example,
almost the only poet who ever admitted that he could not read Spenser
continuously. Even Milton in Landor's hands, in defiance of his known
opinions, is made to speak contemptuously of 'The Faery Queen.' 'There
is scarcely a poet of the same eminence,' says Porson, obviously
representing Landor in this case, 'whom I have found it so delightful to
read in, and so hard to read through.' What Landor here says of Spenser,
I should venture to say of Landor. There are few books of the kind into
which one may dip with so great a certainty of finding much to admire as
the 'Imaginary Conversations,' and few of any high reputation which are
so certain to become wearisome after a time. And yet, upon thinking of
the whole five volumes so emphatically extolled by their author, one
feels the necessity of some apology for this admission of inadequate
sympathy. There is a vigour of feeling, an originality of character, a
fineness of style which makes one understand, if not quite agree to, the
audacious self-commendation. Part of the effect is due simply to the
sheer quantity of good writing. Take any essay separately, and one must
admit that--to speak only of his contemporaries--there is a greater
charm in passages of equal length by Lamb, De Quincey, or even Hazlitt.
None of them gets upon such stilts, or seems so anxious to keep the
reader at arm's length. But, on the other hand, there is something
imposing in so continuous a flow of stately and generally faultless
English, with so many weighty aphorisms rising spontaneously, without
splashing or disturbance, to the surface of talk, and such an easy
felicity of theme unmarred by the flash and glitter of the modern
epigrammatic style. Lamb is both sweeter and more profound, to say
nothing of his incomparable humour; but then Lamb's flight is short and
uncertain. De Quincey's passages of splendid rhetoric are too often
succeeded by dead levels of verbosity and laboured puerilities which
make annoyance alternate with enthusiasm. Hazlitt is often spasmodic,
and his intrusive egotism is pettish and undignified. But so far at
least as his style is concerned, Landor's unruffled abundant stream of
continuous harmony excites one's admiration the more the longer one
reads. Hardly anyone who has written so much has kept so uniformly to a
high level, and so seldom descended to empty verbosity or to downright
slipshod. It is true that the substance does not always correspond to
the perfe