conservatism; and that curious diffidence (he assures us that it was "diffidence") which induced him to write many thousand lines of blank verse entirely about himself. But the task would be superfluous as well as ungrateful. It was his aim, he tells us, "to console the afflicted; to add sunshine to daylight by making the happy happier; to teach the young and the gracious of every age to see, to think, and therefore to become more actively and securely virtuous;" and, high as was the aim he did much towards its accomplishment.

Landor's Imaginary Conversations

WHEN Mr. Forster brought out the collected edition of Landor's works, the critics were generally embarrassed. They evaded for the most part any committal of themselves to an estimate of their author's merits, and were generally content to say that we might now look forward to a definitive judgment in the ultimate court of literary appeal. Such an attitude of suspense was natural enough. Landor is perhaps the most striking instance in modern literature of a radical divergence of opinion between the connoisseurs and the mass of readers. The general public have never been induced to read him, in spite of the lavish applauses of some self-constituted authorities. One may go further. It is doubtful whether those who aspire to a finer literary palate than is possessed by the vuglar herd are really so keenly appreciative as the innocent reader of published remarks might suppose. Hypocrisy in matters of taste--whether of the literal or metaphorical kind -is the commonest of vices. There are vintages,

both material and intellectual, which are more frequently praised than heartily enjoyed. I have heard very good judges whisper in private that they have found Landor dull; and the rare citations made from his works often betray a very perfunctory study of them. Not long ago, for example, an able critic quoted a passage from one of the Imaginary Conversations to prove that Landor admired Milton's prose, adding the remark that it might probably be taken as an expression of his real sentiments, although put in the mouth of a dramatic person. To any one who has read Landor with ordinary attention, it seems as absurd to speak in this hypothetical manner as it would be to infer from some incidental allusion that Mr. Ruskin admires Turner. Landor's adoration for Milton is one of the most conspicuous of his critical propensities. There are, of course, many eulogies upon Landor of undeniable weight. They are hearty, genuine, and from competent judges. Yet the enthusiasm of such admirable critics as Mr. Emerson and Mr. Lowell may be carped at by some who fancy that every American enjoys a peculiar sense of complacency when rescuing an English genius from the neglect of his own countrymen. If Mr. Browning and Mr. Swinburne have been conspicuous in their admiration, it might be urged that neither of them has too strong

a desire to keep to that beaten highroad of the commonplace, beyond which even the best guides meet with pitfalls. Southey's praises of Landor were sincere and emphatic; but it must be added that they provoke a recollection of one of Johnson's shrewd remarks. "The reciprocal civility of authors," says the Doctor, "is one of the most risible scenes in the farce of life." One forgives poor Southey indeed for the vanity which enabled him to bear up so bravely against anxiety and repeated disappointment; and if both he and Landor found that "reciprocal civility" helped them to bear the disregard of contemporaries, one would not judge them harshly. It was simply a tacit agreement to throw their harmless vanity into a common stock. Of Mr. Forster, Landor's faithful friend and admirer, one can only say that in his writing about Landor, as upon other topics, we are distracted between the respect due to his strong feeling for the excellent in literature, and the undeniable facts that his criticisms have a very blunt edge, and that his eulogies are apt to be indiscriminate.

Southey and Wordsworth had a simple method of explaining the neglect of a great author. According to them, contemporary neglect affords a negative presumption in favour of permanent reputation. No lofty poet has honour in his own

Southey's convirtin the bis pooin guld make the fortune of his 23

a a pleasant france of self-dessin But the ferry is generally amined in regard to Toivorki and Landor accepted and defended Icteristic rigou

I have protated he says in the conversation with Here the rommes of Imagery Carszu ent the vors of them through the middle and there wh remain in the fecimal fraction enough to say espenne for fame. I shall fine late: but the dining

tum vibe well lighted the guests few and select.

He recars frequently to the doctrine.

Be patiens" he says, in another character) From the Engber bearers of poetry it is long before the rañance of the brightest star can reach the world SECT We hear that one man finds out one beauty, zote za £nds out another, placing his observavy z kruments on the poet's grave. The For mart bave eaten as before we rightly know what we are. It is only when we are skeletons that we are boxed and ticketed and prized and shown Be it I shall not be tired of waiting.

Conscions, as he says in his own person, that in two thousand years there have not been five volumes of prose the work of one author) equal to his Conservations, he could indeed afford to wait: if conwins of earthly things, he must be waiting still.

This superlative self-esteem strikes one, to say