which gives, as it were, breath and being to the immortal creations of great poets. His metrical eccentricities, displayed especially in "Thalaba," were unfavourable to the immediate success of his verse, and must always stand in the way of its popularity. Southey had not the ear for harmony which would justify experiments, and Landor probably felt this when he wrote: "Are we not a little too fond of novelty and experiment, and is it not reasonable to prefer those kinds of versification which the best poets have adopted and the best judges have cherished for the longest time?" Many of his shorter poems are humorous, but the humour, when not grotesque, as in the "Old Woman of Berkeley," is boyish in character. He wrote capital nonsense verses, and doubtless found a relief in this recreation from the severe strain upon his mind. Southey's pathos, if not more genuine than his humour, is more attractive, and poems like the "Holly Tree," and the "Stanzas written in his Library," touch every heart, and are not likely to be forgotten. Who does not remember, too, his "Battle of Blenheim "? [To know truly what Southey was as a man and as an author would need far more leisure than most readers have to bestow. There is a "Life" by his son, in six volumes; there is a selection from his letters by his son-in-law; there are ten volumes of poetical works, and a vast number of volumes in prose. His best lyrics and ballads are to be found in selections, but the epics which he built up with such hope and such labour do not appeal to the young. An exception may be made, perhaps, in favour of the "Curse of Kehama."] Walter Savage Landor, Walter Savage Landor has a great name in literature due principally to his noble prose. There is a dignity in his style, 1775-1864. a loftiness of purpose in his aims, a wealth of thought, and an harmonious completeness in his work, which strike us with admiration. Some of his "Imaginary Conversations" are models of art, perfect in construction as a Grecian temple, but like that temple wanting the less sharply defined but more romantic features of a Gothic cathedral. The man was in some respects singularly unlike his work. Probably no modern writer has given utterance to statelier wisdom. His words are suggestive of mental tranquillity, and a freedom from the passions and fretful cares that agitate mankind; yet Landor from early youth to extreme old age was one of the most irascible and turbulent of men. His outrageous temper embittered his own life and that of others. His course was that of a tempestuous day, but it had its gleams of sunshine as well. as its storms, and the true heart of the man is seen in the friends he clung to, and who loved him warmly in return. I shall not attempt to relate even in the most concise way the narrative of Landor's ill-regulated life. It may be read at large in Forster's biography—a book which, though loosely written, is of great interest; or more tersely in the appreciative biography of Professor Colvin. When the young reader comes to know Southey and Landor he will see how fitting it is that their names should be linked together. In some respects no two men could be less alike, and it might almost seem as if they belonged to different worlds. Yet from the poetical standpoint they had much in common, and Southey did not exaggerate when he said he would go a hundred miles to see the author of "Gebir," neither did Landor wilfully overstate his admiration when he said of "Roderick," "There is no poem in existence that I shall read so often." "Gebir," thus dear to Southey, won also the high admiration of Shelley. It is splendid in parts but not as a whole, and its obscurity, due to extreme condensation of style, will repel a reader whose purpose is not fixed enough to support him in the study. The same criticism may be passed on his "Count Julian," a subject which in different forms has been treated by Scott and Southey. Milton said that in writing prose he was using his left hand, and this was Landor's position in writing verse. And yet, although this be true, it seems almost unjust to say it, as we recall many of the short poems through which this strong, passionate-natured man uttered the tenderness of his heart. [Selections from the writings of Landor, arranged and edited by Sidney Colvin (Macmillan and Co.), belongs to the Golden Treasury Series, and is worthy of it. Landor is the original of Boythorn in Dickens's "Bleak House.] CHAPTER XVI. POETS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY George Gordon Byron, 1788-1824. (Continued). LORD BYRON. DURING the lifetime of Lord Byron and for a considerable time after his death there was no English poet who could compete with him in popularity. He was praised lavishly and without discrimination, and the critics who blamed him most severely as an immoral writer had no hesitation in admitting that the author of "Childe Harold" and "Don Juan" ranked with the greatest poets of the world. And this position Byron holds still upon the Continent, where he is placed next to Shakespeare in the roll of English poets. In England, however, he has fallen, and I venture to think has fallen permanently, from this high estate. Time, one of the most trustworthy of critics, has not proved altogether in favour of this passionate poet. It has taught us that much of his pathos is spurious, that much of what looked like gold is pinchbeck. His egotism fails to create sympathy, his dramatic characters have lost the little vitality which they once possessed, his voice is unmusical, and his grave moral faults repel rather than fascinate a generation that has never felt the glamour of his name. How strong it once was may be made evident by a single illustration. Thomas Carlyle, though he loved heroes, did not care to look for them in the men of his own age. He had never seen Byron, and perhaps this fact may account for what he wrote on hearing of his death. "Poor Byron!-alas, poor Byron! The news of his death came upon my heart like a mass of lead; and yet the thought of it sends a painful twinge through all my being, as if I had lost a brother." And Miss Welsh, Carlyle's future wife, wrote: "If they had said the sun or the moon was gone out of the heavens, it could not have struck me with a more awful and dreary * In what I have to say of Byron in this chapter I know that I run the risk of being called hard names. There is a school of criticism which esteems withering contempt the fittest reply to writers who see defects in the gods of their idolatry-especially when these idols are looked at from a moral standpoint. To say a word against Shelley's conduct, to discover a weak side in his poetry, or to hint that the impurity of Byron's life has fatally injured the quality of his verse, is to run the risk of being assailed with a shower of scornful adjectives "Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks |