The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 17, No. 102, April, 1866 | Page 9

Wordsworth, sir! He
looks exactly like a horse, sir, and a very long-faced horse at that, sir!'
And he did look like a horse," added Landor.

Those who have seen good likenesses of Wordsworth will readily
remark this resemblance. A greater length of ear would liken the Lake
poet to an animal of less dignity.
Continuing the conversation thus begun, Landor said: "I saw a great
deal of Hazlitt when he was in Florence. He called upon me frequently,
and a funny fellow he was. He used to say to me: 'Mr. Landor, I like
you, sir,--I like you very much, sir,--you're an honest man, sir; but I
don't approve, sir, of a great deal that you have written, sir. You must
reform some of your opinions, sir.'" And again Landor laughed with
great good-will.
"I regret that I saw Charles Lamb but once," replied Landor, in answer
to many questions asked concerning this delightful man and writer.
"Lamb sent word by Southey" (I think it was Southey) "that he would
be very happy to see me, whereupon we made him a visit. He had then
retired from the India House, and lived at Enfield. He was most
charming in conversation, and his smile impressed me as being
particularly genial. His sister also was a very agreeable person. During
my visit, Lamb rose, went to a table in the centre of the room, and took
up a book, out of which he read aloud. Soon shutting it, he turned to me,
saying: 'Is not what I have been reading exceedingly good?' 'Very
good,' I replied. Thereupon Lamb burst out laughing, and exclaimed:
'Did one ever know so conceited a man as Mr. Landor? He has actually
praised his own ideas!' It was now my turn to laugh, as I had not the
slightest remembrance of having written what Lamb had read."
Are there many to whom the following lines will not be better than
new?
"Once, and only once, have I seen thy face, Elia! once only has thy
tripping tongue Run o'er my breast, yet never has been left Impression
on it stronger or more sweet. Cordial old man! what youth was in thy
years, What wisdom in thy levity! what truth In every utterance of that
purest soul! Few are the spirits of the glorified I'd spring to earlier at
the gate of Heaven."
Being asked if he had met Byron, Landor replied: "I never saw Byron

but once, and then accidentally. I went into a perfumery shop in
London to purchase a pot of the ottar of roses, which at that time was
very rare and expensive. As I entered the shop a handsome young man,
with a slight limp in his walk, passed me and went out. The shopkeeper
directed my attention to him, saying: 'Do you know who that is, sir?'
'No,' I answered. 'That is the young Lord Byron.' He had been
purchasing some fancy soaps, and at that time was the fashion. I never
desired to meet him."
As all the world knows, there was little love lost between these two
great writers; but it was the man, not the poet, that Landor so cordially
disliked.

MY ANNUAL.
FOR THE "BOYS OF '29."
How long will this harp which you once loved to hear Cheat your lips
of a smile or your eyes of a tear? How long stir the echoes it wakened
of old, While its strings were unbroken, untarnished its gold?
Dear friends of my boyhood, my words do you wrong; The heart, the
heart only, shall throb in my song; It reads the kind answer that looks
from your eyes,-- "We will bid our old harper play on till he dies."
Though Youth, the fair angel that looked o'er the strings, Has lost the
bright glory that gleamed on his wings, Though the freshness of
morning has passed from its tone, It is still the old harp that was always
your own.
I claim not its music,--each note it affords I strike from your
heart-strings, that lend me its chords; I know you will listen and love to
the last, For it trembles and thrills with the voice of your past.
Ah, brothers! dear brothers! the harp that I hold No craftsman could
string and no artisan mould; He shaped it, He strung it, who fashioned
the lyres That ring with the hymns of the seraphim choirs.

Not mine are the visions of beauty it brings, Not mine the faint
fragrance around it that clings; Those shapes are the phantoms of years
that have fled, Those sweets breathe from roses your summers have
shed.
Each hour of the past lends its tribute to this, Till it blooms like a bower
in the Garden of Bliss; The thorn and the thistle may grow