eyed and received through different organs in the
lower and more inert. Man's thought, which seems imperishable, loses its
form, and runs along from proprietor to impropriator, like any other
transitory thing, unless it is invested so becomingly and nobly that no
successor can improve upon it by any new fashion or combination. For
want of dignity or beauty, many good things are passed and forgotten;
and much ancient wisdom is overrun and hidden by a rampant verdure,
succulent, but unsubstantial.... Let those who look upon style as
unworthy of much attention ask themselves how many, in proportion to men
of genius, have excelled in it. In all languages, ancient and modern,
are there ten prose-writers at once harmonious, correct, and energetic?"

* * * * *

Popular as is the belief that Landor's gifts were the offspring of
profound study, he himself says: "Only four years of my life were given
up much to study; and I regret that I spent so many so ill. Even these
debarred me from no pleasure; for I seldom read or wrote within doors,
excepting a few hours at night. The learning of those who are called the
learned is learning at second hand; the primary and most important must
be acquired by reading in our own bosoms; the rest by a deep insight
into other men's. What is written is mostly an imperfect and unfaithful
copy." This confession emanates from one who is claimed as a university
rather than a universal man. Landor remained but two years at Oxford,
and, though deeply interested in the classics, never contended for a
Latin prize. Speaking of this one day, he said: "I once wrote some
Latin verses for a fellow of my college who, being in great trouble,
came to me for aid. What was hard work to him was pastime to me, and it
ended in my composing the entire poem. At the time the fellow was very
grateful, but it happened that these verses excited attention and were
much eulogized. The supposed author accepted the praise as due to
himself. This of course I expected, as he knew full well I would never
betray him; but the amusing part of the matter was that the fellow never
afterwards spoke to me, never came near me,--in fact, treated me as
though I had done him a grievous wrong. It was of no consequence to me
that he strutted about in my feathers. If they became him, he was
welcome to them,--but of such is the kingdom of cowards."

* * * * *

"Poetry," writes Lan