tion. "While he wrote
or spoke against me alone, I said nothing of him in print or
conversation; but the taciturnity of pride gave way immediately to my
zeal in defence of my friend. What I write is not written on slate; and
no finger, not of Time himself, who dips it in the clouds of years, can
efface it. To condemn what is evil and to commend what is good is
consistent. To soften an asperity, to speak all the good we can after
worse than we wish, is _that_, and more. If I must understand the
meaning of consistency as many do, I wish I may be inconsistent with all
my enemies. There are many hearts which have risen higher and sunk lower
at his tales, and yet have been shocked and sorrowed at his untimely
death a great deal less than mine has been. Honor and glory to him for
the extensive good he did! peace and forgiveness for the partial evil!"

Shall Landor be branded with intense egotism for claiming immortality?
Can it be denied that he will be read with admiration as long as
printing and the English language endure? Can there be greatness without
conscious power? Do those of us who believe in Christ as the grandest of
men degrade his manly and inspired self-confidence to the level of
egotism? Far be it from me, however, to insinuate a comparison where
none can exist, save as one ray of light may relate to the sun. Egotism
is the belief of narrow minds in the supreme significance of a mortal
self: conscious power is the belief in certain immortal attributes,
emanating from, and productive of, Truth and Beauty. I should not call
Landor an egotist.

The friendship existing between Southey and Landor must have had much of
the heroic element in it, for instances are rare where two writers have
so thoroughly esteemed one another. Those who have witnessed the
enthusiasm with which Landor spoke of Southey can readily imagine how
unpardonable a sin he considered it in Byron to make his friend an
object of satire. Landor's strong feelings necessarily caused him to be
classed in the _ou tout ou rien_ school. Seeing those whom he liked
through the magnifying-glass of perfection, he painted others in less
brilliant colors than perhaps they merited. Southey to Landor was the
essence of all good things, and there was no subject upon which he dwelt
with more unaffected pleasure. "Ah, Southey was the best man that ever
lived. There never was a better, my dear, good friends, Francis and
Julius Hare, excepted. They were true Christia