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Landor's love of his villa and estate finds expression again and again in his verse written at this time. The most charming of all these charming poems the perfection of the light verse of a serious poet is the letter from England to his youngest boy, speculating on his Italian pursuits. I begin at the passage describing the villa's cat:
The greater part of this prose takes the form of "Imaginary Conversations" sometimes published under separate general headings, sometimes under the common title between characters of all ages, from the classical times to Landor's.
Perhaps the most nearly faultless in finish and proportion of perfect nature among all the noble three is Landor's portrait of the imperial and right Roman child of Caesar and Cleopatra.
In his lap his fingers met unconsciously, tip to tip, in the instinctive habit of age. "I anticipated that," he said wearily. "I realise it's the obvious thing to do. I never adopted How as I did the girl I was willing to, but he didn't see the use and so Craig's the only man kin I have." The life and magnetism, usually so noticeable in Landor's great figure, had vanished.
The church has been already restored and reopened. The first mass within its thronged walls was so the spectators say a moving sight. "That sad word Joy" Landor's pregnant phrase comes back to one, as expressing the bitter-sweet of all glad things in this countryside, which has seen so short a time ago death and murder and outrage at their worst.
But, now that the story is told, no one will have difficulty in striking the balance between its good and ill; and what was really imperishable in Landor's genius will not be treasured less, or less understood, for the more perfect knowledge of his character". Mr. Forster's second volume gives a facsimile of Landor's writing at seventy-five.
It is a scene which reconciles us to life, and makes us no longer impatient even of our uncertainties. It speaks with a voice like that of Landor's verse: "Death stands above me, whispering low, I know not what into my ear, Of his strange language all I know Is, there is not a word of fear." To the modern reader there is a singular contradiction between the doctrine of Lucretius and his temper.
Above everything she disliked change, and the sale of the corner lot and the building of the shop caused her many a pang. In the midst of all this disquietude Mr. Landor's letter arrived. "I have most agreeable recollections of your home," he wrote, "and I realize I am asking a good deal of you, for our little niece is a somewhat tumultuous person.
WORKS. Landor's reaction from Romanticism is all the more remarkable in view of his early efforts, such as Gebir, a wildly romantic poem, which rivals any work of Byron or Shelley in its extravagance. Notwithstanding its occasional beautiful and suggestive lines, the work was not and never has been successful; and the same may be said of all his poetical works.
I cannot forbear, Eusebius, writing to you now, early in this new year, paying you this compliment, that your real conversations resemble in much "Landor's Imaginary," which you tell me you so greatly admire. Full, indeed, are they, these last two volumes, his works, of beautiful thoughts set off with exquisitely appropriate eloquence.
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