The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 17, No. 102, April, 1866 | Page 3

not reminiscences of him in the zenith of fame. They contain glimpses
of the old man of Florence in the years 1859, 1860, and 1861, just
before the intellectual light began to flicker and go out. Even then
Landor was cleverer, and, provided he was properly approached, more
interesting than many younger men of genius. I shall ever esteem it one
of the great privileges of my life that I was permitted to know him well,
and call him friend. These papers are given to the public with the hope
that they may be of more than ordinary interest to the intelligent reader,
and that they may delineate Landor in more truthful colors than those in
which he has heretofore been painted. In repeating conversations, I
have endeavored to stand in the background, where I very properly
belong. For the inevitable egotism of the personal pronoun, I hope to be
pardoned by all charitable souls. That Landor, the octogenarian, has not
been photographed by a more competent person, is certainly not my
fault. Having had the good fortune to enjoy opportunities beyond my
deserts, I should have shown a great want of appreciation had I not
availed myself of them. If, in referring to Landor, I avoid the prefix
"Mr.," it is because I feel, with Lady Blessington, that "there are some
people, and he is of those, whom one cannot designate as 'Mr.' I should
as soon think of adding the word to his name, as, in talking of some of
the great writers of old, to prefix it to theirs."
It was a modest house in a modest street that Landor inhabited during
the last six years of his life. Tourists can have no recollection of the Via
Nunziatina, directly back of the "Carmine" in the old part of Florence;
but there is no loving lounger about those picturesque streets that does
not remember how, strolling up the Via dei Seragli, one encounters the
old shrine to the Madonna, which marks the entrance to that street
made historical henceforth for having sheltered a great English writer.
There, half-way down the via, in that little two-story casa, No. 2671,

dwelt Walter Savage Landor, with his English housekeeper and
cameriera. Sitting-room, bed-room, and dining-room opened into each
other; and in the former he was always found, in a large arm-chair,
surrounded by paintings; for he declared he could not live without them.
His snowy hair and beard of patriarchal proportions, clear, keen, gray
eyes, and grand head made the old poet greatly resemble Michel
Angelo's world-renowned masterpiece of "Moses"; nor was the
formation of Landor's forehead unlike that of Shakespeare. "If, as you
declare," said he, jokingly, one day, "I look like that meekest of men,
Moses and Shakespeare, I ought to be exceedingly good and somewhat
clever."
At Landor's feet was always crouched a beautiful Pomeranian dog, the
gift of his kind American friend, William W. Story. The affection
existing between "Gaillo" and his master was really touching. Gaillo's
eyes were always turned towards Landor's; and upon the least
encouragement, the dog would jump into his lap, lay his head most
lovingly upon his master's neck, and generally deport himself in a very
human manner. "Gaillo is such a dear dog!" said Landor, one day,
while patting him. "We are very fond of each other, and always have a
game of play after dinner; sometimes, when he is very good, we have
two. I am sure I could not live, if he died; and I know that, when I am
gone, he will grieve for me." Thereupon Gaillo wagged his tail, and
looked piteously into padrone's face, as much as to say he would be
grieved indeed. Upon being asked if he thought dogs would be
admitted into heaven, Landor answered: "And, pray, why not? They
have all of the good and none of the bad qualities of man." No matter
upon what subject conversation turned, Gaillo's feelings were consulted.
He was the only and chosen companion of Landor in his walks; but few
of the Florentines who stopped to remark the vecchio con quel bel
canino, knew how great was the man upon whom they thus
commented.
It is seldom that England gives birth to so rampant a republican as
Landor. Born on the 30th of January, two years before our Declaration
of Independence, it is probable that the volcanic action of those
troublous times had no little influence in permeating the mind of the

embryo poet with that enthusiasm for and love of liberty for which he
was distinguished in maturer years. From early youth, Landor was a
poor respecter of royalty and rank per se. He often related, with great
good-humor, an incident of his boyhood which brought his democratic
ideas into domestic disgrace. An influential bishop of