The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 17, No. 104, June, 1866

Expressing a preference for the Italian method of pronunciation, I dared to say that it seemed to be the most correct, inasmuch as the Italian language was but bastard Latin. The master, however, would not listen to such heresy, and declared that, with the exception of the French, the Italian was the worst possible pronunciation to adopt; that the German method was the most correct, and after that came the English.

It was only a few hours after the termination of our first lesson that Landor's little maid entered the room laden with old folios, which she deposited with the following pleasant note:—"As my young friend is willing to become a grammarian, an old fellow sends her for her gracious acceptance these books tending to that purpose." I was made rich, indeed, by this generous donation, for there were a ponderous Latin Dictionary in Landor's handwriting, a curious old Italian and French Dictionary of 1692,—published at Paris, "per uso del Serenissimo Delfino,"—a Greek Grammar, and a delightfully rare and musty old Latin Grammar by Emmanuel Alvarus, the Jesuit, carefully annotated by Landor. Then, too, there was a valuable edition, in two volumes, of Annibal Caro's Italian translation of the Æneid, published at Paris in 1760, by permission of "Louis, par le grace de Dieu Roi de France et de Navarre," and very copiously illustrated by Zocchi. Two noble coats-of-arms adorn its fly-leaves, those of the Right Honorable Lady Mary Louther and of George, Earl of Macartney, Knight of the Order of the White Eagle and of the Bath.

The lessons, as pleasant as they were profitable, were given several times a week for many weeks, and would have been continued still longer had not a change of residence on our part rendered frequent meetings impossible. On each appointed day Landor entered the room with a bouquet of camellias or roses,—the products of his little garden, in which he took great pride,—and, after presenting it with a graceful speech, turned to the Latin books with infinite gusto, as though they reflected upon him the light of other days. No voice could be better adapted to the reading of Latin than that of Landor, who uttered the words with a certain majestic flow, and sounding, cataract-like falls and plunges of music. Occasionally he would touch upon the subject of Greek. "I wonder whether I've forgotten all my Greek," he said one day. "It is so long since I have written a word of it that I doubt if I can remember the alphabet. Let me see." He took up pen and paper, and from Alpha to Omega traced every letter with far more distinctness than he would have written the English alphabet. "Why, Landor," he exclaimed, looking with no little satisfaction on the work before him, "you have not grown as foolish as I thought. You know your letters,—which proves that you are in your second childhood, does it not?" he asked, smiling, and turning to me.

After my recitation he would lean back in the arm-chair and relate anecdotes of great men and women to a small, but deeply interested audience of three, including Giallo. A few well-timed questions were quite sufficient to open his inexhaustible reservoir of reminiscences. Nor had Landor reason to complain of his memory in so far as the dim past was concerned; for, one morning, reference having been made to Monk Lewis's poem of "Alonzo the Brave and the Fair Imogene," he recited it in cadences from beginning to end, without the slightest hesitation or the tripping of a word. "Well, this is indeed astonishing," he said at its conclusion; "I have not thought of that poem for thirty years!"

Landor was often very brilliant. At Sienna, during the summer of 1860, an American lady having expressed a desire to meet him the following season, he replied, "Ah, by that time I shall have gone farther and fared worse!" Sometimes, when we were all in a particularly merry mood, Landor would indulge in impromptu doggerel "to please Giallo"! Absurd couplets would come thick and fast,—so fast that it was impossible to remember them.

Advising me with regard to certain rules in my Latin Grammar he exclaimed,

"What you'd fain know, you will find:
What you want not, leave behind."

Whereupon Giallo walked up to his master and caressed his hand. "Why, Giallo," added Landor, "your nose is hot, but

He is foolish who supposes
Dogs are ill that have hot noses!"

Attention being directed to several letters received by Landor from well-meaning but intensely orthodox friends, who were extremely anxious that he should join the Church in order to be saved from perdition, he said: "They are very kind, but I cannot be redeemed in that way.

When I throw off this mortal coil,
I will not call on you, friend Hoil;
And I think that I shall do,
My good Tompkins, without you.
But I pray you, charming Kate,
You will come, but not too late."

"How wicked you are, Mr. Landor!" I replied, laughingly. "It is well that I am not orthodox."

"For if you were orthodox
I should be in the wrong box!"

was the ready response.

Landor held orthodoxy in great horror, having no faith in creeds which set up the highly comfortable doctrine, "I am holier than thou, for I am in the Church." "Ah! I have given dear, good friends great pain because of my obstinacy. They would have me believe as they do, which is utterly impossible." By Church, Landor did not mean religion, nor did he pass judgment on those who in sincerity embraced any particular faith, but claimed for himself perfect freedom of opinion, and gave as much to others. In his paper on "Popery, British and Foreign," Landor freely expresses himself. "The people, by their own efforts, will sweep away the gross inequalities now obstructing the church-path,—will sweep away from amidst the habitations of the industrious the moral cemeteries, the noisome markets around the house of God, whatever be the selfish interests that stubbornly resist the operation.... It would grieve me to foresee a day when our cathedrals and our churches shall be demolished or desecrated; when the tones of the organ, when the symphonies of Handel, no longer swell and reverberate along the groined roof and dim windows. But let old superstitions crumble into dust; let Faith, Hope, and Charity be simple in their attire; let few and solemn words be spoken before Him 'to whom all hearts are open, all desires known.' Principalities and powers belong not to the service of the Crucified; and religion can never be pure, never 'of good report,' among those who usurp or covet them."

Landor was no exception to the generality of Protestants in Italy, who become imbued with a profound aversion to Romanism, while retaining great respect and regard for individual members of its clergy. He never passed one of the preti that he did not open his batteries, pouring grape and canister of sarcasm and indignation on the retreating enemy,—"rascally beetles," "human vampires," "Satan's imps." "Italy never can be free as long as these locusts, worse than those of Egypt, infest the land. They are as plentiful as fleas, and as great a curse," he exclaimed one day. "They are fleas demoralized!" he added, with a laugh.

"It is reported that Pio Nono is not long for this world," I said, on another occasion. "Erysipelas is supposed to have settled in his legs."

"Ah, yes," Landor replied, "he has been on his last legs for some time, but depend upon it they are legs that will last. The Devil is always good to his own, you know!"

In Italy the advanced party will not allow virtue in the Pope even as a man. A story is told, that when, as the Cardinal Mastai Ferretti, he was made Pontiff, his sister threw up her hands and exclaimed, "Guai a Roma!" (Woe to Rome!) "Se non è vero è ben trovato." And this is told in spite of Mrs. Kemble's story of the conversation which took place between the Cardinals Micara and Lambruschini prior to this election, in which the former remarked: "If the powers of darkness preside over the election, you'll be Pope; if the people had a voice, I'm the man; but if Heaven has a finger in the business, 't will be Ferretti!" Apropos of Popes, Landor writes: "If the Popes are the servants of God, it must be confessed that God has been very unlucky in the choice of his household. So many and so atrocious thieves, liars, and murderers are not to be found in any other trade; much less would you look for them at the head of it." And because of faithless servants Landor has wisely made Boccaccio say of Rome: "She, I think will be the last city to rise from the dead."

"How surprised St. Peter would be," continued Landor,—resuming our conversation, which I have thus parenthetically interrupted,—"how surprised he would be to return to earth and find his apostolic successors living in such a grand house as the Vatican. Ah, they are jolly fishermen!—Landor, Landor! how can you be so wicked?" he said, checking himself with mock seriousness; "Giallo does not approve of such levity. He tells me he is a good Catholic, for he always refuses meat on Friday, even when I offer him a tempting bit. He is a pious dog, and will intercede for his naughty old Padrone when he goes to heaven."

A young friend of mine, Charles C. Coleman, an art-student in Italy, having visited Landor, was struck by the nobility of his head, and expressed a wish to make a study of it. To fulfil such a desire, however, was difficult, inasmuch as Landor had an inherent objection to having his likeness taken either by man or the sun. Not long before the artist's visit, Mr. Browning had persuaded him to sit for his photograph, but no less a person could have induced the old man to mount the numberless steps which seem to be a necessary condition of photography. This sitting was most satisfactory; and to Mr. Browning's zealous friendship is due the likeness by which the octogenarian Landor will probably be known to the world. Finding him in unusually good spirits one day, I dubiously and gradually approached the subject.

"Mr. Landor, do you remember the young artist who called on you one day?"

"Yes, and a nice fellow he seemed to be."

"He was greatly taken with your head."

(Humorously.) "You are quite sure he was not smitten with my face?"

"No, I am not sure, for he expressed himself enthusiastically about your beard. He says you are a fine subject for a study."

No answer.

"Would you allow him to make a sketch of you, Mr. Landor? He is exceedingly anxious to do so."

"No; I do not wish my face to be public property. I detest this publicity that men now-a-days seem to be so fond of. There is a painting of me in England. D'Orsay, too, made a drawing of me" (I think he said drawing) "once when I was visiting Gore House,—a very good thing it was too,—and there is a bust executed by Gibson when I was in Rome. These are quite sufficient. I have often been urged to allow my portrait to be inserted in my books, but never would I give my consent." (Notwithstanding this assertion, it may be found in the "Last Fruit.") "It is a custom that I detest."

"But, Mr. Landor, you had your photograph taken lately."

"That was to oblige my good friend Browning, who has been so exceedingly kind and attentive to me. I could not refuse him."

"But, Mr. Landor, this is entirely between ourselves. It does not concern the public in the least. My friend wants to make a study of your head, and I want the study."

"O, the painting is for you, is it?"

"Yes. I want to have something of you in oil colors."

"Ah, to be sure! the old creature's complexion is so fresh and fair. Well, I'll tell you what I will do. Your friend may come, provided you come with him,—and act as chaperon!" This was said laughingly.

"That I will do with pleasure."

"But stop!" added Landor after a pause. "I must be taken without my beard!"

"O no! Mr. Landor. That cannot be. Why, you will spoil the picture. You won't look like a patriarch without a beard."

"I ordered my barber to come and shear me to-morrow. The weather is getting to be very warm, and a heavy beard is exceedingly uncomfortable. I must be shaved to-morrow."

"Pray countermand the order, dear Mr. Landor. Do retain your beard until the picture is completed. You will not be obliged to wait long. We shall all be so disappointed if you don't."

"Well, well, I suppose I must submit."

And thus the matter was amicably arranged, to our infinite satisfaction.

Those sittings were very pleasant to the artist and his chaperon, and were not disagreeable, I think, to the model. Seated in his arm-chair, with his back to the window that the light might fall on the top of his head and form a sort of glory, Landor looked every inch a seer, and would entertain us with interesting though unseerlike recollections, while the artist was busy with his brush.

Putting out his foot one day, he said, "Who could suppose that that ugly old foot had ever been good-looking? Yet they say it was once. When I was in Rome, an artist came to me, and asked to take a cast of my foot and leg."

"Ah, Mr. Landor, you don't know how good-looking you might be now, if you would get a new suit of clothes and a nice pair of boots."

"No, no. I never intend to buy anything more for myself. My old clothes are quite good enough. They are all-sufficient for this world, and in the next I sha'n't need any; that is, if we are to believe what we are told."