hing. "To be well is to be wise," would
answer much better as the modern article of faith. The utmost that a
persistent brain-worker of this century can do is to keep himself bodily
up to mental requirements. Landor, however, was an extraordinary
exception. He could boast of never having worn an overcoat since
boyhood, and of not having been ill more than three times in his life.
Even at eighty-six his hand had none of the wavering of age; and it was
with no little satisfaction that, grasping an imaginary pistol, he
showed me how steady an aim he could still take, and told of how famous
a shot he used to be. "But my sister was more skilful than I," he
added.

One day conversation chanced upon Aubrey De Vere, the beautiful Catholic
poet of Ireland, whose name is scarcely known on this side of the
Atlantic. This is our loss, though De Vere can never be a popular poet,
for his muse lives in the past and breathes ether rather than air. "De
Vere is charming both as man and as poet," said Landor enthusiastically,
rising as he spoke and leaving the room to return immediately with a
small volume of De Vere's poems published at Oxford in 1843. "Here are
his poems given to me by himself. Such a modest, unassuming man as he
is! Now listen to this from the 'Ode on the Ascent of the Alps.' Is it
not magnificent?

'I spake.--Behold her o'er the broad lake flying,
Like a great Angel missioned to bestow
Some boon on men beneath in sadness lying:
The waves are murmuring silver murmurs low:
Over the waves are borne
Those feeble lights which, ere the eyes of Morn
Are lifted, through her lids and lashes flow.
Beneath the curdling wind
Green through the shades the waters rush and roll,
(Or whitened only by the unfrequent shoal,)
Till two dark hills, with darker yet behind,
Confront them,--purple mountains almost black,
Each behind each self-folded and withdrawn,
Beneath the umbrage of yon cloudy rack.--
That orange-gleam! 't is dawn!
Onward! the swan's flight with the eagle's blending,
On, winged Muse! still forward and ascending!'

"This sonnet on 'Sunrise,'" continued Landor, "is the noblest that ever
was written:--

'I saw the Master of the Sun. He stood
High in his fiery car, himself more bright,
An archer of immeasurable might.
On his left shoulder hung his quivered load;
Spurred by his steeds, the eastern mountain glowed;
Fo