o sooner been received, than he urged,
though unsuccessfully, its acceptance upon a young American in whom he
was interested, declaring that he had no possible use for it. On another
occasion he proposed to give everything he might write to this same
American, to dispose of for the latter's benefit, and appeared grieved
when the offer was gratefully declined.

One day I was surprised by the appearance of Landor's little
waiting-maid bearing an old Florentine box of carved wood, almost as
large as herself, which she deposited on the table in obedience to her
master's wishes. She departed without vouchsafing any explanation.
Curiosity however was not long unsatisfied, for soon Giallo's white nose
peered through the door and heralded the coming of the old lion, who had
no sooner entered the room than he put into my hands a quaint old key,
saying: "I have brought you something that one of these days, when these
old bones of mine are packed away in the long box, may be of
considerable value. I have brought you what we may call, in anticipation
of a long-deferred but inevitable event, my literary remains. In that
box you will find all my notes and memoranda, together with many
unpublished verses. You can do what you like with them." Startled at
this unexpected endowment, I looked very great hesitancy, whereupon
Landor smiled, and begged me to unlock the box, as its opening would not
be fraught with evil consequences. "It is not Pandora's casket, I assure
you," he added. Turning the key and raising the lid, I discovered quite
a large collection of manuscripts, of very great interest to me of
course, but to which I had no right, nor was I the proper person with
whom to leave them. To have argued would have been useless.
Expostulation with Landor when in the white heat of a new idea was
Quixotic, so I expressed my very grateful thanks, and determined to
watch for a favorable opportunity to return the gift. I had not long to
wait, as it was not more than a month after that Landor bore them off,
with the intention of making certain selections for immediate
publication in England and returning the remainder. Time had not dealt
gently with Landor's memory of things nearest, therefore I knew that the
old Florentine box would wait in vain for its jewels. I was right: they
never came. The box since then has braved shipwreck, and now stands
beneath a modern writing-table, dark and proud of its antiquity,
telling perpetually of former no