of their perusal, the substantial matter in them is still such as only men of thought and reflection can at all appreciate. There is no catering to the prejudice or ignorance of any sort of mob, political or religious. As little at the hustings as at Exeter Hall are the readers to be found whom Landor addresses. He never descends from his own intellectual level to court the suffrages of the multitude. This is almost the highest praise we can bestow on any man; and it is so high a praise, because it almost invariably incurs the forfeiture of that general good-will and loud applansive acclamation which must be grateful to all men, and which very moderate abilities, with a thorough devotion of them to the popular service, may always command. Neither must it be forgotten that the style and manner of our author, admirable as they are, and almost perfect on certain themes and occasions, with which they thoroughly harmonise, do, at other times, afflict us with a sense of constraint, of effort, of monotony. When a narrative, for instance, of any length is attempted, we seem to move along with leaden weights on either ankle. There is scarcely a redundant word, you say, how then can we be moving slowly? It is precisely because there is never a word too many that we do move so slowly. Mr Landor has never understood this paradox, that with more words he would move more rapidly; or his readers would. They miss those little stones and pebbles in the way that break the step, and make them trip and dance as they go. There is also one peculiarity in his style which in a critical estimate of his writings would deserve a distinct and separate notice. No man, in his happier moods, deals more admirably with metaphorical language; but he also deals, somewhat more than occasionally, in a class of metaphors which have nothing to commend them beyond a certain ingenuity in detecting or shaping the resemblance on which they are founded. They do not illustrate the meaning; they do not deepen the impressions; they merely detain us by drawing our attention to a cold unaffecting parallelism. This habit of catching at images which reflect neither light nor heat upon the composition will be found, we suspect, to be the chief source of what there is of weariness and fatigue in the style of Mr Landor.* But we have not imposed upon ourselves here so large and onerous a task as a critical survey of the whole of Mr Landor's works, and we ought before this to have proceeded to the special object in hand-some notice of his latest, and, as the title would signify, his last production. But we hold no author to any pledge or resolution of this description. Whilst the brain thinks (and may it still continue here to exercise its functions), the hand will write; and what the hand writes, when once the habit has set in, will be sure to be transcribed in printer's ink. These last fruits show no decay of the thinking faculty. Occasional and miscellaneous, no one will expect to find the contents of this volume equal to the Imaginary Conversations of the first and second series. But many will be, perhaps, agreeably surprised to detect so little falling off, to meet with so much that is worthy of the author of Pericles and Aspasia. Amongst the poems (although we confess there are many trifles we should have hardly thought it worth while to collect and print) there is perhaps as large a proportion of what is really excellent, as in those already printed as miscellaneous poems in his collected works. It seems a slight thing to notice, but the manner in which the Imaginary Conversations have been hitherto published to the world has not been such as to give a fair trial how far they would engage general attention. They were first printed in large octavo volumes, necessarily of a costly price; and they have been lately republished, in a form the most incommodious imaginable, in two bulky volumes, which comprise the whole of the author's works. Now, if Mr Moxon would publish the more select of the Imaginary Conversations and Pericles and Aspasia in small and cheap volumes, we are at least persuaded there would be no commercial risk in the undertaking, and a large part of the public would for the first time be introduced to these works. The first words which catch the eye on opening the volume are characteristic enough, both of the temper and the genius of the author. We say the temper of the author, for whether the irate mood, the pride bordering upon arrogance, which breaks out in his writings, enters at large into the composition of the man, is a matter of which we know nothing. These lines stand printed by themselves, in capital letters, on the first leaf, as on a memorial tablet "I strove with none, for none was worth my strife; Nature I loved, and, next to nature, art: I warmed both hands before the fire of life; prose, where he expresses the altogether vain and absurd desire to stand aloof, unassociated in our minds with other men of letters. "I claim," he says, (p. 320)-"I claim no place in the world of letters. I am alone; and will be alone, as long as I live, and after." Idle enough. He might as well have said, It is true, I have the lineaments, and bear the faculties, and have lived the life of this creature homo; but let none call me man; I will stand alone, as long as I live, and after! There is much of this morbid temper displayed in a dialogue between himself and Archdeacon Hare; but we will not go further into the subIt sinks, and I am ready to depart." ject. We touch upon it here to note and to dismiss it. It is an old story, The verse is good; but if this is a and a sad one. A proud man, confarewell to the world, it is not a grace-scious of merits ill appreciated, begins ful leave-taking. to talk of himself, of his detractors, of his compeers. He has no sooner "I strove with none, for none was worth my closed his lips than he is offended at strife." He had contemporaries whom posterity will think to have been quite worthy of his strife, if to strive with contemporaries be worthy of any man who has truth, or even art, for his object. We wish the sentiment expressed had been, that he strove with none because the love of truth, of nature, and of art bore him up, as on eagles' wings, above the region of all strife. The line as it stands is not graceful; nor is it consistent with the generous praise he himself in this very volume bestows on some of those with whom the emulous strife (if any) would have been carried on. What can be more elegant than the following eulogium on Shelley? It occurs in some lines "To the Nightingale,” and he modestly supposes his own song, as well as the nightingale's, to become inaudible in the superior melody of the poet "Melodious Shelley caught thy softest song, And they who heard his music heard not thine ; Gentle and joyous, delicate and strong, From the far tomb his voice shall silence mine." Perhaps this ungracious line refers only to a strife for power. If so, it is ambiguous; and the interpretation first put upon it is justified or excused by other passages in plain himself for having spoken. Silence would have been so much better. He is now as angry with himself as he was before with others; he speaks again, and still louder, to assert his contempt of the whole business: thus repeating the first blunder, adding to his own exasperation, and rendering it still more difficult to get back to that silence which alone comported with his dignity. It is a sad spectacle-angry with others, then at himself for having been stirred to anger: the exacerbation, in such a case, grows perpetually, and there is no hope of a genuine calm being ever established. The first conversation in the new series leads us amongst the painters. We have some fine eulogium on Titian, and Raffael, and Correggio. and chestnut-groves, and forests, and inhales the sharp sunniness of the Alpine air: it invigorates me afresh. "Cornaro.-Yes, Tiziano! Age never droops into decrepitude while Fancy stands at his side. To how many have you given an existence for centuries! . . The time will come when the chief glory of a Venetian noble will be the possession of an ancestor by the hand of Tiziano. "Tiziano.-You greatly overvalue me. There are many in our city who deserve to partake in these eulogies; and many others who followed my steps, and have preceded me to the tomb. "Cornaro. It belongs to a generous mind to be well pleased with its likeness in its inferiors; you can bear it even in a rival; you waft away your own praises, and often point towards Urbino. "Tiziano.-Urbino is richer than Tyre and Sidon ever were; Urbino is more glorified than Troy and Rome. There is only one to whom the Virgin has confided her infant; one only to whom the Infant hath manifested his mother: he leans on her bosom ; but she hath not all his love. Nearer to us, while we are conversing on this favourite of Heaven, on this purifier of the human heart, on this inspirer of the most tender and most true religion, is Antonio Allegri of Correggio. Angels play with his pencil; and he catches them by the wing, and will not let them go. What a canopy hath he raised to himself in the dome at Parma ! The highest of the departed and of the immortal are guardians of his sepulchre he deserved it." In the second conversation we are still in Italy, and the subject-so great a favourite with all our poetsof the cruel fate of Tasso and the love of Leonora-is tenderly touched. Leonora is on the point of death, and is conversing with her confessor, Father Panigarola. "Leonora.-He said so could he say it... Perhaps, too, he feared to awaken in me the sentiments he once excited. However it may be, already I feel the chilliness of the grave; his words breathe it over me. I would have entreated him to forget me; but to be forgotten before I had entreated it !-O father, father! "Panigarola.-Human vanity still is lingering in the precincts of the tomb. Is it criminal, is it censurable, in him to anticipate your wishes ? "Leonora.-Knowing the certainty and the nearness of my departure, he might at least have told me, through you, that he lamented to lose me. "Panigarola.-Is there no voice within your heart that clearly tells you so? "Leonora.-That voice is too indistinct, too troubled with the throbbings round about it. We women want sometimes to hear what we know ; we die unless we hear what we doubt. "Panigarola.-Madonna! this is too passionate for the hour. But the tears you are shedding are a proof of your compunction. May the Virgin, and the saints around her throne, accept and ratify it. "Leonora.-Father! what were you saying? what were you asking me whether no voice whispered to me, assured me? I know not. I am weary of thinking. He must love me. It is not in the nature of such men ever to cease from loving. Was genius ever ungrateful? Mere talents are dry leaves, tost up and down by gusts of passion, and scattered and swept away; but Genius lies in the bosom of Memory, and Gratitude at her feet. "Panigarola.-Be composed, be calm, be resigned to the will of Heaven; be ready for that journey's end, where the happier who have gone before, and the enduring who soon must follow, will meet. "Leonora.-I am prepared to depart. Pray, father, for my deliverance: pray also for poor Torquato's: do not separate us in your prayers. O! could he leave his prison as surely or as speedily as I shall mine! it would not be more thankfully! O that bars of iron were as fragile as bars of clay! O that princes were as merciful as Death! But tell him, tell Torquato. Go again; entreat, persuade, command him to forget me. Panigarola.-Alas! even the command, even the command from you and from above might not avail, perhaps. You smile, Madonna ! "Leonora.-I die happy." These quotations are sufficient to show that the old fire is burning still. With Louis Philippe and M. Guizot we do not feel disposed to linger. In Nicholas and Nesselrode the emperor appears to us to be somewhat travestied; the minister talks well. "Nicholas.-Yes, yes; whether we take the field or sit here in the cabinet, God fights for us visibly. You look grave, Nesselrode! Is it not so Speak, and plainly. "Nesselrode. Sire, in my humble opinion, God never fights at all. "Nicholas.-Surely he fought for Israel when he was invoked by prayer? "Nesselrode.-Sire, I am no theologian; and I fancy I must be a bad geographer, since I never knew of a nation which was Israel when it had a mind to shed blood and to pray. To fight is an exertion-is violence the Deity in his omnipotence needs none. He has devils and men always in readiness for fighting; and they are the instruments of their own punishment for their past misdeeds." Whether the Emperor Nicholas is the sort of theologian he is represented here to be, we should doubt. "Nesselrode.-Some among the Italians, and chiefly among the Romans, are venturing to express an opinion that there would be less of false religion, and more of true, if no priest of any description were left upon earth. "Nicholas.-Horrible !-unless are exempted those of the venerable Greek church. All others worship graven images we stick to pictures. "Nesselrode.-One scholar mentioned, not without an air of derision, that a picture had descended from heaven recently on the coast of Italy. "Nicholas.-Framed? varnished? under glass on pencil? on canvass? What like? "Nesselrode.-The Virgin Mary, whatever made of. "Nicholas.-She must be ours then. She missed her road. But I hope . I am guilty of no profaneness or infidelity, when I express a doubt if every picture of the blessed Virgin is sentient : most are; perhaps not every one. If they want her in England, as they seem to do, let them have her unless it is the one that rolls the eyes in that case I must claim her; she is too precious by half for Papist or Tractarian. I must order immediately these matters. No reasonable doubt can be entertained that I am the visible head of Christ's church." We made an observation just now on a certain class of metaphors which intrude upon us in the composition of Mr Landor. Here is an exaggerated example of them. In the following passage there are some half-dozen metaphors, only one of which (that about the snuff, which is very witty) gives any point or illustration to the subject. All the rest merely bewilder us with far-fetched resemblances. Nicholas is discoursing on some of the inconsistencies of England : "Nicholas.—It is amusing to look at a playground of striped tops, humming, whirring, wavering, now dipping to this Mr side, now to that, whipt from the centre to the circumference of the courtyard, and losing all distinctness of colour by the rapidity of their motion. We are consistent, Nesselrode; we can sit quiet and look on. I am fortunate, another may say judicious, in my choice of instruments. The English care more about the organ-loft than the organ, in the construction of which they employ stout bellows, but look little to the keys or stops. Pitt could speak fluently for hours together, and that was enough; he was permitted to spend a million a-week in of such elaborate lace-work, that ladies expeditions. Canning issued state-papers might make shrouds of them for their dead canaries. Of Castlereagh you know as much as I do. We blew softly the snuff into his eyes, and gave him the boxes to carry home. He has the glory of being the third founder of the French monarchy. Pitt sharpened the sword of Buonaparte, and placed the iron crown upon his head. and compacted the barrel, by setting on He was the cooper who drew together fire the chips and shavings, and putting them in the centre." We say nothing of the opinions expressed here, whether by the Emperor Nicholas, or by Mr Landor in his name. We quote the passage only as an example of a certain mannerism which we had occasion to notice. That and the organ-loft, the lace-work, the "snuff" is excellent. But the tops shrouds for dead canaries, the cooper and his barrel, are all just so much needless confusion. We might as well have spread out before us the contents of a broker's shop. No small portion of the volume is devoted to theological matters, or exposures of the errors of the Church of Rome. A few years ago nothing could have been more needless, and therefore more wearisome, than an attack upon the superstition of what to us was the church of the middle ages. An attack upon heathen gods and goddesses would have been almost as appropriate. Now the church of the middle ages rears itself up even in England as the church of the nineteenth century. There is no help for it. The same controversy must be gone over again. Again must be refuted and repelled the same miracles and mysteries, and the same flagrant usurpation on the rights of the Christian laity that Knox and Luther contended against. Tolerant men and men of taste dislike these discussions; but the man of taste must forego his fastidious refinement, and he who loves toleration must buckle on his armour here, or the old Despotism will be down upon them both, and leave them no opportunity to practise or to enjoy their much-loved tolera tion. We doubt if Mr Landor is exactly the champion his Protestant countrymen would select to place in the van of the battle; he lacks in reverence to the chiefs of their own party; but he is a bold knight, who deals hard blows, and they will not refuse the service of his sword. In the Letters to Cardinal Wiseman by a True Believer, in the piece entitled Popery, British and Foreign, he makes some home-thrusts which it would be very difficult for any honest reasoner to parry. For the crafty Romanist there is always an escape, because he has two creeds, one for the populace and one for his educated disciple. Thus the efficacy of masses said and purchased for the dead is a doctrine which, we suppose, he can upon occasion modify and explain so as to reconcile men of intelligence to its apparent absurdity. Yet those who buy the masses must have very gross definite ideas of their absolute value, or they would not lay out their money in this direction. And if the prayers of the priest really have the power to draw souls out of purgatory, it is very well suggested in these Letters of a True Believer, that it manifests great want of charity in the possessor of such a power to wait till they receive money before they exercise it. The True Believer says— "Would any rational man, any man within the pale of humanity, raise objections against the usefulness and beneficence of masses for souls defunct? He (the unbeliever) asks whether it be seemly or just to charge money for liberating a fellow-Christian (if such a place exist, and such a feat be possible) from the He asks whether fires of purgatory? the poorest of the poor is not often known to hazard his life in extinguishing the conflagration of a cottage, and without the slightest hope, or the most transient desire, of reward. He asks whether no schoolboy has himself been drowned in attempting to rescue another from drowning. VOL. LXXV.-NO. CCCCLIX. "I am firmly of opinion,' says the affect a dead Christian than a dead rat : Nowhere in the church of the We But the priest may reply that the Whilst touching on this theme, we F |