The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 17, No. 102, April, 1866

Оглавление

Various. The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 17, No. 102, April, 1866

LAST DAYS OF WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

PART I

MY ANNUAL

FOR THE "BOYS OF '29."

WERE THEY CRICKETS?

MADAM WALDOBOROUGH'S CARRIAGE

PASSAGES FROM HAWTHORNE'S NOTE-BOOKS

IV

SAINTE-BEUVE

DE SPIRIDIONE EPISCOPO

A STRUGGLE FOR SHELTER

DOCTOR JOHNS

LIII

LIV

LV

LVI

LVII

KILLED AT THE FORD

THE LATE INSURRECTION IN JAMAICA

THE CHIMNEY-CORNER FOR 1866

IV

DRESS, OR WHO MAKES THE FASHIONS

'WHO IS THE MAID?

'ST. JEROME'S LOVE

THE PRESIDENT AND CONGRESS

GRIFFITH GAUNT; OR, JEALOUSY

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES

Отрывок из книги

When, in October, 1864, the European steamer brought us the intelligence of Walter Savage Landor's death, which occurred the month previous at Florence, newspaper readers asked, "Who is Landor?" The few who remember him remotely through the medium of Mr. Hillard's selections from his writings exclaimed, "What! Did he not die long ago?" The half-dozen Americans really familiar with this author knew that the fire of a genius unequalled in its way had gone out. Two or three, who were acquainted with the man even better than with his books, sighed, and thanked God! They thanked God that the old man's prayer had at last been answered, and that the curtain had been drawn on a life which in reality terminated ten years before, when old age became more than ripe. But Landor's walk into the dark valley was slow and majestic. Death fought long and desperately before he could claim his victim; and it was not until the last three years that body and mind grew thoroughly apathetic. "I have lost my intellect," said Landor, nearly two years ago: "for this I care not; but alas! I have lost my teeth and cannot eat!" Was it not time for him to go?

The glory of old age ceases when second childishness and oblivion begin; therefore we thanked God for His goodness in taking the lonely old man home.

.....

"From the show-rooms we passed on to the work-rooms, where we found the patient weavers sitting or standing at the back side of their pieces, with their baskets of many-colored spools at their sides, and the paintings they were copying behind them, slowly building up their imitative fabrics, loop after loop, and stitch after stitch, by hand. Madam told the workmen who she was, and learned that one had been at work six months on his picture; it was a female figure kneeling to a colossal pair of legs, destined to support a warrior, whose upper proportions waited to be drawn out of the spool-baskets. Another had been a year at work on a headless Virgin with a babe in her arms, finished only to the eyes. Sometimes ten, or even twenty years, are expended by one man upon a single piece of tapestry; but the patience of the workmen is not more wonderful than the art with which they select and blend their colors, passing from the softest to the most brilliant shades, without fault, as the work they are copying requires.

"From the tapestry-weaving we passed on to the carpet-weaving rooms, where the workmen have the right side of their fabric before them, and the designs to be copied over their heads. Some of the patterns were of the most gorgeous description,—vines, scrolls, flowers, birds, lions, men; and the way they passed from the reflecting brain through the fingers of the weaver into the woollen texture was marvellous to behold. I could have spent some hours in the establishment pleasantly enough, watching the operatives, but for that terrible annoyance, the dog in my arms. I could not put him down, and I could not ask the ladies to take him. The Spider was in her element; she forgot everything but the toil of her fellow-spiders, and it was almost impossible to get her away from any piece she once became interested in. Madam, busy in telling who she was and asking questions, gave me little attention; so that I found myself more in the position of a lackey than a companion. I had regretted that her footman did not accompany us; but what need was there of a footman as long as she had me?

.....