Part 28 (1/2)

”Mr. Leland,” pursued Tennyson, as gravely as ever, grasping all the absurdity of the thing with evident enjoyment, ”you have no idea how tourists trespa.s.s here to get at me. They climb over my gate and look in at my windows. It is a fact--one did so only last week. But I declare that you are the very first poet and man of letters who ever came here--to steal blackberries!” Here he paused, and then added forcibly--

”I _do_ believe you are a gypsy, after all.”

Then we talked of the old manor-houses in the neighbourhood, and of the famous Mortstone, a supposed Saxon rude monolith near by. I thought it prehistoric, because I had dug out from the pile of earth supporting and coeval with it (and indeed only with a lead-pencil) a flint flake chipped by hand and a bit of cannel coal, which indicate dedication. My host listened with great interest, and then told me a sad tale: how certain workmen employed by him to dig on his land had found a great number of old Roman bronze coins, but, instead of taking them to him, had kept them, though they cared so little for them that they gave a handful to a boy whom they met. ”I told them,” said Tennyson, ”that they had been guilty of malappropriation, and though I was not quite sure whether the coins belonged to me or to the Crown, that they certainly had no right to them. Whereupon their leader said that if I was not satisfied they would not work any longer for me, and so they went away.” I had on this occasion a long and interesting discussion with Mr. Tennyson relative to Walt Whitman, and involving the principles or nature of poetry. According to the poet-laureate, poetry, as he understood it, consisted of elevated or refined, or at least superior thought, expressed in melodious form, and in this latter it seemed to him (for it was very modestly expressed) that Whitman was wanting. Wherein he came nearer to the truth than does Symonds, who overrates, as it seems to me, the value, as regards art and poetry, of simply _equalising_ all human intelligences. Though I never met Symonds, there was mutual knowledge between us, and when I published my ”Etrusco-Roman Remains in Popular Traditions,” which contains the results of six years' intimacy with witches and fortune-tellers, he wrote a letter expressing enthusiastic admiration of it to Mr. T. Fisher Unwin.

Now all three of these great men are dead. I shall speak of Whitman anon, for in later years for a long time I met him almost daily.

I can remember that during the conversation Tennyson expressed himself, rather to my amazement, with some slight indignation at a paltry review abusing his latest work; to which I replied--

”If there is anything on earth for which I have envied you, even more than for your great renown as a poet, it has been because I supposed you were completely above all such attacks and were utterly indifferent to them.” Which he took amiably, and proceeded to discuss ripe fruit and wasps--or their equivalent. Yet I doubt whether I was quite in the right, since those who live for fame honourably acquired must ever be susceptible to stings, small or great. An editor who receives abusive letters so frequently that he ends by pitching them without reading into the waste-basket, and often treats ribald attacks in print in the same manner--as I have often done--has so many other affairs on his mind that he becomes case-hardened. But I have observed from long experience that there is a Nemesis who watches those who arrogate the right to lay on the rod, and gives it to them with interest in the end.

It was very soon after my arrival in London that I was invited to lunch at Hepworth Dixon's to meet Lord Lytton, or Bulwer, the great writer. His works had been so intensely and sympathetically loved by me so long, that it seemed as if I had been asked to meet some great man of the past. I found him, as I expected, quite congenial and wondrous kind. I remember a droll incident. Standing at the head of the stairs, he courteously made way and asked me to go before. I replied, ”When Louis XIV. asked Crillon to do the same, Crillon complied, saying, 'Wherever your Majesty goes, be it before or behind, is always the first place or post of honour,' and I say the same with him,” and so went in advance at once. I saw by his expression that he was pleased with the quotation.

We were looking at a portrait of Shakespeare which Dixon had found in Russia. Lord Lytton asked me if I thought it an original or true likeness. I observed that the face was full of many fine seamy lines, which infallibly indicate great nervous genius of the highest order--noting at the same time that Lord Lytton's countenance was very much marked in a like manner. The observation was new to him, and he seemed to be interested in it, as he always was in anything like chiromancy or metoscopy. A few days later I was invited to come and pa.s.s nearly a week with Hepworth Dixon at Knebworth, Lord Lytton's country seat. It is a very picturesque _chateau_, profusely adorned with fifteenth-century Gothic grotesques, with a fine antique hall, stained gla.s.s windows, and gallery. There is in it a chamber containing a marvellous and ma.s.sive carved oak bedstead, the posts of which are human figures the size of life, and in it and in the same room Queen Elizabeth is said to have slept when she heard of the destruction of the Spanish Armada. It was the room of honour, and it had been kindly a.s.signed to me. It all seemed like a dream.

There was in the family of the late Lord Lytton his son, who made a most favourable impression on me. I think the first _coup_ was my finding that he knew the works of Andreini, and that it had occurred to him as well as to me that Euphues Lily's book had been modelled on them. There was also his wife, a magnificent and graceful beauty; Lord Lytton's nephew, Mr. Bulwer; and several ladies. The first morning we all fished in the pond, and, to my great amazement, Lord Lytton pulled out _a great one-eyed perch_! I almost expected to see him pull out Paul Clifford or Zanoni next! In the afternoon we were driven out to Cowper Castle to see a fine gallery of pictures, our host acting as cicerone, and as he soon found that I was fairly well educated in art, and had been a special pupil of Thiersch in Munich, and something more than an amateur, we had many interesting conversations. I think I may venture to say that he did _not_ expect to find a whilom student of aesthetics, art-history, and Philosophy in the author of ”Hans Breitmann.” What was delightful was his exquisite tact in never saying as much; but I could detect it in the sudden interest and involuntary compliment implied in his tone of conversation. In a very short time he began to speak to me on all literary or artistic subjects without preliminary question, taking it for granted that I understood them and chimed in with him. I was with every interview more and more impressed with his _culture_--I mean with what had resulted from his reading--his marvellous tact of kindness in small things to all, and his quick and vigorous comparing and contrasting of images and drawing conclusions. But there was evidently enough a firm bed-rock or hard pan under all this gold. I was amazed one day when a footman, who had committed some _bevue_ or blunder, or apprehended something, actually turned pale and stammered with terror when Lord Lytton gravely addressed a question to him. I never in my life saw a man so much frightened, even before a revolver.

But Lord Lytton was beyond all question really interested when he found me so much at home in Rosicrucian and occult lore, and that I had been with Justinus Kerner in Weinsberg, and was familiar with the forgotten dusky paths of mysticism. He had in his house the famous Earl Stanhope crystal, and wished me to sleep with it under my pillow, but I was so afraid lest the precious relic should be injured, that I resolutely declined the honour, for which I am now sorry, for I sometimes have dreams of a most extraordinary character. This Stanhope crystal is not, however, the great mirror of Dr. Dee, though it has been said to be so.

The latter belonged to a gentleman in London, who also offered to lend it to me. It is made of cannel coal. That Lord Lytton made a very remarkable impression on me is proved by the fact that I continued to dream of him at long intervals after his death; and I am quite sure that such feeling is, by its very nature, always to a certain slight degree reciprocal. He had a natural and unaffected _voice_, yet one with a marked character; something like Tennyson's, which was even more striking. Both were far removed from the now fas.h.i.+onable intonation, which is the admiration and despair of American swells. It is only the _fin de siecle_ form of the _demnition_ dialect of the Forties and the _La-ard_ and _Lunnon_ of an earlier age.

Lord Lytton was generally invisible in the morning, sometimes after lunch. In the evening he came out splendidly groomed, fresh as a rose, and at dinner and after was as interesting as any of his books. He had known ”everybody” to a surprising extent, and had anecdotes fresh and vivid of every one whom he had met. He loved music, and there was a lady who sang old Spanish ballads with rare taste. I enjoyed myself incredibly.

I may be excused for mentioning here that I sent a copy of the second edition of my ”Meister Karl's Sketch-Book” to Lord Lytton. No one but Irving and Trubner had ever praised it. When Lord Lytton published afterwards ”Kenelm Chillingly,” I found in it _three_ pa.s.sages in which I recognised beyond dispute others suggested by my own work. I do not in the least mean that there was _any_ borrowing or taking beyond the mere suggestion of thought. Why I think that Lord Lytton had these hints in his mind is that he gave the name of Leland to one of the minor characters in the book.

When I published a full edition of ”Breitmann's Poems,” he wrote me a long letter criticising and praising the work, and a much longer and closely written one, of seven pages, relating to my ”Confucius and Other Poems.” I was subsequently invited to receptions at his house in London, where I first met Browning, and had a long conversation with him. I saw him afterwards at Mrs. Proctor's. This was the wife of Barry Cornwall, whom I also saw. He was very old and infirm. I can remember when the ”Cornlaw Rhymes” rang wherever English was read.

As I consider it almost a duty to record what I can remember of Bulwer, I may mention that one evening, at his house in London, he showed me and others some beautiful old bra.s.s salvers in _repousse_ work, and how I astonished him by describing the process, and declaring that I could produce a _facsimile_ of any one of them in a day or two; to which a.s.sertion hundreds to whom I have taught the art, as well as my ”Manual of Repousse,” and another on ”Metal Work,” will, I trust, bear witness.

And this I mention, not vainly, but because Lord Lytton seemed to be interested and pleased, and because, in after years, I had much to do with reviving the practice of this beautiful art. It was practising this, and a three years' study of oak-wood carving, which led me to write on the Minor Arts. _Mihi aes et triplex robur_.

Lord Lytton had the very curious habit of making almost invisible hieroglyphics or crosses in his letters--at least I found them in those to me, as it were for luck. It was a very common practice from the most ancient Egyptian times to within two centuries. Lord Lytton's were evidently intended to escape observation. But there was indeed a great deal in his character which would escape most persons, and which has not been revealed by any writer on him. This I speedily divined, though, of course, I never discovered what it all was.

Lord Houghton, ”Richard Monckton Milnes,” to whom I had a letter of introduction from Lorimer Graham, was very kind to me. I dined and lunched at his house, where I met Odo Russell or Lord Ampthill, the Duke of Bedford, the Hon. Mrs. Norton, W. W. Story, and I know not how many more distinguished in society, or letters. At Lord Lytton's I made the acquaintance of the Duke of Wellington. I believe, however, that this meeting with Lord Houghton and the Duke was in my second year in London.

The first English garden-party which I ever attended was during this first season, at the villa of Mr. Bohn, the publisher, at Twickenham.

There I made the acquaintance of George Cruikshank, whom I afterwards met often, and knew very well till his death. He was a gay old fellow, and on this occasion danced a jig with old Mr. Bohn on the lawn, and joked with me. There, too, we met Lady Martin, who had been the famed Helen Faucit. Cruikshank was always inexhaustible in jokes, anecdotes, and reminiscences. At his house I made the acquaintance of Miss Ada Cavendish.

To revert to Mr. Trubner's, I may say that one evening after dinner, when, genial though quiet, Bret Harte was one of the guests, he was asked to repeat the ”Heathen Chinee,” which he could not do, as he had never learned it--which is not such an unusual thing, by the way, as many suppose. But I, who knew it, remarked, ”Ladies and gentlemen, it is nothing to merely _write_ a poem. True genius consists in getting it by or from heart [_from_ Bret Harte, for instance], and repeating it. This genius nature has denied to the ill.u.s.trious poet before you--but not to me, as I will now ill.u.s.trate by declaiming the 'Heathen Chinee.'” Which performance was received with applause, in which Harte heartily joined.

But my claim to possess genius would hardly have borne examination, for it was years before I ever learned ”Hans Breitmann's Barty,” nor would I like to risk even a pound to one hundred that I can do it now without mixing the verses or committing some error.

Once during the season I went with my wife and Mr. W. W. Story to Eton, where we supped with Oscar Browning. We were taken out boating on the river, and I enjoyed it very much. There is a romance about the Thames a.s.sociated with a thousand pa.s.sages in literature which goes to the very heart. I was much impressed by the marked character of Mr. Browning and his frank, genial nature; and I found some delightful old Latin books in his library. May I meet with many such men!

This year, what with the German war and the Trubner-Hotten controversy, my ”Breitmann Ballads” had become, I may say, well known. The character of Hans was actually brought into plays on three stages at once.

Boucicault, whom I knew well of yore in America, introduced it into something. I had found Ewan Colquhoun--the same old sixpence--and one night he took me to the Strand Theatre to see a play in which my hero was a prominent part. I was told afterwards that the company having been informed of my presence, all came to look at me through the curtain-hole.

There were some imitations of my ballads published in _Punch_ and the _Standard_, and the latter were so admirably executed--pardon the vain word!--that I feared, because they satirised the German cause, that they might be credited to me; therefore I wrote to the journal, begging that the author would give some indication that I had not written them, which was kindly done. Finally, a newspaper was started called _Hans Breitmann_, and the Messrs. Cope, of Liverpool, issued a brand of Hans Breitmann cigars. Owing to the resemblance between the words Bret and Breit there was a confusion of names, and my photograph was to be seen about town, with the name of Bret Harte attached to it. This great injustice to Mr. Harte was not agreeable, and I, or my friends, remonstrated with the shop-folk with the to-be-expected result, ”Yes-sir, yes-sir--very sorry, sir--we'll correct the mistake, sir!” But I don't think it was ever corrected till the sale ceased.

I was sometimes annoyed with many imitations of my poems by persons who knew no German, which were all attributed to me. A very pious Presbyterian publication, in alluding to something of the kind, said that ”Mr. Leland, _because he is the author of Bret Harte_, thinks himself justified in publis.h.i.+ng any trash of this description.” I thought this a _very_ improper allusion for a clergyman, not to say libellous. In fact, many people really believed that Bret Harte was a _nom de plume_ or the t.i.tle of a poem. And I may here say by the way that I never ”wrote under” the pseudonym of Hans Breitmann in my life, nor called myself any such name at any time. It is simply the name of one of many _books_ which I have written. An American once insisting to me that I _should_ be called so from my work, I asked him if he would familiarly accost Mr.

Lowell as ”Josh Biglow.” If there is anything in the world which denotes a subordinate position in the social scale or defect in education, it is the pa.s.sion to call men ”out of their names,” and never feel really acquainted with any one until he is termed Tom or Jack. It is doubtless all very genial and jocose and sociable, but the man who shows a tendency to it should _not_ complain when his betters put him in a lower cla.s.s or among the ”lower orders.”

Once at a reception at George Boughton's, the artist, there was, as I heard, an elderly gentleman rus.h.i.+ng about asking to see or be introduced to _Hart Bretmann_, whose works he declared he knew by heart, and with whom he was most anxious to become acquainted. Whether he ever discovered this remarkable conglomerate I do not know.