self refused to see the
merits of the mere 'mushrooms,' as he somewhere called them, which grew
beneath the Shakespearian oak; and though such men as Chapman, Webster,
and Ford have received the warmest eulogies of Lamb and other able
successors, their vitality is spasmodic and uncertain. We generally read
them, if we read them, at the point of the critic's bayonet.

The case of Wordsworth is no precedent for Landor. Wordsworth's fame
was for a long time confined to a narrow sect, and he did all in his
power to hinder its spread by wilful disregard of the established
canons--even when founded in reason. A reformer who will not court the
prejudices even of his friends is likely to be slow in making converts.
But it is one thing to be slow in getting a hearing, and another in
attracting men who are quite prepared to hear. Wordsworth resembled a
man coming into a drawing-room with muddy boots and a smock-frock. He
courted disgust, and such courtship is pretty sure of success. But
Landor made his bow in full court-dress. In spite of the difficulty of
his poetry, he had all the natural graces which are apt to propitiate
cultivated readers. His prose has merits so conspicuous and so dear to
the critical mind, that one might have expected his welcome from the
connoisseurs to be warm even beyond the limit of sincerity. To praise
him was to announce one's own possession of a fine classical taste, and
there can be no greater stimulus to critical enthusiasm. One might have
guessed that he would be a favourite with all who set up for a
discernment superior to that of the vulgar; though the causes which must
obstruct a wide recognition of his merits are sufficiently obvious. It
may be interesting to consider the cause of his ill-success with some
fulness; and it is a comfort to the critic to reflect that in such a
case even obtuseness is in some sort a qualification; for it will enable
one to sympathise with the vulgar insensibility to the offered delicacy,
if only to substitute articulate rejection for simple stolid silence.

I do not wish, indeed, to put forward such a claim too unreservedly. I
will merely take courage to confess that Landor very frequently bores
me. So do a good many writers whom I thoroughly admire. If any courage
be wanted for such a confession, it is certainly not when writing upon
Landor that one should be reticent for want of example. Nobody ever
spoke his mind more freely about great reputations. He is, for