No More Learning

Equally just are the sparing praise of Middleton's over-
lauded drama, The Witch, and the intuitive recognition of the
passion which finds an imperfectly articulate outlet in the plays
and translations of Chapman. The thought of Shakespeare is


## p. 191 (#215) ############################################

VIII)
191
Mrs Leicester's School
always present. Heywood is a sort of prose Shakspeare,' with
his feeling, but without his command of expression ; Chapman
'perhaps approaches nearest to Shakspeare in the descriptive and
didactic, in passages which are less purely dramatic. The funeral
dirge in Webster's White Devil challenges comparison with 'Full
fathom five' in The Tempest : 'as that is of the water, watery ; so
this is of the earth, earthy. Shakespearean reminiscence pervades
the style of these notes; Lamb constantly seeks comparisons from the
greatest of dramatists and finds in his words a never-failing source
of apt expression. At its best, as in the notes on Webster, his prose
becomes lyric, with a pregnancy of phrase that leaves a peculiarly
vivid impression of the characteristics which it illustrates.
In Mrs Leicester's School, which was nearly contemporary with
Specimens, Mary Lamb had the principal share. Lamb himself
contributed three of the ten stories, anecdotes of childhood sup-
posed to be related by the pupils of a ladies' school at Amwell
in Hertfordshire and reduced to writing by one of their teachers.
Autobiography enters largely into these charming stories : in The
Young Mahometan, Mary wrote down her memories of Blakesware
and recorded her own childish perversion to Mohammedanism,
caused by one of Samuel Salt's miscellaneous collection of
books, while, in the Visit to the Cousins, she recalled a child's
first impressions of the play and its interest in the figures which
struck the quarters upon the clock of St Dunstan's, and introduced
her young heroine to the Juvenile library in Skinner street,
paying, with sly humour, an incidental tribute to the persuasive
powers of Mrs Godwin. The Witch Aunt was founded by Lamb
upon a reminiscence to which he referred later in Witches and
other Night Fears, and First Going to Church blends memories
of the Temple church with Coleridge's youth at Ottery St Mary.
The bells of Ottery, whose identity Lamb veiled later under the
disguise of 'sweet Calne in Wiltshire,' had already made their
music heard in John Woodvil. With Mrs Leicester's School and
the artless rimes of Poetry for Children, tales and apologues in
which the moral element, sugared with humour and softened by
pathos, plays a large part, the joint work of the brother and sister
came to an end. Prince Dorus, a fairy-tale in decasyllabic
couplets, published by Mrs Godwin in 1811, was Lamb's last work
for children.
On 27 May 1809, the Lambs moved into new quarters at
4 Inner Temple lane, after a short return to Southampton buildings.
The anxiety of the move brought on one of Mary's attacks, and,
a


## p. 192 (#216) ############################################

192
[CH.
Lamb
in the autumn, he took her to visit the Hazlitts at Winterslow,
where she recovered health, and they had long walks to Wilton,
Salisbury and Stonehenge-Wilton, with its treasures of painting
and sculpture, characteristically taking the first place in Lamb's
enumeration of these excursions. The visit was renewed in the
following summer, but with less satisfaction; the return journey
was made by way of Oxford and Blenheim, and thence to Bury
St Edmunds, and ended in Mary's serious relapse, which clouded
the early autumn of 1810. Meanwhile, Lamb found pleasure in
his two sitting-rooms on the third floor of the house in Inner
Temple lane, the print-room hung with the works of Hogarth and
the book-room with its 'small but well-chosen library. In these
rooms, the resort of Martin Burney and the 'card-boys' and of
other friends who gathered round him in the evenings when his
work at the India house was over, he spent some eight years.
His letters during this period include a number addressed to
Wordsworth, crowded with critical and humourous obiter dicta
and appreciation of his correspondent's poems.
His life was
chequered by moments of sadness, but his earlier depression
vanished; he could even speak lightly of the trouble which
brooded over his house and say that 'the wind is tempered to the
shorn Lambs. ' Outer events touched him but little : there are
allusions in his letters to the Napoleonic catastrophe in 1814 and
1815, but they are those of a mere spectator of the drama. His
catholicity of temperament allowed him to preserve his friendship
with the poets whose revolutionary sympathies had been trans-
formed into conservatism, while he was able to extend it to
Hazlitt and Leigh Hunt at the opposite pole of radicalism.
What any man can write,' he wrote to Wordsworth in 1815,
‘surely I may read. ' This principle, mutatis mutandis, applies
to his choice of friends.
Small in volume as his work was between 1810 and 1820, it is
the work of one whose power of conversation and faculty of
criticism were felt by all who came into contact with him. His
natural shyness and an impediment in his speech prevented him,
even if he had wished it, from dominating a literary circle; but,
his sound good sense, abundant sympathy and whimsical gaiety
of utterance gave him peculiar influence with his friends. His
own highest achievements were yet to come. When he began
to write for Leigh Hunt in The Reflector in 1810, he had had
comparatively little experience in essay-writing. Casual criticism
in letter-writing is another thing; and the masterly estimate of
6


## p. 193 (#217) ############################################

VIN]
Lamb's Humour
193
Jeremy Taylor, in one of his letters to Robert Lloyd, is marked
by considerably more freedom and liveliness than are the valuable,
but somewhat laboured, articles in The Reflector upon The Genius
and Character of Hogarth and The Tragedies of Shakespeare.
His genius, however, for apt illustration of his favourite authors,
was again proved in Specimens from the Writings of Fuller
printed in the same periodical at the end of 1811; and the
passages of Table-Talk contributed to The Examiner in 1813
have the same brief and pregnant character. The review of
Wordsworth’s Excursion in The Quarterly for October 1814 was
mangled by Gifford to the injury of what, in Lamb's own and
Mary's opinions, was 'the prettiest piece of prose I ever writ. '
Distinct from his critical essays at this time are the humourous
letters, modelled upon the pattern of The Tatler and The
Spectator, which Lamb wrote for The Reflector in 1810 and 1811.
Such essays as that on the Inconveniences Resulting from being
Hanged are specimens of a humour which, amusing enough in
the warmth of conversation, sparkles less brightly in print. His
humour needed the touch of personal reminiscence, the softening
of laughter by the wistful memory of the past. This vein is
hardly touched in Recollections of Christ's Hospital, printed in
The Gentleman's Magazine for June 1813, which, with a foretaste
of that gift of portraiture which enlivens many pages of Elia, is
serious and matter-of-fact. For the present, his written humour
took a serio-comic direction, playing with grim subjects and
identifying itself with imaginary topics. There is, however, one
notorious exception which, founded, to some extent, upon his own
experience, has had a baneful effect upon estimates of his character.
Confessions of a Drunkard, printed in The Philanthropist for
June 1813, pictures, in moving terms, the misery of a slave to
drink and tobacco. Its object was, undoubtedly, serious, and it is
equally certain that Lamb traced in it the progress of his own
undeniable affection for these accompaniments of his evenings, with
some genuine regret, corroborated by his letters, that he was not
superior to their seductions. But he was capable, even for a
serious purpose, of using his imagination to describe sensations
and sentiments which, as a matter of fact, were an exaggeration of
his own.
At all times, the incidents of his life became stories in
which he played at will with his own personality. Confessions of a
Drunkard was reprinted in The London Magazine for August
1822, when Elia was at the height of his magic powers, and was
able to jest ruefully to Dorothy Wordsworth upon the warnings of
13
funerary
E. L. XII.
CH. VIII.


## p. 194 (#218) ############################################

194
Lamb
[CH.
rheumatism against his favourite beverages. In 1821, De Quincey
had published Confessions of an Opium Eater in the same
magazine, embroidering fancy upon fact with portentous serious-
ness; and it is in keeping with Lamb's spirit of mischief that he
should have furbished up his old essay in the following year to
mystify his readers with an avowal in marked contrast to the tone
of those impenitent disclosures. His annoyance at the gratuitous
assumption of The Quarterly that the essay was 'a genuine
description of the state of the writer' amounts to a denial.
At the end of 1817, the Lambs, as Mary wrote to Dorothy
Wordsworth, 'mustered up resolution enough' to leave their
chambers in the Temple for lodgings over a brazier's shop at
20 Russell street, Covent garden, ‘a place all alive with noise and
bustle ; Drury Lane Theatre in sight from our front, and Covent
Garden from our back windows. This congenial position atoned
for the final severance of their connection with their earliest home.
The divine plain face' of the actress Fanny Kelly began to fill
Lamb's thoughts. Apart from the romance of his boyhood, and an
attraction, commemorated in the touching lyric Hester, to the
unknown quakeress Hester Savory, during his life at Pentonville,
his mind had been singularly free from thoughts of love. In July
1819, he proposed marriage to Miss Kelly in a letter of great
beauty and dignity of feeling ; she refused him with equal candour
and respect, and he bore his disappointment with exemplary
fortitude.
The collected Works of Charles Lamb, dedicated to Coleridge
and containing John Woodvil, Mr H- Rosamund Gray, a
collection of poems and sonnets and such essays as he thought
worthy of republication, was published in two volumes by the
brothers Ollier in 18181. From the date of the publication of these
volumes until August 1820, Lamb wrote with some regularity for
The Examiner and, after its decease, for The Indicator, also edited
by Leigh Hunt. To this same period belong kindly reviews of two
books of verse by friends, the Nugae Canorae of Charles Lloyd and
Barron Field's First Fruits of Australian Poetry, both in The
Examiner, and a review of Keats's Lamia and its companion pieces.
Barron Field, the companion of the Lambs in their excursion to
Mackery End, had gone to New South Wales as chief judge of
the supreme court. Of the two poems which Field printed for
private circulation, the first was characterised by Lamb as con-
taining too much evidence of the unlicensed borrowing which had
1 An analysis of their contents will be found in the bibliography to the present chapter.
>
a
목
​1


## p. 195 (#219) ############################################

VIII]
The Essays of Elia
195
helped to colonise Botany bay. To the second, The Kangaroo,
which he quoted at length, he gave more praise: he was
‘mistaken, if it does not relish of the graceful hyperboles of the
elder writers'-a perhaps excessive compliment, which might be
suspected of having a double edge if it had not been repeated
less ambiguously at a later date.
The London Magazine of August 1820 contained Recollections
of the South-Sea House, the first of the miscellaneous essays
which bore the signature Elia. From October 1820 to the end
of 1823, Elia was a regular contributor to this brilliant but short-
lived journal. It was a happy thought which led him to seek
material for his first essay in his own reminiscences; for it was in
the contemplation of these and the weaving of romance into their
fabric that he found his true style. He told his publisher, John
Taylor, that he adopted the sobriquet Elia out of regard for the
feelings of his brother John, still a clerk in the South-Sea house
and readily annoyed by trifles. The original Elia was an Italian
with literary tastes whom Lamb remembered as a clerk in the
service of the company; his death was almost contemporaneous
with the borrowing of his name for these essays. Their success
was immediate. Lamb was no new writer, and the authorship
soon became an open secret; but the charm of the anonymous
writer who lavished the treasures of his humour and sympathy
easily and confidentially, talking with his readers from a stand-
point entirely free from condescension, won its way for its own
sake. At the end of 1822, the larger number of the essays were
collected for publication in a separate volume. The second series
of essays did not appear until 1833, long after Lamb's connection
with The London had ceased.
From what has been said in the course of this chapter it will
be seen that a large portion of Lamb's biography can be written
from the essays. His subject was humanity at large, but, in him-
self, he saw its microcosm. Using his own impressions and recol-
lections as a text for his work, he wrote without a trace of egotism
or self-assertion. To himself, he was one of a crowd, sympathis-
ing with its most ordinary pleasures and sorrows. His natural
humility precluded any consciousness of a mission to teach ; he
had not even the ambition to formulate a philosophy of life.
Among his friends were reckoned many whose example might
have fostered this ambition; but, in dedicating himself to the
common duties of daily life, he had learned the lesson of self-
effacement and that sanity of outlook which defends its possessor
13-2


## p. 196 (#220) ############################################

196
Lamb
[CH.
1
0
from the misfortune of taking himself too seriously. Subjective
though his essays are in the sense that they deal largely with
himself and his doings, his personality did not project itself so as
to bend everything within its reach into the shape of its idiosyn-
crasies: it was a receptive surface which reflected the ordinary
life of the world, with added light and colour.
Quickly sensitive to the cloud and sunshine of the moods that
chased each other across it, Lamb's mind identified itself com-
pletely with its subject, and his style is tremulously alive to the
smallest variations of the chequered pageant of life. Its prevailing
intellectual quality is humour. Few writers, since Shakespeare
gave life with equal sympathy to Hamlet and to Falstaff, have
understood so fully as Lamb the intertwining of the ludicrous and
pathetic elements in human nature. Their apparent opposition
was not merely reconciled by him into a complementary relation.
He wedded them into close identity; apprehension and sorrow
were familiar elements of his own life, but the cheerful genius of
laughter was ever ready to recall him to his sense of proportion.
His nervous tendency to laugh at a funeral was, in no small degree,
the result of his innate sense of contrast. The extravagant side of
his humour appears in his inveterate love of punning and in some
incidents of his life in which a fastidious critic might hold him
guilty of a leaning to horse-play. But he himself disclaimed the
reputation of a profest joker'; and the humour of Elia is an
even mixture of tenderness and playfulness. His lighter moods
are subdued by an undertone of pathos; where he writes in
sadness, a sudden thought sheds a transfiguring gaiety upon his
work. "The tender grace of a day that is dead' fills the essays
which deal with his early recollections and suffuses the portraits
which they contain. Yet, the lighter side of the subject is not
forgotten; his portraits are lively representations of their sub-
jects, as the world, and not only the son, brother, or friend saw
them. The mingled affection and amusement with which Lamb
regarded George Dyer, and described his misadventure in the
canal at Islington, is a conspicuous example of the inseparable
union of laughter and pathos in his nature and style.
If, however, tender sentiment plays a large part in his humour,
the reputation of the 'gentle Charles' was not to his liking. Pure
mischief was as strong in him as sympathy, and, like Ariel, he
found pleasure in dazzling his spectators with illusions. It was
quite compatible with his genuine respect for Dyer's unworldliness
to poke fun at it. Even Coleridge could be reminded that his
w


## p. 197 (#221) ############################################

VIII] The Essays of Elia
197
a
juvenile harangues may have given as much amusement as admira-
tion to the humourist who listened to them. The wanton love of
playing with his reader is constantly exercised in an adroit
mixture of fact with fiction. The groundwork of Lamb's reminis-
cences is habitually true, but there is always an undefinable point
at which the superstructure becomes purely imaginary. Dates
are altered and the order of incidents reversed. In Christ's
Hospital, he speaks, for a time, in the accents of Coleridge and in
contradiction to his own earlier recollections; but, before the
essay is done, he takes a third shape to address the shape which he
has just quitted—and all this without the least awkwardness or
display of mechanism. Sometimes, Lamb may have had a solid
reason for these Protean tricks of fancy; but their chief ground
is natural love for make-believe. With the inborn habit of turning
reality into romance, he combined the delectable passion for
throwing dust in the eyes of the serious person to whom the
identity of Elia was of more concern than the matter of his essays.
.
All this—the wide sympathy, the blending of tears and laughter,
the freakishness of Elia-must, by themselves, have given peculiar
charm to his style. But its magic is enhanced by its purely
literary quality. Lamb's study of the older English authors bred
in him that love of quaint turns of phrase and obsolete words
which, in writers of less humour, often becomes a disagreeable
mannerism. This archaism, however, lending itself well to Lamb's
demure type of humour, was no mere decoration, but part and
parcel of his style. The language of his favourite authors, closely
woven into the texture of his mind, found its way without an
effort into his prose, where, transmuted by bis alchemy, it was
issued under a new and authentic coinage. Quotations abound
in the two volumes of Elia, and their text, probably, contains many
less conspicuous reminiscences of sentences and phrases which
have been left unnoticed or unidentified. Whole passages are
cast in forms which recall the manner of the early seventeenth-
century prose writers. In Sir Thomas Browne, Lamb found the
spirit of the past most nearly akin to his own, with its active
curiosity as to the mysteries of life and death, and the zest with
which its dignity amused itself with trifles. Thus, the solemn
cadences and Latinised constructions of New Year's Eve and some
of the Popular Fallacies, a title which at once recalls Pseudo-
doxia Epidemica, are full of echoes of Hydriotaphia and The
Garden of Cyrus. With this ready faculty of imitating the music
of the past, Lamb used singular licence in appropriating its actual


## p. 198 (#222) ############################################

198
[CH,
Lamb
6
strains. The act of borrowing a happy phrase that occurred to
him unbidden did not involve the necessity of verification. The
words in their new context became his own, and the elusiveness
with which he cloaked his fortunate thefts is part of his charm.
What a misfortune,' he wrote to Bernard Barton, 'to have a
Lying memory! ' This exclamation forms part of an apology, more
humourous than rueful, for inventing a quotation from George
Fox. If, in this case, his memory played him false, it is equally
certain that he indulged now and then in deliberate invention.
In The Two Races of Men, for example, there are three lines of
blank verse for which the inquisitive student will turn with some
confidence to the Stewart dramatists and find his trouble un-
rewarded.
Lamb, with rare good sense, never yielded to the temptation of
devoting himself wholly to literature. The India house, whatever
drudgery he may have felt in its service, provided him with a
welcome mainstay. “There is corn in Egypt, while there is cash
at Leadenhall. He spent his holidays with Mary, sometimes on
the south coast, sometimes with friends at Cambridge and else-
where. In 1822, they visited Paris, where Talma supped with
Lamb, but the exertion proved too much for Mary. In the
summer of 1823, they removed from Russell street to a six-roomed
cottage in Colebrook row, Islington. The New river, the scene of
George Dyer's exploit in the following November, flowed in front
of the house : at the back was a garden ‘to delight the heart of
old Alcinous. ' Lamb felt 'like a great Lord, never having had a
house before. ' This comparative retirement did not mean loss of
friends; he felt himself 'oppressed with business all day and
Company all night,' and complained of the want of privacy in the
first of the short papers contributed to The New Times in 1825,
under the signature 'Lepus,' the 'hare with many friends. '
The most important of his letters during this period were
addressed to Bernard Barton, his correspondence with whom
began in September 1822. Barton, a prolific writer of verse
which displays sincere emotion and susceptibility to the charm of
places, but seldom rises above respectable mediocrity, was clerk in
a bank at Woodbridge in Suffolk. He was a quaker, and it might
seem that his steady, serious mind had little in common with
Lamb's moods of extravagant gaiety. Lamb, however, had a
strong admiration for the type of character fostered by quakerism,
which, combined with amusement at the rigid business qualities of
the sect, is declared in A Quaker's Meeting, and was expressed in
end Imperfect
Symlinethics
6


## p. 199 (#223) ############################################

VIII]
199
His Friendships
the sombre neatness of the dress which he affected in his mature
years. The friendship of 'B. B. ' proved a consoling and steadying.
influence during the trying years when declining health began to
tell upon him and the periods of Mary's insanity became longer.
Barton, on his side, owed Lamb a debt of gratitude for the advice
to keep to his profession instead of devoting himself to literature.
Of the two men, Barton was thirteen years the younger; occasion-
ally shocked at his mercurial correspondent's wit, he was evidently
receptive-a fact we should hardly infer from his poetry-
to Lamb's jests and puns; and Lamb wrote to him with a gusto
which would have been impossible had he been scattering his
treasures fruitlessly. The short memoir of Barton by his neigh-
bour and son-in-law, Edward FitzGerald, does full justice to his
quiet, unostentatious character, his sound judgment and the sin-
cerity of his verse.
Another correspondent of this period was Thomas Allsop, whose
long life was spent in the service of an extreme type of radicalism.
In the society of men like Allsop, Hazlitt and Hunt, Lamb's wide
tolerance led him to condone what his strong practical sense may
have condemned. For the radical poets, he had little liking. He
met Shelley once and found his voice ‘the most obnoxious squeak
I ever was tormented with,' and his reflections on Shelley's death,
in a hastily written letter to Barron Field, might have been those
of one whom the poet's atheism had blinded to his genius. While
he enjoyed The Vision of Judgment and was angry at the trouble
into which Hunt was brought by its publication, he confessed that
Byron
was to me offensive, and I never can make out his great power, which his
admirers talk of. . . . He was at best a Satyrist-in any other way he was mean
enough. I daresay I do him injustice; but I cannot love him, nor squeeze
a tear to his memory.
His association, however, with radicals and free-thinkers was one
cause of an expostulation by Southey, who, in 1823, remonstrated
in The Quarterly with Elia upon the irreligious tone of certain
passages in his work and referred incidentally to Hazlitt and Hunt,
the bugbears of the conservative review. In The London Maga-
zine for October, Elia responded with a long letter to his critic, in
which he exposed his wounded feelings and defended the character
of his friends. This letter is a vigorous piece of sustained prose
but the dignity of its tone is injured by its personal references
to Southey. The laureate, however, was slow to take offence,
and his answer to Lamb in a forbearing letter cleared up the


## p. 200 (#224) ############################################

200
[CH.
Lamb
6
misunderstanding. When The Last Essays of Elia was published,
only the concluding portion of the letter was printed.
This episode is one sign of the change which came over Lamb
during the last decade of his life. He was approaching his fiftieth
year. Through the greater part of 1824, he suffered from depres-
sion and nervous weakness, which led him to refer to himself as
Tremulus or Tremebundus. His interest in The London Magazine
began to decline. His daily work became irksome to him, and, on
29 March 1825, he came home for ever' from the India house, 'a
freed man. ' Out of a pension of £450, £9 a year was kept back as
a provision for Mary in case of her survival. The relief and
strangeness of his freedom were described in The Superannuated
Man. 'Mary,' he wrote to Wordsworth, ‘wakes every morning
with an obscure feeling that some good has happened to us. ' To
one 'in wasted health and sore spirits,' this ‘Hegira, or Flight
from Leadenhall' was, at first, an unmixed blessing; but the
enforced idleness which it produced was the cause of much mental
unhappiness in Lamb's closing years. It was succeeded, in the
summer of 1825, by a nervous fever, which afforded a subject for
the essay called The Convalescent. In company with Allsop and
his wife, the Lambs went into lodgings at Enfield during July
and August. On his return to Islington, he was again ill, and
Mary's reason succumbed to the strain. Nevertheless, 1825 was
a productive year, and 1826 saw the appearance of Popular
Fallacies, which contains some of Lamb's most ingenious, if more
artificial, writing. In 1826, he was complaining of his health; his
head was 'a ringing Chaos,' and it is evident that he had fears for
his sanity. His connection with The London Magazine had
ceased in 1825, and, in September 1826, he wrote to Barton that
he had 'forsworn periodicals,' in some annoyance at Henry Col-
burn's dilatory treatment of his contributions to The New Monthly
Magazine. He found some occupation in reading the Garrick
plays at the British museum from ten to four daily : the extracts
which he made from them were printed in Hone's Table Book
throughout 1827.
One consolation of these chequered years was the presence in
their house of Emma Isola, the orphan daughter of Charles Isola,
one of the esquire bedells of the university of Cambridge. They
met her during one of their visits to a Cambridge friend, Mrs Paris;
she came to them during her holidays from school, and was
eventually adopted by them. In 1833, she married Edward
Moxon the publisher. Meanwhile, in September 1827, Lamb,


## p. 201 (#225) ############################################

VIII]
201
His Later Life
6
who had found a welcome refuge from Islington in his summer
visits to Enfield, took a house at Enfield known as Chase side, the
snuggest, most comfortable house, with every thing most compact
and desirable. ' He found delight in the neighbourhood of his
favourite Hertfordshire and in correspondence with, and occasional
visits from, his friends. Bryan Waller Procter, George Darley,
Talfourd, Vincent Novello and Henry Crabb Robinson are among
those who shared his intimacy at this time, with Walter Wilson,
the biographer of Defoe, and others with whom his friendship had
ripened during his later residence in London. Occasionally, he
went to London to draw his pension. Once, he dined at Talfourd's
to meet Wordsworth, always his idol among contemporary poets.
He brought home old books, including the works of Aquinas,
which he lent to Coleridge in his retirement at Highgate. For
some time, Mary had been able to remain at home during her
long illnesses, but, for Lamb, these were periods of enforced
solitude. In the summer of 1829, he was obliged to send her to
Fulham, and he felt lonely and out of spirits. His pity was always
for her; of himself, he seldom spoke without a touch of humour
to relieve his melancholy. But his anxieties led him, in 1829, to
seek lodgings with his neighbours, the Westwoods, 'the Baucis
and Baucida of dull Enfield. Thomas Westwood was a retired
haberdasher, a person of some consequence in Enfield, who sang
sea-songs at threescore-and-ten and had a single anecdote. With
this worthy man, the Lambs remained till May 1833. Their cares,
in 1830, were increased by the illness of Emma Isola, at Bury St
Edmunds. Lamb, on her recovery, fetched her home; and it was
on this journey that he escaped from the conversation of a well-
inform'd man,' by answering his question, 'What sort of a crop of
turnips do you think we shall have this year? ' with the delightful
retort, “It depends, I believe, upon boiled legs of mutton.
The
alternation between high spirits and despair at Mary's 'deplorable
state' is painfully marked in the letters of this period. West-
wood's house became, to him, 'a house of pest and age,' and, with
the approaching marriage of Emma to Moxon, the situation
became unbearable. In May 1833, he made his final move to a
cottage in Church street, Edmonton, where a couple named
Walden, who took in mental patients, arranged to lodge and board
the brother and sister exclusively.
The best of Lamb's prose work written at Enfield appeared, in
1833, in the second volume of Elia, which Moxon published. In
June 1830, the same publisher had brought out a small volume of
6


## p. 202 (#226) ############################################

202
[CH.
Lamb
6
his fugitive verse under the title Album Verses. Instinctive delicacy
of workmanship, sincere pathos and pure and artless emotion, give
Lamb a unique place among those poets who, in occasional verse of
an unpretentious order, offer, from time to time, a clear and unruffled
reflection of the light that never was on sea and land. ' Alone of
his lyrics, The Old Familiar Faces, written under severe emotional
stress, is immortal; but Album Verses contains a number of
sonnets and simple lyrics whose charm, less compelling than the
poetic prose of Dream-Children, nevertheless springs from the
same fount of reminiscence and consciousness of the mingled
pleasure and pain of mortal joys. His sense of poetic style reaches
a climax in the chiming and haunting lines of the sonnet The
Gipsy's Malison. Less "curiously and perversely elaborate,' to
use his own phrase, are the triplets In the Album of Lucy Barton
and In His Own Album, and the pieces in octosyllabic couplets, in
which he was indebted to Marvell and other seventeenth century
poets and happily imitated their natural fluency. It is a charac-
teristic of Lamb's humour that he could indulge in doggerel
without producing that sense of incongruity which is often the
fate of the lighter efforts of the great masters of poetry. Verses
like the famous Going or Gone do not rise from the merely formal
point of view above the plane of Keats's lines on Teignmouth or
Oxford ; but they are filled with pathos and a sense of the
irrevocable, and the union of laughter and tears, conspicuous in
Elia, is fully achieved in this simple piece of verse.
Lamb's letters from his retirement at Edmonton refer with
unabated interest to the chief alleviations of his lifebooks and
pictures. He tells Cary, the translator of Dante, that, with the
aid of his translation and Emma's knowledge of Italian, he and his
sister have read the Inferno. These studies were interrupted by
Emma's marriage in August 1833. On the evening of the wedding,
Mary was restored to her senses, “as if by an electrical stroke. '
This was merely temporary. Lamb was content to be with her.
When she is not violent, her rambling chat is better to me than the sense
and sanity of this world. Her heart is obscured, not buried; it breaks out
occasionally; and one can discern a strong mind struggling with the billows
that have gone over it.
Meanwhile, his brotherly devotion had undermined his health,
and intemperance was overcoming his shattered nervous system.
On this point, it is impossible to dwell too leniently. Lamb's
habitual weakness was simply an incident in a life the key-note
of which was the abandonment of selfish ease for a path of
in sogul,


## p. 203 (#227) ############################################

VIII]
203
Summary
6
>
unusual difficulty, and it neither hardened his heart nor dimmed
his intellect. It is probable that the death of Coleridge, in July
1834, was a blow from which he never recovered. On 21 November,
he wrote in the album of a London bookseller his famous tribute
to the memory of his friend, the proof and touchstone of all my
cogitations. ' 'I grieved then that I could not grieve. But since,
I feel how great a part he was of me. His great and dear spirit
haunts me. ' A month later, while out walking, he fell down and
cut his face; erysipelas ensued, and, on 29 December, he died.
Mary survived him for thirteen years; she died in 1847, and was
buried in the same grave with him in the churchyard at Edmonton.
To the mind which estimates an author by his capacity for
sustained masterpieces, the disconnected character of Lamb's
writings offers some contrast to their reputation. A bundle of
essays, a number of casual lyrics, one or two brief plays, a tale of
striking pathos, a few narratives and adaptations of old authors
for children and some critical notes on his favourite writers-
these constitute the sum of his work. It was an age in which the
journalist and essayist flourished, and the essays of Hazlitt contain
more solid critical work, while those of De Quincey are more
remarkable for their scholarship and for a highly-coloured
eloquence the splendour of which faults of taste cannot dim.
But, in play of fancy, in susceptibility to the varying shades of
human emotion, in a humour wbich reflects clearly the perpetual
irony of life, Lamb is without an equal. His essays, he wrote to
John Taylor, 'want no Preface : they are all Preface. A Preface
is nothing but a talk with the reader; and they do nothing else. '
Through them shines the spirit of the man, alive to the absurdities
of the world, tender to its sorrows, tolerant to its weaknesses.
He courts the friendship, not the veneration, of his readers: he
looks to them, not as disciples, but as fellow-men. By the candid
revelation of himself in his essays and letters, by the light which
they throw upon a union of heart and life between brother and
sister unexampled in literature, he has won the affection of count-
less readers, even of those who have little care for the beauties of
literary style. To all of these, the love and confidence which the
Lambs inspired among their friends is still a living thing, and they
can read with a sense of personal possession the touching words
which Coleridge, at the end of a friendship of fifty years, inscribed
in the margin of the poem written during a visit which they paid
to Stowey, 'Charles and Mary Lamb, dear to me as my heart, yea
as it were my heart. '
а
Lamin


## p. 204 (#228) ############################################

CHAPTER IX
THE LANDORS, LEIGH HUNT, DE QUINCEY
The three writers who form the main subject of this chapter
when regarded individually, may seem, at first sight, to have
extremely little in common, except their date, the unusual length
of time during which they were contemporaries and the closely
connected fact that they survived all the greater men, and most of
the smaller, of their own generation. But, when they come to be
considered more narrowly and from the standpoint of strictly
historical criticism, points of resemblance, or of that contrast which
is often almost as much of a bond as resemblance for the purposes
of such treatment, will rapidly emerge; and the advantage of
treating them otherwise than as by three entirely disjoined
articles in a dictionary will emerge likewise.
Two of them were ambidextrous in respect of the harmonies
of written speech-employing prose and verse with equal facility,
though not, in both cases, in equal measure. De Quincey was a
prose-writer only-at least, his verse is small in quantity and quite
unimportant in quality; though he had the weakness to hint? that,
an he would, he could have versed it with the best of them. But
he had another cross-connection with Landor (this time Leigh
Hunt stood out), that both were elaborate and deliberate writers
of the most ornate prose that English had known since the
seventeenth century. Leigh Hunt and De Quincey-again to
cross the ties—were both eminent examples of the man-of-letters-
of-all-work, who, arising in the late seventeenth, and earlier
eighteenth, century, had been promoted quite out of Grub street
early in the nineteenth. Landor’s circumstances, ill as he managed
them, precluded him from following this occupation of necessity;
and this was fortunate, for, otherwise, the cook whose legendary
body crushed the violet bed at Florence would have found more
hapless fellows in the persons of many editors on the harder couches
1 Autobiography, chap. VII (vol. xiv, p. 197 in the 16 vol. edn of 1862).


## p. 205 (#229) ############################################

CH. IX] Their Polygraphic Character
205
of Fleet street and Paternoster row. But, except in this ticklish
point, he had all the ethos of the polygraph. ' No special subject
shows itself as exercising obsession, or receiving preference, in the
vast exuberance of his Poems and Conversations and Miscel-
lanies, except a strong tendency towards that criticism which
is ever dominant, if not predominant, in the others. Even his
classicism is a thing more of manner than of subject; and, though
he shows it often in subject also, that is mainly because the one
is germane to the other. Now, this polygraphic tendency is an
essential characteristic of the new age.
Yet, further, though we may here enter on more disputable
matter, the three resemble each other in a characteristic difficult
to formulate without making the field of dispute larger than it
strictly should be. Although they all had talent-amounting,
in Landor certainly, in De Quincey arguably, in Hunt scarcely,
to genius-few critics accustomed to the taking of wide com-
parative views would put them in the first rank, absolutely, of
their contemporaries. The mention of the names of Wordsworth,
Coleridge, Scott, Byron, Shelley, Keats, at once, if it does not
dwarf, lessens them, though, perhaps, some would deny this in the
case of Landor. Even Southey, who, no doubt, in many, if not most,
judgments is regarded as the dark star of the new pleiad, is, in
popular language, 'a bigger man’than Leigh Hunt or De Quincey,
though there may be individual things by De Quincey certainly,
by Hunt perhaps, which Southey could not have done. Even
Landor himself (who, be it remembered, though not much given to
modesty, thought Southey at least his own equal) becomes artificial,
academic, restricted to exquisite construction of sometimes rather
lifeless form, beside his friend. Yet, if still keeping an eye on
these general similarities and differences, we turn to more in-
dividual treatment, we shall find, if not primacy in them as wholes,
such accomplishment in particulars and such distinction as, in
some literatures, would make them actually supreme and, even
in ours, assure them minor supremacies in detail.
Biography, almost always unnecessary here, is, in this special
place, almost wholly negligible; and this is fortunate because, while
nothing really important happened to any of them, all three are
surrounded with a sort of anti-halo of gossip which it would be
most unprofitable to discuss. Whether Landor was wholly or only
partly Boythorn; whether Hunt was wholly, partly or not at all
Skimpole; whether the former's dignity was really dignified or
a mixture of the grandiose and the childish ; whether Hunt, again,


## p. 206 (#230) ############################################

206 The Landors, Leigh Hunt, De Quincey [CH. .
was 'a noble fellow' or, at best, a good-natured Bohemian; whether
De Quincey was an acute observer merely or a venomous carper on
one side of his character, a deliberate mystifier or even falsifier
of fact or a person with a marvellous gift for translating reality
into romance on the other—these, and not a few more, are points
upon which it is impossible for us to dilate. The reader whose
curiosity is excited will find no difficulty, with the aid of the
bibliography, in satisfying, and, perhaps, satiating, himself with
accounts and discussions of the facts. He will also, one dare
say, discover, later if not sooner, that the discussion, in almost
every case, has very little to do with the literary appreciation
Tennis of the exceedingly voluminous bodies of work added by them
to English literature, which contain not a few instances of its
finest work, which, in some cases, have exercised remarkable
influence and which, though complete exploration of them is, in
some cases, not easy, will never be explored by any affectionate
and competent student of that literature without the discovery of
treasures such as a student will revisit again and again.
The lack of ease just glanced at requires, even with the assist-
ance of the bibliography itself, a few remarks. It exists least in
the case of Landor, though, even in his case, the fullest collection-
Forster's—is not quite complete and has not been for some time
past very easy to obtain. It appears, however, to include all that is
indispensable, though some additions recently made by Mr Stephen
Wheeler are almost of importance, and amply provided with
interest. With De Quincey, matters become, if not more recondite
(for some of Landor's work seems almost inaccessible in the original
editions), more complicated. To the completest edition of his
collected works, by the late professor Masson, at least seven
volumes of Miscellanea, printed since in different forms and
shapes, have to be added; while his eccentric habit of leaving
deposits of unpublished writing in his various abodes (some-
times merely lodgings) makes the discovery of yet more not
very unlikely.
But Leigh Hunt's is the worst case of all. No attempt even at
a complete edition has ever been made; and it may be doubted
whether the materials for one exist together in any library.
the whole were assembled it would probably make a collection of
works as large, at least, as that of Voltaire. For Hunt, though, as
has been said, a good deal of a Bohemian, had little or nothing of
the idleness ascribed to the citizens of the spiritual Prague; and,
if he had not the knack of managing or keeping money, was
If


## p. 207 (#231) ############################################

ix] Similarity of Landor's Prose and Verse 207
6
a
untiring in his efforts to earn it, though he does not seem, like
De Quincey, to have written for the sake of writing, whether
hunger and request of friends' pressed or not.
But these inconveniences, though they exist, are not really so
important as they may appear. In all three cases, the additions
made from time to time to what may be called the working
textus receptus have thrown very little new light on the general
literary character of the authors; and that character, in two cases
(Landor's and De Quincey's), is so clearly and deeply stamped,
in the other (Leigh Hunt's) diffused in a manner so light but
pervading and fully perceptible, that even the most bountiful
'windfall of the muses' possible now, though it might give
additional pleasure, would hardly give new pleasure and would
pretty certainly add nothing to our critical instruction. Let us,
therefore, take them in order, directing the main survey on the
individuals so as to prevent dispersion and confusion of view,
but utilising whatever lights of community and comparison may
present themselves.
The two points which a careful student of Landor will soon
discover for himself, are that singular ambidexterity in verse
and prose already referred to, possessed by him in measure
and manner utterly different from the fashion and degree in
which it was possessed by Hunt, and, secondly, the equally
unparalleled but much stranger fashion in which classic' and
romantic' tendencies and characteristics were combined in him.
Until these two points are independently reached by the student,
or unless he consents to take them on trust till he has confirmed
them by his own study, there is constant danger of misapprehension;
and from that misapprehension some enthusiastic and otherwise
valuable studies of him have not been free. The two propositions
themselves require careful handling. Landor has been already
contrasted with Hunt as to the special character of their joint
addiction to prose and verse; but, in this particular respect, they
are too far asunder for contrast to be anything but a contrast.
Except a certain easy fluency which sometimes runs close to the
undistinguished, if not to the distinctly slipshod, there is not much
kinship between Hunt's style in prose and his style in verse. In
some other poets who have also been great prose-writers there
might even be said to have been a broad difference between their
verse and their prose style, such as may be found in instances so
different in themselves as Dryden and Matthew Arnold. Moreover,
the styles and dictions of verse and prose have always, in English,
6


## p. 208 (#232) ############################################

208 The Landors, Leigh Hunt, De Quincey (CH.
a
been strongly contrasted; it is the case even in a writer like Words-
worth, who held theories adverse to such a contrast. But Landor's
prose and Landor's verse are so strangely allied that there is
practically nothing save the presence or absence of metre which
distinguishes them, though, reversing the usual practice with his
usual self-will, the prose diction and the prose imagery are some-
times more 'flowery and starry' than those of the verse. This is
a real idiosyncrasy; and it can hardly be matched except in a
language and literature which, oddly enough, Landor detested
above all others-in French. And, even there—even in Voltaire
and Victor Hugo, great as the likeness of their prose and their
verse is in each of two cases which differ much from each other
—the identity of the two manners is not so great as in Landor.
He stands almost, but not quite, equally alone in his strange
compound (for it is a real chemical compound, not a mere mechanical
mixture) of classic and romantic. The names of Spenser, Milton,
Gray, Matthew Arnold again and Swinburne, may rise to some lips
by way of objection; but, in all cases, when they are examined,
the elements will be found more separate than in Landor.
He
would himself probably have disliked—have, indeed, disclaimed, in
his most Boythornian vein—any sympathy with romanticism. He
boasted his indifference to Spenser himself; of his own contem-
poraries, he preferred Southey, who, in some ways, though not in
all, was the least romantic of them. But it is what a man does, not
what he says, that, in the higher courts of criticism, ‘may be used
against him. ' That Landor's scholarship, except as regards his
remarkable faculty of writing Latin verse, was not very deep or
very wide, has long been known. Despite his fondness for Greek
subjects, and the magical air of Hellenic quality which he has
managed to throw over his treatment of them, it is admitted that,
at one time, he was rather ignorant of Greek literature, and at no
time thoroughly familiar with it, though he caught a good deal of
it through Latin, with which he was thoroughly familiar, and of
which some acute judges have found more real flavour in him than
of Greek. But the important point for us at the moment is that,
wold he nold he, this assumption of a classical garb, the selec-
tion of classical subjects, even this attempt to create and to diffuse
a classical atmosphere, were all subtly conditioned by an under-
lying romantic influence which was of the age as well as of the
man and which he could not resist. Except in a few of what may
be justly called his epigrams, in the proper original sense, he never
shows classical restraint in expression-even his avowed efforts to


## p. 209 (#233) ############################################

IX]
209
Landor's Classicism
romancers.
unload' and 'cut out' frequently result in an obscure concentration
and compression of beauties' rather than in classical conciseness
and perspicuity combined. It is impossible to imagine anything
more inconsistent with even the laxest classical conception of an
epic than Gebir or any less Aristotelian drama than Count Julian.
The only classical form which Imaginary Conversations, whether
in verse or prose, suggest, is that ambiguous and, unfortunately,
only in small part extant department the mime; while the elaborate
and beautiful descriptions in prose recall only the very late and,
to some extent, degenerate ecphrasest of Greek rhetoricians and
The famous lines of Swinburne,
And through the trumpet of a child of Rome
Rang the pure music of the flutes of Greece,
are absolutely critical as regards the Romanising of the Hellenic in
Landor; but exception might be taken, in no cavilling spirit, to
the epithet ‘pure. ' The music was singularly blended—a mixed
mode of Greek and Roman and modern—and though, perhaps, the
musician's efforts were always or often consciously directed towards
keeping down the modern element, he frequently failed, and some-
times, when he came nearest to success, succeeded only in artifice
or variability. Still, as has been said, there is no one exactly like
him or even very near to him in this blended character; and its
results, at their happiest, were such as even English literature
could not afford to lose.
Although, to the general reader, Landor, if he is anything at all,
is a writer of prose, his poetical work deserves to be considered
first, for more reasons than that of the general priority of verse.
This, though, in later days, he affected to regard it as an amusement
only, was, to him, a life-long occupation; he only took to prose—he
certainly only published it-in middle and later age, and it may be
not ungenerously doubted whether despair of gaining the public ear
with verse did not induce in him a certain turning to the Gentiles'
with prose. Although the bulk of his verse is almost necessarily
less than that of his prose, it is very considerable; and may run,
at a rough guess, to between forty and fifty thousand lines. The
kinds of it are also sufficiently, if not extremely, various, ranging
from the already mentioned epic and closet-drama through dia-
logues of a less and less theatrically dramatic kind, idylls with
some conversation in them, and idylls purely narrative to an
immense multitude-hundreds and almost thousands of shorter
1 The &xopaors, or set description, is one of the most characteristic features of late
Greek work.
>
E. L. XII.
CH, IX.
14


## p. 210 (#234) ############################################

210 The Landors, Leigh Hunt, De Quincey (CH.
pieces; epigrams, sometimes in the modern, but nearly always in
the Greek, sense, of all lengths and in a variety of metres, though
Landor moulded his practice to his own mistaken theory of the
comparative poverty of English in this respect and seldom tried,
while he still more seldom succeeded in, anything which had not
an iambic or trochaic base.
The smallness of the audience which Gebir obtained at its first
appearance was celebrated in a fashion humourous, but, as was his
wont, rather over-laboured, by a contemporary and companion in
the present chapter. De Quincey pretended to pride himself upon
being “a mono-Gebirist,' meaning, thereby, not (as stricter analogy
would require) 'a reader of Gebir only' but 'the only reader of
Gebir. ' This, of course, was an exaggeration; but it is certain
that the poem was the very reverse of popular, though one very
beautiful conceit—the fancy about the sea-shell remembering and
repeating the music of the waves-found fairly early recognition
and has long been familiar to thousands who never read another
line of the poem. It contains, however, other passages as fine, or
even, except sentimentally, finer, such as the magnificent distich :
And the long moonbeam on the hard wet sand
Lay, like a jasper column half up-reared.
But this most classical of our poets has incurred the very curse
which a successor in classicism pronounced a modernity. Gebir
has numerous beautiful passages? , still more numerous beautiful
lines and phrases. But it is strangely destitute of interest either
of story or of character, and such action as it has is evolved neither
with epic nor with dramatic skill. The versification and the diction
both aim at a Miltonic stateliness and sometimes achieve it; but
there are false notes in the phrase, if not in the verse, of which
Milton never could have been guilty; and the verse itself has a
monotony which it is one of Milton's greatest triumphs to have
avoided. The most complimentary comparison that can be
borrowed from the other arts for it is that of a bas-relief, worked
with no small sculpturesque art, dignified in conception and
execution, even heightened, here and there, with gold and colours,
ony
1
1
.
1 He admitted that Southey had been another, but the only other, member of the
sect. It was characteristic of Landor himself, for all his affected preference for few
admirers, to be seriously nettled at De Quincey's joke.
2 The author, in his curious forfanterie, probably intended it to be supposed that
there were many more in the 'loads [he] carted off to give it proportion. Yet, to
Southey, to whom he 'showed off' less frequently than to most, he admitted that he
had • boiled away too much. '
6


## p. 211 (#235) ############################################

IX]
2 II
Landor's Dramas
but producing, on the whole, an effect lifeless, bloodless and
wanting in charm as well as, in parts, indistinct and confused.
Landor called the very large body of verse of dramatic form
which he published—a body filling nearly four hundred pages of
between forty and fifty lines each-Acts and Scenes, expressly
noting that ‘none of them were offered to the stage, being no
better than Imaginary Conversations in metre. ' There is, how-
ever, a very marked difference between the first, the already
mentioned Count Julian, and the rest of them. Count Julian is
,
not easily distinguishable from the dramas--of the closet kind,
but very frequently offered to the stage in Landor's time—which
are noticed in other parts of this work, such dramas as those even
of Coleridge and, still more, of Talfourd and Taylor, of Milman and
Darley. Its acts are the regular five, its action is conducted in
the usual stage manner and its style and diction conform to the
somewhat artificial stateliness which, though discarding the worst
eighteenth century "stage lingo,' remained, and, to some extent,
still remains, the orthodox speech of tragedy. It is somewhat
less artificial in style than Gebir; and the enforced, though mini-
mised, action of a drama frees it, to a certain extent, from the
deadly-liveliness of the epic. But, on the whole, it reminds one, as
plays of its class often do, of Sainte-Beuve's polite but fatal
verdict on Don Garcie de Navarre, Molière's one effort in alien
kind. It is an essai pâle et noble; but little, if anything, more.
Being Landor's, it could not but contain some passages of fine
blank verse. But here, with, perhaps, one exception, it is far below
Gebir; while even the advantages of drama do not suffice to give it
real liveliness of action. The points of the situations are not taken;
the characters are not worked out and, by the strangest mistake
of all, “the tragic frailties,' the great secret in which Aristotle's
principles and Shakespeare's practice agree, Covilla's? disgrace
and Julian's treason are, as it were, 'previous questions'-over
and done before the play begins.
The fact simply is that the modern and romantic touch in
Landor made him unequal either to formal epic or to formal
drama. He wanted the loose movement, the more 'accidented'
1 Landor's name for Roderick's victim, usually called Florinda. It should be
noticed as a caution most necessary for readers that the chronological order of
Landor's Poems is very different from that of their places in Forster's edition. The
Neapolitan trilogy, for instance, now to be noticed, was written twenty-four years after
Count Julian. But Landor's competence in writing, if not in conduct, lasted unusually
late; and the maintenance of his literary powers is one of his numerous extraordinary
points.
14-2


## p. 212 (#236) ############################################

212 The Landors, Leigh Hunt, De Quincey (CH.
situations, the full, and sometimes almost irrelevant, talk, the
subsidiary interest of description and other things of the kind, to
enable him to be something more than 'pale and noble. ' In the
great bulk of Acts and Scenes, and especially in the long and
important one which comes next (in his Works, though not in time)
to Count Julian, Andrea of Hungary, as well as, though to a
slightly less degree, in its sequels, which complete the trilogy on
Giovanna of Naples, he has provided himself liberally with all
these things. The three pieces, which together extend to a
hundred and forty of the large pages above referred to, are much
more than 'imaginary conversations in metre'; they form, in fact,
a historical novel, thrown into conversational dramatic form with
all the redundances of the novel as they may seem from the
dramatic point of view. Sometimes, the treatment approaches
more nearly to the fashion of an actable play scene; sometimes, to
that of a chapter of Scott or Dumas turned into verse and put in
action instead of narration. And this hybrid character is main-
tained, almost continuously, in the pieces that follow: more than a
dozen in number, though always shorter, and sometimes much
shorter, than the Neapolitan set. The merits and defects of the
form, and its instances, as well as a still more interesting subject,
the relative merit of the prose and verse, will be better discussed
when we come to the prose itself. It may be enough to say here
that, in this new handling, Landor at last discovers the source of
that interest which he had failed to attain in Gebir and Count
Julian.
It may be matter for question whether this interest is equally
maintained in his more numerous but, both as individuals and in
the mass, less bulky Hellenics, of which there are some fifty, spread,
in point of composition, over a large part of his life. They were
above called idylls, and, according to Greek practice, they strictly
deserve the name. As such, they are entitled to use or disuse the
dramatic or, at least, the dialogic form at pleasure; and they avail
themselves of the privilege. Thus, one of the best known, Coresus
and Callirrhoe, is a continuous narrative; another, Menelaus and
Helen, has both dialogue and action.
There is no doubt, however, that, except to very peculiar, and,
perhaps, rather factitious, taste, there is something wanting in these
longer poetical works by Landor. They excite esteem very com-
monly, except when he tries humour or argument; satisfaction and
admiration, sometimes; transport, hardly ever save by occasional
flashes, mostly of mere description. It was, perhaps, much for
1
1


## p. 213 (#237) ############################################

IX]
213
Landor's Shorter Poems
a
Landor to condescend to the admission that his 'Cenci' scenes
do not challenge comparison with Shelley’s ‘noble tragedy’; but
the comparison forces itself all the more unfortunately, while the
preface in which it occurs closes with a piece of that miss-fire
irony of which Landor was unluckily prodigal. In reading Acts
and Scenes and Hellenics, one finds, and in re-reading them one
expects, hardly any jewels five words long. ' A few pieces of
the beautiful elaborate, but too often lifeless, description which
finds a better home in the prose occur ; but nothing (if it be not
rash to judge so positively of so wide a field) equal to the best
things in Gebir. The situations are often-in fact, usually—well
selected; the composition, both in the lower and the higher senses
of that word in different arts, is frequently admirable, the execu-
tion correct and creditable; but the total effect is too often cold?
It is not that Landor is by any means a stickler for what is
commonly called propriety. His situations are not seldom of the
luscious kind, and, though never guilty of coarseness, he is occa-
sionally chargeable with innuendo. But, in aiming at passion, he
too often only attains sentiment. The feeling may be there; in
some cases, it certainly is ; but it is too often birth-strangled in
the expression, partly by an attempt at classical restraint, which,
as pointed out above, is not really natural to the writer, and partly
by the singular verbosity also glanced at, which, in a way, is the
escapement' and compensation for this restraint. There are
comparatively few of Landor's longer pieces in which he does not,
as it were, hold overflow meetings—which he addresses partly
with repetitions and partly with ekings of what he has said before?
The advantage, to such a poet, of shorter and, in some cases,
definitely limited forms can hardly be over-estimated; and it is
enhanced not merely by that blend of classic and romantic which
has been noticed, but by a further blend-to some extent conse-
quential—of eighteenth and nineteenth century touch which is
more noticeable in Landor than in almost any of his companions.
They, for the most part—even Wordsworth, even Scott-grew out
of one strain into the other; Landor kept the mixture. He is
1 The very best of the exceptions is, perhaps, the beautiful and almost wellknown
Hamadryad, which is faultless throughout and contains one of Landor's very finest
single lines,
And the axe shone behind him in their eyes,
where picture, sound and hidden, as well as obvious, meaning are marvellously com-
bined.
2 In fact, to use his own words against him (see above p. 210, note 2), if, in Gebir, he had
boiled away too much,' he certainly, in some of these pieces, . boiled away too little. '


## p. 214 (#238) ############################################

214 The Landors, Leigh Hunt, De Quincey (CH.
thus able, in his best so-called epigrams and elsewhere, to observe
the neatness and clear outline of eighteenth century occasional
pieces, while suffusing it with the later colour and diffusing over it
the later atmosphere. A little piece, which comes quite early in
the collection of 1846 and which was probably written nearly
half a century earlier, for it is one of the Ianthe poems,
Pleasure, why thus desert the heart,
exhibits this combination remarkably; while it has much to do
with the extraordinary charm of the two little masterpieces Rose
Aylmer and Dirce. But, through all these mote-like poems
and poemlets, the total number of which comes not so very far
short of a thousand, though there may be triviality, false wit,
dulness and other faults here and there, there is always the chance
of coming across that flash and glow of the opal which Landor
has in a special manner and measure, which is the dearest of
delights to true lovers of poetry and over which he retained com-
mand, in these short pieces, almost to his death. Some, even of
these pieces, such as Gunlaug (an early attempt) and Guidone
and Lucia, may almost be called long, running to five hundred
lines or so; and there are numerous pages which only just, or do
not quite, suffice for a poem. But the scale runs down to single
couplets, even single lines, and a greater number of the con-
stituents does not exceed from half a score to a score of
lines. Here, the drawbacks of Landor's larger pieces, to a great
.
extent, disappear. A considerable number of these smaller pieces
are, of course, trivial; but their smallness makes the triviality at
once apparent, and they can be passed over without the dis-
appointed and disappointing labour which the conscientious reader
of a longer piece undergoes. The miniature jewels above referred
to, the larger but almost throughout admirable odes to Words-
worth and Southey, a positive majority of the Ianthe pieces
(which would deserve isolation in a separate but complete sheaf,
for they have a distinctive quality rare in the vast harvest of love
poetry), the Browning sonnet, still, perhaps, the best thing on its
subject and in its kind after seventy years, are all consummate;
and there are many to add. To the last, in Dry Sticks, he retained
that strange occasional command of perfect phrase which was his
special merit and privilege, and of which almost his greatest single
example is the famous
Beyond the arrows, views and shouts of men
in Count Julian.