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FROM "LECTURES ON THE ENGLISH POETS."

Poetry.

Poetry is in all its shapes the language of the imagination and the passions, of fancy and will. Nothing, therefore, can be more absurd than the outcry which has been sometimes raised by frigid and pedantic critics for reducing the language of poetry to the standard of common sense and reason; for the end and use of poetry, "both at the first and now, was and is to hold the mirror up to nature," seen through the medium of passion and imagination, not divested of that medium by means of literal truth or abstract reason. The painter of history might as well be required to represent the face of a person who has just trod upon a serpent with the still-life expression of a common portrait, as the poet to describe the most striking and vivid impressions which things can be supposed to make upon the mind in the language of common conversation. Let who will strip nature of the colours and the shapes of fancy, the poet is not bound to do so; the impressions of common sense and strong

my

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Admit the bearer to
English Poetry.

tives on

Wm Har litt.

imagination, that is, of passion and indifference, cannot be the same, and they must have a separate language to do justice to either. Objects must strike differently upon the mind, independently of what they are in themselves, as long as we have a different interest in them, as we see them in a different point of view, nearer or at a greater distance (morally or physically speaking), from novelty, from old acquaintance, from our ignorance of them, from our fear of their consequences, from contrast, from unexpected likeness. We can no more take away the faculty of the imagination than we can see all objects without light or shade. Some things must dazzle us by their preternatural light; others must hold us in suspense, and tempt our curiosity to explore their obscurity. Those who would dispel these various illusions, to give us their drabcoloured creation in their stead, are not very wise. Let the naturalist, if he will, catch the glow-worm, carry it home with him in a box, and find it next morning nothing but a little grey worm: let the poet or the lover of poetry visit it at evening, when, beneath the scented hawthorn and the crescent moon, it has built itself a palace of emerald light.

FROM "TABLE TALK."
Style.

Mr. Lamb is the only imitator of old English style I can read with pleasure, and he is so thoroughly imbued with the spirit of his authors, that the idea of imitation is almost done away. There is an inward unction, a marrowy vein both in the thought and feeling, an intuition, deep and lively, of his subject, that carries off any quaintness or awkwardness arising from an antiquated style and dress. The matter is completely

his own, though the manner is assumed. Perhaps his ideas are altogether so marked and individual as to require their point and pungency to be neutralised by the affectation of a singular but traditional form of conveyance. Tricked out in the prevailing costume, they would probably seem more startling and out of the way. The old English authors, Burton, Fuller, Coryat, Sir Thomas Browne are a kind of mediators between us and the more eccentric and whimsical modern, reconciling us to his peculiarities. I do not, however, know how far this is the case or not till he condescends to write like one of us. I must confess that what I like best of his papers under the signature of Elia (still, I do not presume, amidst such excellence, to decide what is most excellent) is the account

Some body ought to like it, ford

out a

msure there will be plenty to cry
ainst it. I hope you
did not find any
ad blanders in the becond volume ; but you
inhardly suppose the depression of body &
wood under which I wrote some of these
sticles. I bought a little Florence edi.
in y Petrarch & Dante the other day, thave
Lout
ake one
cone page. Pray

remember me tops Candor, & believe me to be, Dear Sir,

your

our much obliged friend tseivant, W. Han litt.

33 Via Gregorima.

Fragment of a Letter written in Rome from Hazlitt to W. Savage Landor

of "Mrs. Battle's Opinions on Whist," which is also the most free from obsolete allusions and turns of expression :

"A well of native English undefiled."

To those acquainted with his admired prototypes, the essays of the ingenious and highly-gifted author have the same sort of charm and relish that Erasmus's Colloquies or a fine piece of modern Latin have to the classical scholar. Certainly, I do not know any borrowed pencil that has more power or felicity of execution than the one of which I have here been speaking.

FROM "WINTERSLOW."

The Appearance of Wordsworth.

The next day Wordsworth arrived from Bristol at Coleridge's cottage. I think I see him now. He answered in some degree to his friend's description of him, but was

Landor

more quaint and Don Quixote-like. He was quaintly dressed (according to the costume of that unconstrained period) in a brown fustian jacket and striped pantaloons. There was something of a roll, a lounge, in his gait, not unlike his own "Peter Bell." There was a severe, worn pressure of thought about his temples, a fire in his eye (as if he saw something in objects more than the outward appearance), an intense, high, narrow forehead, a Roman nose, cheeks furrowed by strong purpose and feeling, and a convulsive inclination to laughter about the mouth, a good deal at variance with the solemn, stately expression of the rest of his face. Chantrey's bust wants the marking traits; but he was teased into making it regular and heavy: Haydon's head of him, introduced into the "Entrance of Christ into Jerusalem,” is the most like his drooping weight of thought and expression. He sat down and talked very naturally and freely, with a mixture of clear, gushing accents in his voice, a deep guttural intonation, and a strong tincture of the northern burr like the crust on wine. He instantly began to make havoc of the half of a Cheshire cheese on the table, and said, triumphantly, that "his marriage with experience had not been so productive as Mr. Southey's in teaching him a knowledge of the good things of this life." He had been to see the "Castle Spectre," by Monk Lewis, while at Bristol, and described it very well. He said, "it fitted the taste of the audience like a glove." This ad captandum merit was, however, by no means a recommendation of it, according to the severe principles of the new school, which reject rather than court popular effect. Wordsworth, looking out of the low, latticed window, said, "How beautifully the sun sets on that yellow bank!" I thought within myself, "With what eyes these poets see nature!" and ever after, when I saw the sunset stream upon objects facing it, conceived I had made a discovery, or thanked Mr. Wordsworth for having made one for me! We went over to All-Foxden again the day following, and Wordsworth read us the story of "Peter Bell" in the open air, and the comment upon it by his face and voice was very different from that of some later critics.

With this group of literary critics may be mentioned one who was not without relation with them, and who was yet widely distinct.

of whom we have been speaking sought their inspiration mainly in the newly recovered treasures of early national poetry and prose. These were also formative elements in the mind of WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR; but he imitated more closely than they the great classics of antiquity, and, in particular, Pindar, Eschylus, and Cicero. As early as 1795 he had occasionally published poetry; his concentrated and majestic Gebir is certainly one of the pioneers of English romanticism. But Landor, with his tumultuous passions and angry self-sufficiency, led a youth tormented by too much emotional and social tempest and too little public encouragement to become prominent in prose or verse. It was in the comparative serenity of middle age, and during his happy stay in or near Florence from 1821 to 1828, that he wrote the Imaginary Conversations, and became one of the great English men of letters. No other work of Landor's has achieved popularity, although much of his occasional prose and verse has called forth the impassioned praise of individuals.

The Conversations display, in stiff and Attic form, dramatic aptitudes, for confirmation of which we search in vain the pages of his academic plays. These historic dialogues, strange as it seems, were refused by publisher after publisher; but at length two volumes of them were issued, and the world was gained. This great series of stately colloquies holds a unique position in English literature. The style of Landor is too austere,

too little provided with ornament, too strenuously allusive to please the running reader. But in a mingling of dignity and delicacy, purity and vehemence, into what is an amalgam of all the rarer qualities of thought and expression, Landor ranks only just below the greatest masters of language. His genius is impeded by a certain haughty stiffness; he approaches majestically, and sometimes nimbly, but always protected from the reader by a suit of mail, always rendered inaccessible by an unconquerable shyness.

Walter Savage Landor (1775-1864) was the eldest son of Dr. Landor, a physician of Warwick, where

he was born on the 30th of January 1775. His mother, Elizabeth Savage, was an heiress, and her valuable estates of Ipsley Court and Tachbrook were strictly entailed upon the future poet, who was brought up in luxurious refinement. He was a sensitive child and an intelligent boy; at Rugby, where he went in 1785, he held his own in games as well as in studies. He was early a voracious reader, and began to turn verses for his pleasure both in English and Latin. Even at Rugby, however, his strange violence of temper interfered with his happiness, and at last he was withdrawn from the school that he might not be expelled for rebellion. He studied for two years with the vicar of "romantic" Ashbourne, becoming an accomplished Hellenist, and in 1793 he took up his residence at Trinity College, Oxford. Here Landor posed as a republican, and went to hall with his hair unpowdered; he was known as "the mad Jacobin," and for a freak he was at length sent down. In consequence of this rustication, Landor quarrelled with his father, and quitted him, as he said, "for ever." He came up to London in 1794, and lodged at Beaumont Street, Portland Place; here, in the following year, he published his first Poems, in English and Latin, and the Moral Epistle to Lord Stanhope. The quarrel with his family was presently made up, but Landor did not return to Warwick or to Oxford; he withdrew to the south coast of

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Walter Savage Landor

After the Portrait by W. Fisher

Wales, where he lived absolutely solitary, with "one servant and one chest of books," feeding his spirit with poetry and nature. At Tenby he wrote Gebir, and met the Rose Aylmer of his verse; the former appeared in 1798. It was unperceived, except by Southey. Landor was still a republican, and he continued to be one even when, in 1802, he visited Paris and saw the ruin of the cause of liberty. During all these

Landor's Birthplace at Warwick

years he was devoted to the lady whom he addressed as Ianthe; but at length he discovered that "hers never was the heart for him." In 1805 old Dr. Landor died, and the poet came into possession of his estates. He now adopted a style of prodigal expenditure, and, residing at Bath, took up the rôle of the extravagant and eccentric young gentleman of fashion. He did not, however, for a moment neglect scholarship and poetry; in 1806 he published his Latin poems, Simonidea. His mode of life soon strained his finances, and in 1808 he had to endure con

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siderable and unwise sacrifices in order to purchase the magnificent estate of Llanthony Abbey in Glamorganshire, on which he had set his heart. It was about this time that he first met Southey, with whom Landor formed a lifelong friendship. He took part, in 1808, in the revolt of the Spaniards from the yoke of the French; he spent some months in Spain and a great deal of money, but failed to be concerned in any actual fighting. By the summer of 1809 he was settled in his priory of

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in 1814. By the latter year, however, he had brought his private affairs into great confusion; he had contrived to quarrel with everybody, from the bishop of the diocese down to the workmen on his estate; it is fair to add that he appears to have been abominably treated by his rascally tenants and servants. By the summer he found himself practically ruined, and abandoning Llanthony to the hands of trustees, he withdrew to the Continent, leaving his wife in Jersey and pushing on alone to Como, where she afterwards joined him. In 1818 Landor was ordered

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