About this time, as all my friends went hunting once or twice a week, I
determined to do the same. Now, as I had never been a good rider, and
had anything but an English seat in the saddle, I went to a riding-school
and underwent a thorough course both on the pig-skin and bare-backed. My
teacher, Mr. Goodchild, said eventually of me that I was the only person
whom he had ever known who had at my time of life learned to ride well.
But to do this I gave my whole mind and soul to it; and Goodchild's
standard, and still more that of his riding-master, who had been a
captain in a cavalry regiment, was very high. I used to feel quite as if
I were a boy again, and one under pretty severe discipline at that, when
the Captain was drilling me. For his life he could not treat his pupils
otherwise than as recruits. "Sit up straighter, sir! Do you call _that_
sitting up? _That's_ not the way to hold your arms! Knees in! Why,
sir, when I was learning to ride I was made to put shillings between my
knees and the side, and if I dropped one _I forfeited it_!"
Then in due time came the meets, and the fox and hare hunting, during
which I found my way, I believe, into every village or nook for twenty
miles round. By this time I had forgotten all my troubles, mental or
physical, and after riding six or seven hours in a soft fog, would come
home the picture of health.
I remember that one very cold morning I was riding alone to the meet on a
monstrous high black horse which Goodchild had bought specially for me,
when I met two gypsy women, full blood, selling wares, among them woollen
mittens--just what I wanted, for my hands were almost frozen in Paris
kids. The women did not know me, but I knew them by description, and
great was the amazement of one when I addressed her by name and in
Romany.
"_Pen a mandy_, _Priscilla Cooper_, _sa buti me sosti del tute for adovo
pustini vashtini_?" (Tell me, Priscilla Cooper, how much should I give
you for those woollen gloves?)
"Eighteen pence, master." The common price was ninepence.
"I will _not_ give you eighteen pence," I replied.
"Then how much _will_ you give, master?" asked Priscilla.
"_Four shillings_ will I give, and not a penny less--_miri pen_--you may
take it or leave it."
I went off with the gloves, while the women roared out blessings in
Romany. There was something in the whole style of the gift, or the
_manner_ of giving it, which was specially gratifying to gypsies, and the
account thereof soon spread far and wide over the roads as a beautiful
deed.
The fraternity of the roads is a strange thing. Once when I lived at
Walton there was an old gypsy woman named Lizzie Buckland who often
camped near us. A good and winsome young lady named Lillie Doering had
taken a liking to the old lady, and sent her a nice Christmas present of
clothing, tea, &c., which was sent to me to give to the Egyptian mother.
But when I went to seek her, she had flown over the hills and far away.
It made no difference. I walked on till I met a perfect stranger to me,
a woman, but "evidently a traveller." "Where is old Liz?" I asked.
"Somewhere about four miles beyond Moulsey." "I've got a present for
her; are you going that way?" "Not exactly, but I'll take it to her; a
few miles don't signify." I learned that it had gone from hand to hand
and been safely delivered. It seems a strange way to deliver valuables,
to walk forth and give them to the first tramp whom you meet; but I knew
my people.
I may here say that during this and the previous winter I had practised
wood-carving. In which, as in studying Gypsy, I had certain ultimate
aims, which were fully developed in later years. I have several times
observed in this record that when I get an idea I cherish it, think it
over, and work it up. Out of this wood-carving and _repousse_ and the
designing which it involved I in time developed ideas which led to what I
may fairly call a great result.
We remained at Brighton until February, when we went to London and stayed
at the Langham Hotel. Then began the London life of visits, dinners, and
for me, as usual, of literary work. In those days I began to meet and
know Professor E. H. Palmer, Walter Besant, Walter H. Pollock, and many
other men of the time of whom I shall anon have more to say. I arranged
with Mr. Trubner as to the publication of "The English Gypsies." I think
it was at this time that I dined one evening at Sir Charles Dilke's,
where a droll incident took place. There was present a small Frenchman,
to whom I had not been introduced, and whose name therefore I did not
know. After dinner in the smoking-room I turned over with this gentleman
a very curious collection of the works of Blake, which were new to him.
Finding that he evidently knew something about art, I explained to him
that Blake was a very strange visionary--that he believed that the
spirits of the dead appeared to him, and that he took their portraits.
"_C'etait donc un fou_," remarked the Frenchman.
"_Non_, Monsieur," I replied, "he was not a madman. He was almost a
genius. Indeed, _c'etait un Dore manque_" (he was all but a Dore).
There was a roar of laughter from all around, and I, innocently supposing
that I had said something clever unawares, laughed too.
After all had departed, and I was smoking alone with Sir Charles, he
said--
"Well, what did you think of Dore?"
"Dore!" I replied astonished, "why, I never saw Dore in all my life."
"That was Dore to whom you were talking," he answered.
"Ah! well," was my answer, "then it is all right."
I suppose that Dore 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 in _Punch_), the Hon. John Collier, Riviere, 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 which would 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 the _Noctes_ varies 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 aesthetic culture and science, when
every landscape, event, or human being is or may be to us exactly the
same as a _book_. 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
in words 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 I _often_ compose or think
books or monographs which, though not translated into type, are as
absolutely _literature_ to me as if they were. There is so _much_ more
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 pass
_all_ the 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 may be 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 me
_now_ anything 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 embraces _all_ landscaping or picture-making or
dainty delicate cataloguing in poetry, _a la_ Morris at times, or like
the Squyre of Lowe Degre, in detail, also involves a far more earnest
feeling, and one which combines thought or _religion_ with 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 great _ballerine_ many 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 marvellously clever 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 of
_condottieri_ or military adventurers, and Robert Hunt from Cooper's
novels, so Wykoff got his inspiration for a career from studying and
admiring the diplomatic _parvenus_ of Queen Anne's time. These
_Bohemiens de la haute volee_, 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 dashing _prima 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 quaint _mots_, 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 Trubner's in this 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 and _distingue_ men, 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 elegant _prima donna_ referred 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 great _naivete_. Mr. B., however, had on his pole a silver reel,
which had cost 30 pounds ($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. "_Now_ is 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 do you 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 a _great_
compliment, 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 ever present 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'll_ buy
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
his _extraordinary_ likeness to my late father. 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 very _debris_ and 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 to _see_ and _hear_ me--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 gypsy _dook_, 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?" (I _think_ he said "will you be?")
"German, or Irish, or what?"