine-
teenth century. His range has been very wide; his culture
is sound, and his individuality has a piquancy which scholarship has
not reduced to a pale conformity. When one thinks of Lang, one
thinks too of Gosse and Dobson, of Stevenson and Henley,— authors
who stand for the main streams of tend-
ency in the newer literature of England.
Lang is a Scotchman; one of the many
gifted men of letters that wonderful little
land has sent down to do literary battle
in London. He was carefully educated at
Edinburgh Academy, St. Andrews Univer-
sity, and Balliol College (Oxford), laying a
solid foundation for his future accomplish-
ment in letters. At Oxford he did brilliant
work, and was rewarded by a Merton Fel-
lowship in 1868. Going up to London, he
began to write for the periodicals, and soon
ANDREW LANG the first on his long list of volumes was
given to the public. This was a volume of
verse, Ballades and Lyrics of Old France (1872); containing both
translations, and original poems on the same model. Mr. Lang has
wooed the Muses at intervals ever since. His poetry shows culture
and taste, and has grace and felicity, with a lightness of touch and
a ready wit that make it pleasant reading. Along with his friends
Dobson and Gosse, he started the imitation of older French verse
forms; an exotic cult no doubt making more flexible the technique
of English writers, but otherwise having little significance for native
poetry. The titles of other of Lang's books of verse indicate the
nature of his metrical work: Ballades in Blue China,' (Ballades and
Verses Vain,' Rhymes à la Mode,' Rhymes Old and New,' 'Ban
and Arrière Ban’; — there is a suggestion of vers de société about it all
which the contents justify. Now and then Mr. Lang does something
of a broader, more imaginative sort; but the general impression of
his literary work is that of a polished craftsman and well-equipped



## p. 8881 (#509) ###########################################

ANDREW LANG
8881
scholar rather than a born poet. His poetry does not concern itself
with large elemental things; but he can do a light thing very per-
fectly, and has the good sense not to try to do more.
Lang's restless spirit has also turned occasionally to fiction; his
taste leading him towards romanticism, sometimes into melodrama.
(The Mark of Cain' (1886) has a penny-dreadful atmosphere redeemed
by its literary flavor. (The World's Desire,' written in collaboration
with Rider Haggard, is a striking and skillfully done story in which
the romantic myth and legend of Greece are utilized. «The Maid of
Fife) (1895) is a capital historic tale, with Joan of Arc as the central
figure. In this fiction, again, perhaps the scholar and trained worker
are more obvious than the literary creator. Yet Lang's art creed,
squarely opposed to modern realism and the probing of social prob-
lems after the current manner, has affected his own fiction happily;
so that it is, to say the least, wholesome and enjoyable.
One of the most fruitful, successful phases of his work has been
scholarly editing and translation. He has edited and translated sev-
eral volumes of foreign fairy tales, of which the Blue Fairy Book'
and the Red Fairy Book' are examples; has turned the Greek idyl-
lists Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus into English prose of great beauty:
and has given English readers a really superb prose rendering of
Homer; the Odyssey in collaboration with Professor Butcher, the Iliad
with the help of Messrs. Leaf and Myers. His editing of standard
literature has been so extensive that he has been facetiously dubbed
editor-in-general to the British nation. A recent example of his more
sustained scholar work is the Life of Lockhart' (1896). Mr. Lang,
moreover, has been a vigorous student of anthropology; and his vol-
umes Custom and Myth) (1884) and Myth, Ritual, and Religion'
(1887) are brilliant and able expositions of the modern theory of
the universality of myths among primitive savages, contravening the
older theory that certain myths are of exclusive Aryan development.
The conservatives have combated his views; which on the contrary
receive the warm commendation of a student like Grant Allen.
In his miscellaneous literary papers and lighter critical essays
Lang is vastly entertaining. He appears as a free-lance of literature,
always ready for a tilt; firm in his belief in the elder classics, and
in newer classics like Scott and Dumas; cock-sure of his position,
whimsically humorous or pettish, recondite of literary allusion, pro-
fuse in the display of learning. The essays are anything but dull, and
one acknowledges their liveliness and quality, even if irritated by their
tone or in profound disagreement with their dicta.
With this many-sided activity it will be seen that Andrew Lang
has a breezy force, is a decided influence in modern English literature.
And that influence, in respect of the morbid literary phenomena of
XV—556


## p. 8882 (#510) ###########################################

8882
ANDREW LANG
the time, has been corrective. Lang has pushed the romantic theory
to humorous exaggeration at times; but his main contention for
breadth and health and sanity in the presentation of life through art
forms is sound enough, and such criticism is especially welcome now-
adays.
FROM A BOOKMAN'S PURGATORY)
In Books and Bookmen)
To
(C
THOMAS Blinton had discovered a new sin, so to speak, in the
collecting way. Aristophanes says of one of his favorite
blackguards, "Not only is he a villain, but he has invented
an original villainy. ” Blinton was like this. He maintained that
every man who came to notoriety had, at some period, published
a volume of poems which he had afterwards repented of and
withdrawn. It was Blinton's hideous pleasure to collect stray
copies of these unhappy volumes, these péchés de jeunesse, which
always and invariably bear a gushing inscription from the author
to a friend. He had all Lord John Manners's poems, and even
Mr. Ruskin's. He had the Ode to Despair of Smith (now a
comic writer); and the 'Love Lyrics) of Brown, who is now a
permanent under-secretary, than which nothing can be less gay
nor more permanent. He had the revolutionary songs which a
dignitary of the Church published and withdrew from circulation.
Blinton was wont to say he expected to come across "Triolets of
a Tribune) by Mr. John Bright, and Original Hymns for Infant
Minds' by Mr. Henry Labouchere, if he only hunted long
enough.
On the day of which I speak he had secured a volume of love
poems which the author had done his best to destroy; and he had
gone to his club and read all the funniest passages aloud to
friends of the author, who was on the club committee. Ah, was
this a kind action ? In short, Blinton had filled up the cup of
his iniquities; and nobody will be surprised to hear that he met
the appropriate punishment of his offense. Blinton had passed,
on the whole, a happy day, notwithstanding the error about the
Elzevir. He dined well at his club, went home, slept well, and
started next morning for his office in the city; walking, as usual,
and intending to pursue the pleasures of the chase at all the
book-stalls. At the very first, in the Brompton Road, he saw a
man turning over the rubbish in the cheap-box. Blinton stared


## p. 8883 (#511) ###########################################

ANDREW LANG
8883
(
>>
a
at him, fancied he knew him, thought he didn't, and then became
a prey to the glittering eye of the other. The Stranger, who
wore the conventional cloak and slouched soft hat of Strangers,
was apparently an accomplished mesmerist or thought-reader, or
adept, or esoteric Buddhist. He resembled Mr. Isaacs, Zanoni
(in the novel of that name), Mendoza (in Codlingsby'), the soul-
less man in A Strange Story,' Mr. Home, Mr. Irving Bishop,
a Buddhist adept in the astral body, and most other mysterious
characters of history and fiction. Before his Awful Will, Blinton's
mere modern obstinacy shrank back like a child abashed. The
Stranger glided to him and whispered, “Buy these. ”
« These were a complete set of Auerbach's novels in Eng-
lish; which, I need not say, Blinton would never have dreamt of
purchasing had he been left to his own devices.
«Buy these! ” repeated the Adept, or whatever he was, in a
,
cruel whisper. Paying the sum demanded, and trailing his vast
load of German romance, poor Blinton followed the fiend.
They reached a stall where, amongst much trash, Glatigny's
Jour de l'An d'un Vagabond' was exposed.
“Look,” said Blinton: "there is a book I have wanted some
time. Glatignys are getting rather scarce, and it is an amusing
trifle. ”
Nay, buy that,” said the implacable Stranger, pointing with
a hooked forefinger at Alison's History of Europe' in an indefi-
nite number of volumes. Blinton shuddered.
“What, buy that — and why? In Heaven's name, what could
I do with it? "
“Buy it,” repeated the persecutor, "and that” (indicating the
Ilios' of Dr. Schliemann,--a bulky work), “and these” (pointing
'
to all Theodore Alois Buckley's translations of the classics), and
these” (glancing at the collected writings of the late Mr. Hain
Friswell, and at a Life,' in more than one volume, of Mr. Glad-
stone).
The miserable Blinton paid, and trudged along, carrying the
bargains under his arm. Now one book fell out, now another
dropped by the way. Sometimes a portion of Alison came pon-
derously to earth; sometimes the Gentle Life' sank resignedly
to the ground. The Adept kept picking them up again, and
packing them under the arm of the weary Blinton.
The victim now attempted to put on an air of geniality, and
tried to enter into conversation with his tormentor.
»
(


## p. 8884 (#512) ###########################################

8884
ANDREW LANG
"He does know about books,” thought Blinton, and he must
have a weak spot somewhere. ”
So the wretched amateur made play in his best conversational
style. He talked of bindings, of Maioli, of Grolier, of De Thou,
of Derome, of Clovis Eve, of Roger Payne, of Trautz, and eke of
Bauzonnet. He discoursed of first editions, of black-letter, and
even of illustrations and vignettes. He approached the topic of
Bibles; but here his tyrant, with a fierce yet timid glance, inter-
rupted him.
Buy those! ” he hissed through his teeth.
« ”
“Those were the complete publications of the Folk-Lore
Society.
Blinton did not care for folk-lore (very bad men never do);
but he had to act as he was told.
Then, without pause or remorse, he was charged to acquire
the Ethics) of Aristotle in the agreeable versions of Williams
and Chace. Next he secured (Strathmore,' 'Chandos,' 'Under
Two Flags,' and Two Little Wooden Shoes,' and several dozen
more of Ouida's novels. The next stall was entirely filled with
school-books, old geographies, Livys, Delectuses, Arnold's Greek
Exercises,' Ollendorffs, and what not.
“Buy them all,” hissed the fiend. He seized whole boxes and
piled them on Blinton's head.
He tied up Quida's novels in two parcels with string, and
fastened each to one of the buttons above the tails of Blinton's
coat.
“ You are tired ? ” asked the tormentor. “Never mind: these
books will soon be off your hands. "
So speaking, the Stranger with amazing speed hurried Blinton
back through Holywell Street, along the Strand and up to Picca-
dilly, stopping at last at the door of Blinton's famous and very
expensive binder.
The binder opened his eyes, as well he might, at the vision of
Blinton's treasures. Then the miserable Blinton found himself,
as it were automatically and without the exercise of his will,
speaking thus:-
"Here are some things I have picked up,- extremely rare,-
and you will oblige me by binding them in your best manner,
regardless of expense. Morocco, of course; crushed levant mo-
rocco, doublé, every book of them, petits fers, my crest and coat
of arms, plenty of gilding: Spare no cost. Don't keep me
(
CC


## p. 8885 (#513) ###########################################

ANDREW LANG
8885
(
waiting, as you generally do;" for indeed bookbinders are the
most dilatory of the human species.
Before the astonished binder could ask the most necessary
questions, Blinton's tormentor had hurried that amateur out of
the room.
“Come on to the sale," he cried.
What sale ? » asked Blinton.
«Why, the Beckford sale; it is the thirteenth day, a lucky
day. ”
“But I have forgotten my catalogue. ”
«Where is it ? »
“In the third shelf from the top, on the right-hand side of
the ebony bookcase at home. ”
The Stranger stretched out his arm, which swiftly elongated
itself till the hand disappeared from view round the corner.
In a moment the hand returned with the catalogue.