far from the noise of the profane vulgar: of the
art, in short, by which a man of fine cultivation may make the most of
this life, and learn to take death as a calm and happy subsidence into
oblivion. Nor far behind is the dialogue in which Lucullus entertains
Caesar in his delightful villa, and illustrates by example, as well as
precept, Landor's favourite doctrine of the vast superiority of the
literary to the active life. Politics, as he makes even Demosthenes
admit, are the 'sad refuge of restless minds, averse from business and
from study.' And certainly there are moods in which we could ask nothing
better than to live in a remote villa, in which wealth and art have done
everything in their power to give all the pleasures compatible with
perfect refinement and contempt of the grosser tastes. Only it must be
admitted that this is not quite a gospel for the million. And probably
the highest triumph is in the Pentameron, where the whole scene is so
vividly coloured by so many delicate touches, and such charming little
episodes of Italian life, that we seem almost to have seen the fat,
wheezy poet hoisting himself on to his pampered steed, to have listened
to the village gossip, and followed the little flirtations in which the
true poets take so kindly an interest; and are quite ready to pardon
certain useless digressions and critical vagaries, and to overlook
complacently any little laxity of morals.

These, and many of the shorter and more dramatic dialogues, have a rare
charm, and the critic will return to analyse, if he can, their technical
qualities. But little explanation can be needed, after reading them, of
Landor's want of popularity. If he had applied one-tenth part of his
literary skill to expand commonplace sentiment; if he had talked that
kind of gentle twaddle by which some recent essayists edify their
readers, he might have succeeded in gaining a wide popularity. Or if he
had been really, as some writers seem to fancy, a deep and systematic
thinker as well as a most admirable artist, he might have extorted a
hearing even while provoking dissent. But his boyish waywardness has
disqualified him from reaching the deeper sympathies of either class. We
feel that the most superhuman of schoolboys has really a rather shallow
view of life. His various outbursts of wrath amuse us at best when they
do not bore, even though they take the outward form of philosophy or
statesmanship. He has really no answer or vestige