Footnotes:

“That was Doré to whom you were talking,” he answered.

“Ah! well,” was my answer, “then it is all right.”

I suppose that Doré believed that I knew at the time who he was. Had he been aware that I did not know who he was, the compliment would have seemed much stronger.

I have either been introduced to, conversed with, or been well acquainted at one time or another with Sir John Millais, Holman Hunt, the Rossettis, Frith, Whistler, Poynter, Du Maurier, Charles Keene, Boughton, Hodges, Tenniel (who set my motive of “Ping-Wing,” as I may say, to music in a cartoon inPunch), the Hon. John Collier, Rivière, Walter Crane, and of course many more—or less—here and there in the club, or at receptions. Could I have then foreseen or imagined that I should ever become—albeit in a very humble grade—an artist myself, and that my works on design and the minor arts would form the principal portion of my writings and of my life’s work, I should assuredly have made a greater specialty of such society. But at this time I could hardly draw, save in very humble fashion indeed, and little dreamed that I should execute for expensive works illustrations whichwould be praised by my critics, as strangely happened to my “Gypsy Sorcery.” But we never know what may befall us.

“Oh, little did my mother think,The day she cradled me,The lands that I should travel in,Or the sights that I should see;Or gae rovin’ about wi’ gypsy carles,And sic like companie.”

As theNoctesvaries it. For it actually came to pass that a very well-known man of letters, while he, with the refined politeness characteristic of his style, spoke of mine as “rigmarole,” still praised my pictures.

In April we went to Leamington to pay a visit to a Mr. Field, where we also met his brother, my old friend Leonard Field, whom I had known in Paris in 1848. During this, journey we visited Kenilworth, the town and castle of Warwick, Stratford-on-Avon, and all therewith connected. At the Easter spring-tide, when primroses first flush by running waters, and there are many long bright sunny days in the land, while birdes’ songs do ripple in the aire, it is good roaming or resting in such a country, among old castles, towers, and hamlets quaint and grey. To him who can think and feel, it is like the reading of marvellously pleasant old books, some in Elizabethan type, some in earlier black letter, and hearing as we read sweet music and far-distant chimes. And apropos of this, I would remark that while I was at Princeton an idea fixed itself so firmly in my mind that to this day I live on it and act on it. It is this:—There is a certain stage to be reached in reading and reflection, especially if it be aided by broad æsthetic culture and science, when every landscape, event, or human being is or may be to us exactly the same as abook. For everything in this world which can be understood and felt can be described, and whatever can be described may be written and printed. For ordinary people, no ideas are distinct or concentrated or “literary” till they are in black and white; but the scholar or artist inwords puts thoughts into as clear a form in his own mind. Having deeply meditated on this idea for forty years, and been constantly occupied in realising it, I can say truly that Ioftencompose or think books or monographs which, though not translated into type, are as absolutelyliteratureto me as if they were. There is somuchmore in this than will at first strike most readers, that I can not help dwelling on it. It once happened to me in Philadelphia, in 1850, to passallthe year—in fact, nearly two years—“in dusky city pent,” and during all that time I never got a glimpse of the country. As a director of the Art Union, I was continually studying pictures, landscapes by great artists, and the like. The second year, when I went up into Pennsylvania, I found that I had strangely developed what practically amounted to a kind of pseudophia. Every fragment of rural scenery, every rustic “bit,” every group of shrubs or weeds, everything, in fact, which recalled pictures, or which could itself be pictured, appeared to me to be a picture perfectly executed. This lasted as a vivid or real perception for about a week, but the memory of it has been in my mind ever since. It was not so much the beautiful in all Nature which I saw, as that in Nature which was within the power of the skilled artist to execute. In like manner the practised reflector and writer reads books in everything to a degree which no other person can understand. Wordsworth attained this stage, and the object of the “Excursion” is to teach it.

In the “Letters of James Smetham” there is a passage to the effect that he felt extremely happy among English hedgerows, and found inexhaustible delight in English birds, trees, flowers, hills, and brooks, but could not appreciate his little back-garden with a copper-beech, a weeping-ash, nailed-up rose trees, and twisting creepers. After I had made a habit, till it became a passion, of seeking decorative motives, strange and novel curves—in short, began to detect the transcendent alphabet or written language of beauty and mystery in every plant whatever (of which the alphabet maybe found in the works of Hulme), I found in every growth of every kind, yes, in every weed, enough to fill my soul with both art and poetry; I may say specially in weeds, since in them the wildest and most graceful motives are more abundant than in garden flowers. Unto menowanything that grows is, in simple truth, more than what any landscape once was. This began in youth in much reading of, and long reflection on, the signatures, correspondences, and mystical fancies of the Paracelsian writers—especially of Gaffarel, of whom I have a Latin version by me as I write—and of late years I have carried its inspiration into decorative art. I have said so much of this because, as this is an autobiography, I cannot omit from it something which, unseen in actions, still forms a predominant motive in my life. It is something which, while it perfectly embracesalllandscaping or picture-making or dainty delicate cataloguing in poetry,à laMorris at times, or like the Squyre of Lowe Degre, in detail, also involves a far more earnest feeling, and one which combines thought orreligionwith emotion, just as a melody which we associate with a beautiful poem is worth more to us than one which we do not. Burne Jones is a higher example of this.

During this season we met at Mrs. Inwood Jones’—who was a niece of Lady Morgan and had many interesting souvenirs of her aunt—several people of note, among whom was Mme. Taglioni, now a very agreeable and graceful though naturally elderly lady. I was charmed with her many reminiscences of well-known characters, and as I had seen her as well as Ellsler and all the greatballerinemany times, we had many conferences. Somebody said to her one day, “So you know Mr. Leland?” “Yes,” replied Taglioni in jest, “he was one of my old lovers.” This was reported to me, when I said, “I wish she had told me that thirty years sooner.” In 1846 Taglioni owned three palaces in Venice, one of them the Ca’ d’oro, and in 1872 she was giving lessons in London. At Mrs. Frank Hill’s I made the acquaintance of the marvellouslyclever Eugene Schuyler, and at Mr. Smalley’s of the equally amazingly cheeky and gifted “Joaquin” Miller. Somewhere else I met several times another curious celebrity whom I had known in America, the Chevalier Wykoff. Though he was almost the type and proverb of an adventurer, I confess that I always liked him. He was gentlemanly and kind in his manner, and agreeable and intelligent in conversation. Though he had been Fanny Ellsler’s agent or secretary, and written those two curiously cool works, “Souvenirs of a Roving Diplomatist” (he had been employed by Palmerston) and “My Courtship and its Consequences” (in reference to his having been imprisoned in Italy for attempting to carry off an elderly heiress), he was also the author of a really admirable work on the political system of the United States, which any man may read to advantage. A century ago or more he would have been a great man in his way. He knew everybody. I believe that as General Tevis formed his bold ideal of life from much reading ofcondottierior military adventurers, and Robert Hunt from Cooper’s novels, so Wykoff got his inspiration for a career from studying and admiring the diplomaticparvenusof Queen Anne’s time. TheseBohémiens de la haute volée, who drew their first motives from study, are by far more interesting and tolerable than those of an illiterate type.

One summer when I was at Bateman’s, near Newport, with G. H. Boker, Robert Leroy, and our wives, Leroy reported one day that he had seen Wykoff, Hiram Fuller, a certain very dashingprima donna, and two other notorieties sitting side by side in a row on the steps of the Ocean House. I remarked that if there had only been with them the devil and Lola Montez, the party would have been complete. Leroy was famous for his quaintmots, in which he had a counterpart in “Tom Appleton,” of Boston, whom I also knew very well. The Appletoniana and Leroyalties which were current in the Sixties would make a lively book.

I remember that one evening at a dinner at Trübner’s inthis year there were present M. Van der Weyer, G. H. Lewes, and M. Delepierre. I have rarely heard so much good talk in the same time. Thoughts so gay and flashes so refined, such a mingling of choice literature, brilliant anecdote, and happy jests, are seldom heard as I heard them.Tempi passati!

Apropos of George H. Boker and Leroy, I may here remark that they were both strikingly tall anddistinguémen, but that when they dressed themselves for bass-fishing, and “put on mean attire,” they seemed to be common fisher-folk. One day, while fishing on the rocks, there came up the elegantprima donnareferred to, who, seeing that they had very fine lobsters, ordered them to be taken to the hotel for her. “Can’t do it, ma’am,” answered Leroy brusquely; “we want them for bait.” The lady swept away indignantly. To her succeeded Ralph Waldo Emerson, who did not know them personally, and who began to put to Mr. Boker questions as to his earnings and his manner of life, to all of which Mr. Boker replied with greatnaïveté. Mr. B., however, had on his pole a silver reel, which had cost £30 ($150), and at last Mr. Emerson’s eye rested on that, and word no more spoke he, but, with a smile and bowing very politely, went his road.Ultimam dixit salutem.

One evening I was sitting in the smoking-room of the Langham Hotel, when an American said to me, “I hear that Charles Leland, who wrote ‘Breitmann,’ is staying here.” “Yes, that is true,” I replied. “Could you point him out to me?” asked the stranger. “I will do so with pleasure—in fact, if you will tell me your name, I think I can manage to introduce you.” The American was very grateful for this, and asked when it would be. “Nowis the time,” I said, “for I am he.” On another occasion another stranger told me, that having heard that Mr. Leland was in the smoking-room, he had come in to see him, and asked me to point him out. I pointed to myself, at which he was much astonished, and then, apologetically and half ashamed, said, “Who doyou really suppose, of all the men here present, I had settled on as being you?” I could not conjecture, when he pointed to a great broom-bearded, broad-shouldered, jovial, intemperate, German-looking man, and said, “There! I thought that must be the author of ‘Hans Brietmann.’” Which suggested to me the idea, “Does the public, then, generally believe that poets look like their heroes?” One can indeed imagine Longfellow as Poor Henry of the “Golden Legend,” but few would expect to find the counterpart of Biglow in a Lowell. And yet this belief or instinct is in every case agreatcompliment, for it testifies that there is that in the poem which is inspired by Nature and originality, and that it is not all mere art-work or artificial. And it is true that by some strange law, name, body, and soul generally do preserve some kind of unity in the realm of literature. There has never been, as yet, a really great Gubbins or Podgers in poetry, or Boggs in romance; and if literature has its Hogg, let it be remembered that the wild boar in all Northern sagas and chronicles, like the Eber in Germany, or the Wolf, was a name of pride and honour, as seen in Eberstein. The Whistler of St. Leonard’s is one of the most eccentric and original of Scott’s characters, and the Whistler of St. Luke’s, or the patron saint of painting, is in no respect deficient in these noble qualifications. The Seven Whistlers who fly unseen by night, ever piping a wild nocturne, are the most uncanny of birds, while there is, to my mind, something absolutely grotesquely awful (as in many of “Dreadful Jemmy’s” pictures) in the narration that in ancient days the immense army of the Mexican Indians marched forth to battle all whistling in unison—probably a symphony in blood-colour. Fancy half a million of Whistlers on the war-path, about to do battle to the death with as many Ruskins—I mean red-skins!Nomen est omen.

One of the most charming persons whom I ever met in my life was the Hon. Mrs. Caroline Norton, and one of the most delightful dinners at which my wife and I were everpresent was at her house. As I had been familiar with her poems from my boyhood, I was astonished to find her still so beautiful and young—if my memory does not deceive me, I thought her far younger looking than myself. I owe her this compliment, for I can recall her speaking with great admiration of Mrs. Leland to Lord Houghton and “Bulwer.”

Mrs. Norton had not only a graceful, fascinating expression of figure and motion, but narrated everything so well as to cast a peculiar life and interest into the most trifling anecdote. I remember one of the latter.

“Lord Houghton,” she said, “calls you, Mr. Leland, the poet of jargons.” (He indeed introduced me to all his guests once by this term.) “Jargon is a confusion of language, and I have a maid who lives in a jargon of ideas—as to values. The other day she broke to utter ruin an antique vase”—(I do not accurately recall what the object was)—“which cost four hundred pounds, and when I said that it was such a grief to me to lose it, she replied, while weeping, ‘Oh, do not mind it, my lady;I’llbuy you just such another,’ as if it were worth tenpence.”

Mrs. Norton had marvellously beautiful and expressive eyes, such as one seldom meets thrice in a life. As a harp well played inspires tears or the impulse to dance, so her glances conveyed, almost in the same instant, deep emotion and exquisite merriment. I remember that she was much amused with some of my American jests and reminiscences, and was always prompt to respond,eodem genere. So nightingale the wodewale answereth.

During this season in London I met Thomas Carlyle. Our mutual friend, Moncure Conway, had arranged that I should call on the great writer at the house of the latter in Chelsea. I went there at about eleven in the morning, and when Mr. Carlyle entered the room I was amazed—I may say almost awed—by something which was altogether unexpected, and this was hisextraordinarylikeness to my latefather. A slight resemblance to Carlyle may be seen in my own profile, but had he been with my father, the pair might have passed for twins; and in iron-grey grimness and the never-to-be-convinced expression of the eyes they were identity itself.

I can only remember that for the first twenty or thirty minutes Mr. Carlyle talked such a lot of skimble-skamble stuff and rubbish, which sounded like the verydébrisand lees of his “Latter-Day Pamphlets,” that I began to suspect that he was quizzing me, or that this was the manner in which he ladled out Carlyleism to visitors who came to be Carlyled and acted unto. It struck me as if Mr. Tennyson, bored with lion-hunting guests, had begun to repeat his poetry to them out of sheer sarcasm, or as if he felt, “Well, you’ve come toseeandhearme—a poet—so take your poetry, and be d---d to you!” However, it may be I felt a coming wrath, and the Socratic demon or gypsydook, which often rises in me on such occasions, and never deceives me, gave me a strong premonition that there was to be, if not an exemplary row, at least a lively incident which was to put a snapped end to this humbugging.

It came thus. All at once Mr. Carlyle abruptly asked me, in a manner or with an intonation which sounded to me almost semi-contemptuous, “And what kind of an American may you be?” (Ithinkhe said “will you be?”) “German, or Irish, or what?”

To which I replied, not over amiably:—

“Since it interests you, Mr. Carlyle, to know the origin of my family, I may say that I am descended from Henry Leland, whom the tradition declares to have been a noted Puritan, and active in the politics of his time,’ and who went to America in 1636.”

To this Mr. Carlyle replied:—

“I doubt whether any of your family have since been equal to your old Puritan great-grandfather” (or “done anything to equal your old Puritan grandfather”). With thissomething to the effect that we had done nothing in America since Cromwell’s Revolution, equal to it in importance or of any importance.

Then a great rage came over me, and I rememberverydistinctly that there flashed through my mind in a second the reflection, “Now, if I have to call you a d---d old fool for saying that, Iwill; but I’ll be even with you.” When as quickly the following inspiration came, which I uttered, and I suspect somewhat energetically:—

“Mr. Carlyle, I think that my brother, Henry Leland, who got the wound from which he died standing by my side in the war of the rebellion, fighting against slavery, was worth ten of my old Puritan ancestors; at least, he died in a ten times better cause. And” (here my old “Indian” was up and I let it out) “allow me to say, Mr. Carlyle, that I think that in all matters of historical criticism you are principally influenced by the merely melodramatic and theatrical.”

Here Mr. Carlyle, looking utterly amazed and startled, though not at all angry, said, for the first time, in broad Scotch—

“Whot’sthotye say?”

“I say, Mr. Carlyle,” I exclaimed with rising wrath, “that I consider that in all historical judgments you are influenced only by the melodramatic and theatrical.”

A grim smile as of admiration came over the stern old face. Whether he really felt the justice of the hit I know not, but he was evidently pleased at the manner in which it was delivered, and it was with a deeply reflective and not displeased air that he replied, still in Scotch—

“Na, na, I’m naethot.”

It was the terrier who had ferociously attacked the lion, and the lion was charmed. From that instant he was courteous, companionable, and affable, and talked as if we had been long acquainted, and as if he liked me. It occurred to me that the resemblance of Carlyle to my father during the row was appalling, the difference being that my fathernevergave in. It would have been an awful sight to see and a sound to hear if the two could have “discussed” some subject on which they were equally informed—say the American tariff or slavery.

After a while Mr. Froude the historian came in, and we all went out together for a walk in the Park. Pausing on the bridge, Mr. Carlyle called my attention to the very rural English character of a part of the scenery in the distance, where a church-spire rises over ranges of tree-tops. I observed that the smoke of a gypsy fire and a tent by a hedge was all that was needed. Then we began to talk about gypsies, and I told Mr. Carlyle that I could talk Romany, and ran on with some reminiscences, whereat, as I now recall, though I did not note it then, his amusement at or interest in me seemed to be much increased, as if I had unexpectedly turned out to be something a little out of the ordinary line of tourist interviewers; and truly in those days Romany ryes were not so common as they now are. Then Mr. Carlyle himself told a story, how his father—if I remember rightly—had once lent a large sum to or trusted a gypsy in some extraordinary manner. It befell in after days that the lender was himself in sore straits, when the gypsy took him by night to a hut, and digging up or lifting thehard-staneor hearth-stone, took out a bag of guineas, which he transferred to his benefactor.

We parted, and this was the only time I ever conversed with Mr. Carlyle, though I saw him subsequently on more than one occasion. He sent word specially by Mr. Conway to me that he would be pleased to have me call again; but “once bitten twice shy,” and I had not so much enjoyed my call as to wish to repeat it. But I believe that what Mr. Carlyle absolutely needed above all things on earth was somebody to put on the gloves with him metaphorically about once a day, and give and take a few thumping blows; nor do I believe that he would have shrunk from a tussleà la Choctaw, with biting, gouging, tomahawk and scalper, for he hadan uncommonlydourlook about the eyes, and must have been a magnificent fighter when once roused. But though I had not his vast genius nor wit, I had the great advantage of having often had very severe differences with my father, who was, I believe, as much Carlyled by Nature as Carlyle himself, if not more so, whereas it is morally impossible that the Sage of Chelsea could ever have found any one like himself to train under. But to Carlyle people in conversation requires constant practice with a master—consuetudine quotidiana cum aliquo congredi—and he had for so long a time knocked everybody down without meeting the least resistance, that victory had palled upon him, and he had, so to speak, “vinegared” on himself. With somebody to “sass him back,” Carlyle would have been cured of the dyspepsia, and have lived twenty years longer.

Carlyle’s was and ever will be one of the greatest names in English literature, and it is very amusing to observe how the gossip-makers, who judge of genius by tittle-tattle and petty personal defects, have condemned himin totobecause he was not an angel to a dame who was certainly a bit of adiablesse. Thus I find in a late very popular collection the remark that—

“It is curious to note in the ‘Life and Correspondence of Lord Houghton’ the high estimation in which Carlyle was held by him. His regard and admiration cannot but seem exaggerated, now that we know so much of the Chelsea philosopher’s real character.”

This isquitethe moral old lady, who used to think that Raphael was a good painter “till she read all about that nasty Fornarina.”

There was another hard old character with whom I became acquainted in those days, and one who, though not a Carlyle, still, like him, exercised in a peculiar way a great influence on English literature. This was George Borrow. I was in the habit of reading a great deal in the British Museum, where he also came, and there I was introduced to him.

He was busy with a venerable-looking volume in old Irish and made the remark to me that he did not believe there was a man living who could read old Irish with ease (which I now observe to myself was “fished” out of Sir W. Betham). We discussed several gypsy words and phrases. I met him in the same place several times. He was a tall, large, fine-looking man, who must have been handsome in his youth. I knew at the time in London a Mr. Kerrison, who had been as a very young man, probably in the Twenties, very intimate with Borrow. He told me that one night Borrow acted very wildly, whooping and vociferating so as to cause the police to follow him, and after a long run led them to the edge of the Thames, “and there they thought they had him.” But he plunged boldly into the water and swam in his clothes to the opposite shore, and so escaped.

“For he fled o’er to t’other side,And so they could not find him;He swam across the flowing tide,And never looked behind him.”

About this time (1826?) George Borrow published a small book of poems which is now extremely rare. I have a copy of it. In it there is a lyric in which, with his usual effrontery, he describes a very clever, tall, handsome, accomplished man, who knows many languages and who can drink a pint of rum, ending with the remark that he himself was this admirable person. As Heine was in England at this time, it is not improbable that he met with this poem; but in any case, there is a resemblance between it and one of his own in theBuch der Lieder, which runs thus:—

“Brave man, he got me the food I ate,His kindness and care I can never forget,Yet I cannot kiss him, though other folk can,For I myself am this excellent man!”

It came to pass that after a while I wrote my book on “The English Gypsies and their Language,” and sent a noteto Mr. Borrow in which I asked permission to dedicate it to him. I sent it to the care of Mr. Murray, who subsequently assured me that Mr. Borrow had actually received it. Now Mr. Borrow had written thirty years before some sketches and fragments on the same subject, which would, I am very certain, have remained unpublished to this day but for me. He received my note on Saturday—never answered it—and on Monday morning advertised in all the journals his own forthcoming work on the same subject.

Now, what is sincere truth is, that when I learned this I laughed. I thought very little of my own work, and if Mr. Borrow had only told me that it was in the way of his I would have withdrawn it at once, and that with right goodwill, for I had so great a respect for the Nestor of gypsyism that I would have been very glad to have gratified him with such a small sacrifice. But it was not in him to suspect or imagine so much common decency in any human heart, and so he craftily, and to my great delight and satisfaction, “got ahead” of me. For, to tell the truth of truth, I was pleased to my soul that I had caused him to make and publish the work.

I have said too hastily that it was written thirty years before. What I believe is, that Mr. Borrow had by him a vocabulary, and a few loose sketches, which he pitchforked together, but that the book itself was made and cemented into one with additions for the first time after he received my note. He was not, take him altogether, over-scrupulous. Sir Patrick Colquhoun told me that once when he was at Constantinople, Mr. Borrow came there, and gave it out that he was a marvellous Oriental scholar. But there was great scepticism on this subject at the Legation, and one day at thetable-d’hôte, where the great writer and divers young diplomatists dined, two who were seated on either side of Borrow began to talk in Arabic, speaking to him, the result being that he was obliged to confess that he not only did not understand what they were saying, but did not even knowwhat the language was. Then he was tried in Modern Greek, with the same result. The truth was that he knew a great deal, but did all in his power to make the world believe it was far more—like the African king, or the English prime minister, who, the longer his shirts were made, insisted on having the higher collars, until the former trailed on the ground and the latter rose above the top of his head—“when they came home from the wash!”

What I admire in Borrow to such a degree that before it his faults or failings seem very trifling, is his absolutely vigorous, marvellously varied originality, based on direct familiarity with Nature, but guided and cultured by the study of natural, simple writers, such as Defoe and Smollett. I think that the “interest” in or rather sympathy for gypsies, in his case as in mine, came not from their being curious or dramatic beings, but because they are so much a part of free life, of out-of-doors Nature; so associated with sheltered nooks among rocks and trees, the hedgerow and birds, river-sides, and wild roads. Borrow’s heart was large and true as regarded English rural life; there was a place in it for everything which was of the open air and freshly beautiful. He was not a view-hunter of “bits,” trained according to Ruskin and thedeliberateword-painting of a thousand novels and Victorian picturesque poems; but he often brings us nearer to Nature than they do, not by photography, but by casually letting fall a word or trait, by which we realise not only her form but her soul. Herein he was like Washington Irving, who gives us the impression of a writer who was deeply inspired with calm sweet sunny views of Nature, yet in whose writings literal description is so rarely introduced, that it is a marvel how much the single buttercup lights up the landscape for a quarter of a mile, when a thousand would produce no effect whatever. This may have possibly been art in Irving—art of the most subtle kind—but in Borrow it was instinct, and hardly intentional. In this respect he was superior even to Whitman.

And here I would say, apropos of Carlyle, Tennyson, Irving, Borrow, Whitman, and some others whom I have met, that with such men in only one or two interviews, one covers more ground and establishes more intimacy than with the great majority of folk whom we meet and converse with hundreds of times. Which fact has been set forth by Wieland in his work on Democritus or the Abderites so ingeniously, as people expressed it a century ago, or so cleverly, as we now say, or so sympathetically, as an Italian would say, that my pen fails to utter the thoughts which arise in me compared to what he has written.

When the summer came, or on the 1st of August, we started on a grand tour about England. First we went to Salisbury. I was deeply interested in the Cathedral there, because it is possibly the only great Gothic structure of the kind in Europe which was completed in a single style during a single reign. Stonehenge was to me even more remarkable, because it is more mysterious. Its stupendous barbarism or archaic character, involving a whole lost cycle of ideas, contrasts so strangely with the advanced architectural skill displayed in the cutting and fitting of the vast blocks, that the whole seems to be a mighty paradox. This was the work of many thousands of men—of very well directed labour under the supervision of architects who could draw and measure skilfully with a grand sense ofproportionor symmetry, who had, however, not attained to ornament—a thing without parallel in humanity. This is absolutely bewildering, as is the utter want of all indication as to its real purpose. The old British tradition that the stones were brought by magic from Africa, coupled with what Sir John Lubbock and others declare as to similar remains on the North African coast, suggest something, but what that was remains to be discovered. Men have, however, developed great works of the massive and simple order in poetry, as well as in architecture. The Nibelungen Lied is a Stonehenge. There are in it only one or two similes or decorations. “Simplicity is its sole ornament.”

From Salisbury we went to Wells. The cathedrals of England form the pages of a vast work in which there is written the history of a paradox or enigma as marvellous as that of Stonehenge; and it is this—that the farther back we go, even into a really barbarous age, almost to the time when Roman culture had died and the mediæval had not begun, the more exquisite are the proportions of buildings, the higher their tone, and, as in the case of Early and Decorated English, the more beautiful their ornament. That is to say, that exactly in the time when, according to all our modern teaching and ideas, there should have beennoarchitectural art, it was most admirably developed, while, on the contrary, in this end of the nineteenth century, when theory, criticism, learning, and science abound, it is in its lowest and most depraved state, its highest flights aiming at nothing better than cheap imitation of old examples. The age which produced the Romanesque architecture, whether in northern Italy, along the Rhine as the Lombard, or in France and England as Norman, was extremely barbarous, bloody, and illiterate; and yet in the noblest and grandest conceptions of architectural art it surpassed all the genius of this our time as the sun surpasses a star. While weknowthat man has advanced, it still remains true that the history of architecture alone for the past thousand years indicates a steady retrogression and decay in art, and this constitutes the stupendous paradox to which I have alluded. But Milton has fully explained to us that when the devils in hell built the first great temple or palace—Pandemonium—they achieved the greatest work of architecture ever seen!

York Cathedral made on me a hundred times deeper and more sympathetic impression than St. Peter’s of Rome. There is a grandeur of unity and a sense of a single cultus in it which the Renaissance never reached in anything. Even from the days of Orcagna there is an element of mixed motives and incoherence in the best of Italian architecture and sculpture. It requires colour to effect that which Normanor Gothic art could produce more grandly and impressively withshadealone. It is the difference between a garden and a forest. This is shown in the glorious mediævalgrisaillewindows, in which such art proves its absolute perfection. While I was looking at these in rapt admiration, an American friend who did not lack a certain degree of culture asked me if I did not find in them a great want of colour!

I made in York the acquaintance of a youth named Carr, son of a former high sheriff, who, by the way, showed us very great hospitality whenever we visited the city. This young man had read Labarthe and other writers on archæology, and was enthusiastic in finding relics of the olden time. He took me into a great many private houses. I visited every church, and indeed saw far more than do the great majority of even the most inquiring visitors. The Shambles was then and is still perhaps one of the most curious specimens of a small mediæval street in the world. I felt as if I could pass a life in the museum and churches, and I did, in fact, years after, remain there, very busy, for three weeks, sketching innumerable corbels, gargoyles, goblins, arches, weather-worn saints and sinners. And in the Cathedral I found the original of the maid in the garden a-hanging out the clothes. She is a fair sinner, and the blackbird is a demon volatile, who, having lighted on her shoulder, snaps her by the nose to get her soul. The motive often occurs in Gothic sculpture.

We may trace it back—videthe “Pharaohs, Fellahs, and Explorers” of Amelia B. Edwards (whom I have also met at an Oriental Congress)—to Roman Harpies and the EgyptianBa, depicted in the “Book of the Dead” or the “Egyptian Bible.”

the end.

[1]As I was very desirous of learning more about this celebrated fireplace, I inserted a request in thePublic Ledgerfor information regarding it, which elicited the following from some one to me unknown, to whom I now return thanks:—

“Mr. City-Editor of thePublic Ledger,—In your edition of this date, I notice a communication headed ‘To Local Antiquarians.’ Without any well-founded pretensions to the designation ‘Antiquarian,’ as I get older I still take a great interest in the early history of our beloved city. I rememberdistinctlythe fact, but not the date, of reading a description of the ‘mantelpiece.’ It was of wood, handsomely carved on the pillars, and under the shelf, and on the centre between the pillars, was the following quaint and wittyhieroglyphicinscription:—When the grate is M. T. put:When it is . putting:which is a little puzzling at first sight, but readily translated by converting the punctuation points into written words.Senior.“Frankford,May 24,1892.”

When the grate is M. T. put:When it is . putting:

which is a little puzzling at first sight, but readily translated by converting the punctuation points into written words.

Senior.

“Frankford,May 24,1892.”

I can add to this, that the chimney-piece was originally made for wood-fires, and that long after a grate was set in and the inscription added.

[13]Also given as Delaund or Dellaund in one copy. De Quincey was proud of his descent from De la Laund. I may here say that John Leyland, who is a painstaking and conscientious antiquarian and accomplished genealogist, has been much impressed with the extraordinary similarity of disposition, tastes, and pursuits which has characterised the Lelands for centuries. Any stranger knowing us would think that he and I were nearly related. It is told of the manor of Leyland that during the early Middle Ages it was attempted to build a church there in a certain place, but every morning the stones were found to be removed. Finally, it was completed, but the next dawn beheld the whole edifice removed to the other spot, while a spirit-voice was heard to call (one account says that the words were found on a mystic scroll):

“Here shall itt bee,And here shall itt stande;And this shall bee called:Ye Churche of Leyland.”

[16]A similar incident is recorded inKenelm Chillingly. I had long before the publication of the work conversed with Lord Lytton on the subject—which is also touched on in mySketch-Book of Meister Karl, of which the illustrious author had a copy.

[56]Since writing the foregoing, and by a most appropriately odd coincidence or mere chance, I have received with delight a copy of this work from Jesse Jaggard, a well-known dealer in literary curiosities in Liverpool, who makes a specialty ofhunting uprarities to order, which is of itself a quaint business. The book is entitled “Curiosities for the Ingenious, Selected from the Most Authentic Treasures of Nature, Science and Art, Biography, History, and General Literature. London: Thomas Boys, Ludgate Hill, 1821.” Boys was the publisher of the celebrated series of “The Percy Anecdotes.” I should here, in justice to Mr. Jaggard, mention that I am indebted to him for obtaining for me several rare and singular works, and that his catalogues are remarkably well edited.

[98]May I be pardoned for here mentioning that Mr. Symonds, not long before his death, wrote a letter to one of our mutual friends, in which he spoke “most enthusiastically” of my work on “Etruscan Roman Traditions in Popular Tradition.” “For that alone would I have writ the book.”

[101]“Susan Cushman was extremely pretty, but was not particularly gifted; in personal appearance she was altogether unlike Charlotte; . . . the latter was a large, tall woman” (“Gossip of the Century,” vol. ii.). John Du Solle took me for the first time to see Charlotte Cushman, and then asked me what I thought she looked like. And I replied, “A bull in black silk.”

[156]He was the real head, and the most sensible, of that vast array of wild antiquaries, among whom are Faber, Godfrey Higgins, Inman, Bryant, and several score more whom I in my youth adored and devoured with a delight surpassing words.

[225](Here I forgot myself—this occurred in New York.)

[237]Herzen once sent me a complete collection of all his books.

[242]Abraham Lincoln once remarked of the people who wanted emancipation, but who did not like to be called Abolitionists, that they reminded him of the Irishman who had signed a temperance pledge and did not like to break it, yet who sadly wanted a “drink.” So going to an apothecary he asked for a glass of soda-water, adding, “an’, docther dear, if yees could put a little whisky into itunbeknownstto me, I’d be much obliged to yees.” I believe that I may say that as Mr. Lincoln read all which I published (as I was well assured), I was the apothecary here referred to, who administered the whisky of Abolition disguised in the soda-water of Emancipation.

[252]Chapman Biddle himself was a very remarkable man as a lawyer, and a person of marked refinement and culture. He became my friend in after years, as did his son Walter. Both are now departed. I wrote and publicly read an “In Memoriam” address and poem on his death, in delivering which I had great pains to refrain from weeping, which was startling to me, not being habitually expressive of emotion.

[266a]In reference to “heaving out” by main force, cannon from some deep slough, perhaps of stiff clay, which holds like glue, or, what I think far more wearisome, urging them along for miles over the heaviest roads or broken ways, when the poor exhausted mules have almost given out. Though, as he says, he was only nineteen and seemed very fragile, the indomitable pluck and perseverance of Gilder in all such trials were such as to call special commendation from my brother Henry, who was not habitually wasteful of praise.

[266b]“Well do I remember” also what accursed work it was, the ground consisting chiefly of broken stone, and how a number of Paddies, who were accustomed to such labour, assembled above and around us to enjoy the unusual sight of “jontlemen” digging like “canawlers,” and how I, while at my spade, excited their hilarity and delight by casting at them scraps of “ould Eerish,” or Irish. The fight of the section here alluded to was, I believe, rather of the nature of an improvised rencontre, albeit two or three rebels were killed in the artillery duel. Corporal Penington was, I believe, as usual, the inspiring Mephistopheles of the affair.

[267]This reply, which is much better in every respect than that of “The old guard dies but never yields,” was made in the face of far more overwhelming numbers, and has few parallels for sheer audacity, all things considered, in the history of modern warfare. It passed into a very widely-spread popularmotin America. It is more than anon dit, for I was nearly within ear-shot when it was uttered, and it was promptly repeated to me. Yet, if my memory serves me right, there is something like this, “Come and take it!” recorded in the early Tuscan wars in Villari’s introduction to the “Life of Machiavelli,” translated by his accomplished wife. I have, as I write this note, just had the pleasure of meeting with the Minister and Madame Villari at a dinner at Senator Comparetti’s in Florence, which is perhaps the reason why I recall the precedent. And I may also recall as a noteworthy incident, that at this dinner Professor Milani, the great Etruscologist and head of the Archæological Museum, congratulated me very much on having been the first and only person who ever discovered an old Etruscan word still living in the traditions of the people—i.e.,Intial, the Spirit of the Haunting Shadow. This is a little discursive—mais je prends mon bien où je le trouve, and it is all autobiographic! “It is all turkey,” as the wolf said when he ate the claws.

The proposal of General Smith to resist with us alone the tremendous maddened rush of half of Lee’s veterans has its re-echo in my ballad, where Breitmann attempts with his Bummers to stem the great army of the South. The result would have probably been the same—that is, we should have been “gobbled up.” But he would have undoubtedly tried it without misgiving. I have elsewhere narrated my only interview with him.

[268]The thunder of the artillery at Gettysburg was indeed something to be long and well remembered. It was so awful that on the field wild rabbits, appalled by the sound, ran to the gunners and soldiers and tried to take refuge in their bosoms. Those who have only heard cannon fired singly, or a single discharge of cannon, can have no conception of what such sounds when long sustained are like.

[274]Apropos of Olcott he did good and noble work in the war, in the field, and also out of it as a Government detective, and I am very far from being ashamed to say that I aided him more than once in the latter capacity. There was a lady in Philadelphia who availed herself of a distinguished position in society so as to go and come from Richmond and act as spy and carry letters between rebel agents. I knew this and told Olcott of it, who put a stop to her treason. I also learned that a rascally contractor had defrauded Government with adulterated chemicals. Olcott had him heavily fined.

[309]The reader may find some interesting references to Robert Hunt in the Introduction by me to theLife of James Beckwourth, the famous chief of the Crow Indians. London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1893.

[333]“Custerwas the life and soul of the greatest hand-to-hand victory ever gained over the Indians of the Plains—except Patsy Connor’s Bear River Fight.”—The Masked Venus, byRichard Henry Savage.

[334]Miss Owen is well known to all folk-lorists as the first living authority onVoodoo.

[346]I am revising this MS. in the beautiful palazzo built for Ristori, 22 Lung Arno Nuovo, Florence. It is now the Pensione Pellini. On the ground floor are statues representing Ristori in different parts.

[349]Scallawag, from the Gaelicscallag, a vagabond.—D. MacRitchie.

[372]Fordepuisse-quand,videPaul de Kock.

[373]On due reflection, I believe that I have here had a slip of memory. I was not till after a year, when returning from Italy, that these incidents occurred. But as it is all strictly true in every detail, I let it remain, as of little consequence.

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