ction of the form. There are frequent discontinuities of
thought where the style is smoothest. He reminds one at times of those
Alpine glaciers where an exquisitely rounded surface of snow conceals
yawning crevasses beneath; and if one stops for a moment to think, one
is apt to break through the crust with an abrupt and annoying jerk.

The excellence of Landor's style has, of course, been universally
acknowledged, and it is natural that it should be more appreciated by
his fellow-craftsmen than by general readers less interested in
technical questions. The defects are the natural complements of its
merits. When accused of being too figurative, he had a ready reply.
'Wordsworth,' he says in one of his 'Conversations,' 'slithers on the
soft mud, and cannot stop himself until he comes down. In his poetry
there is as much of prose as there is of poetry in the prose of Milton.
But prose on certain occasions can bear a great deal of poetry; on the
other hand, poetry sinks and swoons under a moderate weight of prose,
and neither fan nor burnt feather can bring her to herself again.' The
remark about the relations of prose and poetry was originally made in a
real conversation with Wordsworth in defence of Landor's own luxuriance.
Wordsworth, it is said, took it to himself, and not without reason, as
appears by its insertion in this 'Conversation.' The retort, however
happy, is no more conclusive than other cases of the _tu quoque_. We are
too often inclined to say to Landor as Southey says to Porson in another
place: 'Pray leave these tropes and metaphors.' His sense suffers from a
superfetation of figures, or from the undue pursuit of a figure, till
the 'wind of the poor phrase is cracked.' In the phrase just quoted, for
example, we could dispense with the 'fan and burnt feather,' which have
very little relation to the thought. So, to take an instance of the
excessively florid, I may quote the phrase in which Marvell defends his
want of respect for the aristocracy of his day. 'Ever too hard upon
great men, Mr. Marvell!' says Bishop Parker; and Marvell replies:--

Little men in lofty places, who throw long shadows because
our sun is setting; the men so little and the places so
lofty that, casting my pebble, I only show where they stand.
They would be less contented with themselves, if they had
obtained their preferment honestly. Luck and dexterity
always give more pleasure than intellect and knowle