ryat, it seems, plagiarized verbatim from these letters in his hoax, Monsieur Violet's California Travels. It would be worth while comparing those letters with the text of Dr. Gregg's book. During the Mexican War Dr. Gregg was correspondent with the Army for American papers, among them pretty certainly the New Orleans Picayune. There is more American literature stored away in our old newspapers than we have in book form: Gregg's letters might be fished out to some advantage. And then at San Francisco, shortly before his sudden death on Trinity River, Dr. Gregg left with a chance acquaintance a manuscript entitled Rovings Abroad. This has been lost, and very probably was the best work he had done in the writing way.

ECHOES OF WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

BY STANLEY T. WILLIAMS

Mr. Sidney Colvin says that Landorians may be counted on the fingers of two hands. It is true. Most of us read the Imaginary Conversations with a feeling of suffocation, even though we are amazed by their author's learning. Here is a world where the guests are indeed few. No school boy learning will help us; and those not more at home among the ancients than among their friends of this world need not enter this other. The heroes of these endless dialogues come straight from the dead, where Southey boasted that he passed his days; they are as dusty as the mummies of the first dynasty. But-alas!-more talkative: they bicker, denounce, and harangue; they are the apotheosis of boring discussion; they are veritable ghosts on stilts. Although Miss Repplier implies, by denial, that modern dialogues owe something to the Imaginary Conversations, the fact remains that they are not read. Who in this century has performed the feat of reading them, every word? Let him speak out boldly.

As for Landor's lyrics, they are the icicles of nineteenth century literature, as those monstrous epics, Gebir and Count Julian, are the icebergs. To read Landor's poetry after Byron's or Shelley's is like leaping into the Arctic current. It seems impossible to believe that this artificial verse was written when the Romantic Movement in poetry was at its height. Yet such was the case. We of the twentieth century who are nurtured on a hundred varieties of Romanticism can hardly care much for this "marmoreal" verse. In its memory Swinburne and William Watson may write odes; nevertheless it will not be read.

Meanwhile Landor is frequently mentioned, and seriously, as a reputable poet. It is even insinuated that he is one of the nineteenth century hierarchy with a position as secure as

those of the poets he seldom noticed,-Byron and Shelley. The implication is that Landor's writings have perished but his personality survives. People are fond of alluding to "the exiled Landor at Fiesole," or they refer knowingly to his temper. Only yesterday a friend muttered soemthing to me about "that poet, Landor, who, in a passion, pitched his cook through the window into the flower-bed." (He omitted the essence of the jest: Landor's exclamation, "Oh, my God, the violets!"). Something is known too, of the old Roman's hauteur; of his litigations; of his resemblance to Lawrence Boythorn in Bleak House.

So they speak, the literary by-standers, but these remarks are merely echoes. Landor's personality will not save him. He dies hard, but dying he is, together with all his writings. Landor is not to be one of those immortals, whose books pass, but whose souls live on. He can never be compared, in respect to personality, as some would have us think, with Dr. Johnson. For this sort of immortality more is needed than a temper, a hearty laugh, and classical learning. No groups will be formed for the study of "Landor and His Circle". This condition may be party because Landor spoke to "the few," but it is chiefly due to the fact that he communicated intellectual ideas whose significance today is precious little. It is possible that Dr. Johnson will be calling Boswell a fool, and will be stamping his foot at Dr. Parr to the delight of readers in unborn centuries, but it is certain that nobody will then care tuppence about Landor's throwing his undercooked pheasant into the fire. Why should they? Landor's personality is being forgotten.

To answer this by: "Of course. Landor was not great", is an admission. Such a speaker does not know Landor, and does not understand the unforgettable impression he made upon all who knew him. So great, in fact, that one leader in nineteenth century poetry vouchsafed that he owed more to Landor than to any living writer! Rather, Landor's personality was great; great in a variety of ways. It is fading

because of its strange quality and consequent unimportance to "modern literature." One fatal flaw this tragic hero had his writings and sayings do not reach the hearts of men. Wise he is, wise with deep learning; brilliant as the cold sparkle on a sunny field of snow; morally lofty, also. But human he is not, and we'll have none of him today. Το approach Landor, as Dr. Johnson is approached, through conversations and letters, is a chilling experience.

Landor was like the oracle which prefaced its remarks by a blast of cold air. His manner of pronouncement is like Jove's on Olympus. Inexorable. Moreover, these edicts are likely to be concerned with such popular topics as "Lycophron as a Poet", or the Greek word for violet. These are handicaps to an appreciation of Landor, but the greatest is that already mentioned. We are always forgiving assurance -and even learning-in writers. But out of their dead ages they must speak to us directly. They must entice our spirits, allure our souls. Cor ad cor loquitur, though the ages pass. But Landor never speaks to us; he addresses us, and talks down to us. His notions on life may be true, but we receive them without enthusiasm. His ideas seem to echo faintly in our own experience, but somewhere en route to us the emotion has been frozen. To recognize one's own feelings done in plaster of paris, read some of Landor's apothegms.

William Hazlitt is neither an exuberant nor a popular writer, but passages from his very human essay "On the Fear of Death" are glowing when compared with his typical excerpt from the Pentameron:

Death can only take away the sorrowful from our affections; the flower expands; the colorless film that enveloped it falls off and perishes. . . . Would we break a precious vase because it is as capable of containing the bitter as the sweet? No: the very things which touch us the most sensibly are those which we should be most reluctant to forget. The noble mansion is most distinguished by the beautiful images it retains of being past away; and so is the noble mind. The damps of autumn sink into the leaves and prepare them for the necessity of their fall: and thus insensibly

are we, as years close round us, detached from our tenacity of life by the gentle pressure of recorded sorrows.

This is baffling.

I have just been examining a new Guide to Carlyle. It is encyclopedic. Victorian influences are being revaluated. Certainly what the Prince of Posterity means to do with Walter Savage Landor is not doubtful. Prose, poetry, personality, all are receding. In spite of his disdain of "the shouts of men" and his hints that he would always have a few devotees, Landor is read less and less every day; his name is becoming a reference for the prudent student to look up. Even "the few" guests show signs of an early leave-taking. Although Landor did not realize the fact, his influence was greatest during the first decades of the nineteenth century. Why? As Landor's influence disappears today a natural question is: Why was it great during his own life-time? Why did Southey, Shelley, Browning, and Swinburne think him not merely great but among the very greatest of his era?

In answer it may be stated that in general Landor's prose and poetry and personality were all powerful influences upon his contemporaries. It is evident, however, that the least influential of these three factors in Landor's reputation was his prose. Mr. Howitt says that "his Imaginary Conversations eclipsed his verse. The eclipse has rather been mutual, resulting in complete darkness in respect to Landor's fame. At all events, in his own day, Landor influenced poets more than prose-writers; this was accomplished, naturally enough, through his poetry. As the Conversations appeared in ever-increasing numbers, they incited interest and respect for Landor's learning; but in all the gossip of the period, there is no evidence that they stirred writers deeply, or that they were regarded as the deepest source of Landor's influence. The Conversations and the Pentameron were simply mausoleums of learning.

Moreover, they were crammed with those odd critical