of Hermes; it calls up the spirits from below, or conducts them back again to Elysium. With what ecstasy do I throb and quiver under those refreshing showers of sound!' Come, sprinkle me soft music o'er the breast, Bring me the varied colours into light That now obscurely on its tablet rest, Show me its flowers and figures fresh and bright. Waked at thy voice and touch, again the chords Restore what restless years had moved away, Restore the glowing cheeks, the tender words, Youth's short-lived spring and pleasure's summer-day." Extracts express an original book badly, whether in matter or manner, although the above have some interest in themselves; but the three scenes in which Aspasia completes the story of Agamemnon it will be best to leave untouched. The first, wherein the shade of Iphigeneia, unconscious of her mother's double crime, meets on his descent from death the shade of her father, by whose hand she had herself perished, is for the originality of its conception unsurpassed; and the second and third, representing the fate of Clytemnestra and the madness of Orestes, are, in my judgment, for the intensity and vividness of their dramatic expression, unequalled in the dramatic writings of our time. "My "Agamemnon," wrote Landor (14th April 1836), "was "composed in bed, all night and half the morning, on 66 my recollecting what defects the Greek tragedians "had left in their management of the house of Atreus. "And yet it is on this ground that their laurels have 66 grown so high. It is hardly worth while to do any"thing admirable, for men's admiration will spring from "something worse. Critics admire the Agamemnon of "Eschylus far above his Prometheus. . . . There is," he wrote in the same letter, "only one thought of an"other man beside myself in the whole book, and this VOL. II. X 1829-35. "I have given twice, wishing it to be the one that "weighed most with Pericles-that he never caused an "Athenian to put on mourning. In the rest, prose and 66 poetry, wherever I detected a similarity to another, "I struck out the sentence, however loth, and however "certain that it would have been mine. But, alas, the "air we breathe is breathed by millions; so are the "thoughts. They both act as new organs, and both "diversely." Though scrupulous not to commit the offence, he could not avoid the charge; and the reader will be amused to learn the effect hereafter produced by it. Suffice it now to say that the book was not published until the spring of 1836; and that in the interval Landor had left the villa Gherardescha, and taken up his residence in England. IX. SELF-BANISHMENT FROM FIESOLE. "I leave thee, beauteous Italy! no more The smiles of Nature shed a potent charm, W. S. L. "Among the unaccountable things in me, and many are so even to myself, is this, that I admired Pindar "somewhat more in youth than in what ought to be a graver age. However, his wisdom, his high-minded"ness, and his excellent selection of topics, in which "no writer of prose or verse ever equalled him, render "him worthy to spend the evening with one who has 66 passed the earlier part of the day with Dante." His old schoolfellow Carey had visited Italy, and to him these words were addressed, thanking him for his translation of Pindar. What also the course of my narrative requires that I should now relate, the reader must be content to accept among the "unaccountable things." No account can as yet be given of it which he will be able to regard as entirely intelligible. In April 1835 Landor had left his villa, and was in Florence waiting a letter from Armitage Brown, at this time on his way to England. A few nights before his departure, when bidden to his last dinner at the villa, he had been present at the scene that had driven Landor from Fiesole; and in justification of this extreme step an account of what he witnessed had been asked from him. "It was scarcely possible for me," he wrote from Genoa on the 4th of April,* "to make "such a reply as your letter required before I quitted "Florence. As we have a day's rest here I avail my"self of it." He grieves to have to be ungracious to one who had uniformly treated him with the utmost courtesy and kindness; "but there are certain words, "which, once uttered, whether directed towards my"self or my friend, cancel every obligation; nor can "I affect to feel their power lessened on account of "their being uttered by the wife of my friend." He *The letter is addressed "Post restante, Florence." 1829-35. then describes language used in presence of the elder children, which had constituted the unpardonable offence, and which he declares to have had no provocation. "It commenced by upbraiding you for conduct "excessively bad towards herself; but her own statement, as well as your answer, certainly proved that 66 66 you were blameless, and I ventured to point out her "mistake. Unfortunately no attention was paid to "either of us; and still more unfortunately-" But the story is an old and familiar one, that it is the very consciousness of our own injustice which will make us add to the injury we inflict, and that, by doing all we can to aggravate the wrong we commit, we seem to justify ourselves for committing it. "I am ashamed to write down the words, but to hear them was painful.... I am afraid my patience would have left me in a tenth part of the time; but you, to my astonishment, sat with a composed countenance, never once making use of an uncivil expression, unless the following may be so considered, when, after about an hour, she seemed exhausted: 'I beg, madam, you will, if you think proper, proceed; as I made up my mind, from 'the first, to endure at least twice as much as you have been yet 'pleased to speak.' After dinner, when I saw her leave the room, I followed, and again pointed out her mistake; when she readily agreed with me, saying she was convinced you were not to blame. At this I could not forbear exclaiming, 'Well, then?' in the hope of bearing back to you some slight acknowledgment of regret on her part: but in this I was disappointed. You conclude your letter with 'I feel confident you will write a few lines, exculpating me if you think I have acted with propriety in very try'ing circumstances; and condemning me if I acted with violence, precipitation, or rudeness.' For more than eleven years I have been intimate with you, and, during that time, frequenting your house, I never once saw you behave towards Mrs. Landor otherwise than with the most gentlemanly demeanour, while your love for your children was unbounded. I was always aware that you gave entire control into her hands over the children, the servants, and the management of the house; and when vexed or annoyed at anything, I could not but remark that you were in the habit of requesting the cause to be remedied or removed, as a favour to yourself. All this I have more than once repeated to Mrs. Landor in answer to her accusations against you, which I could never well comprehend. When I have elsewhere heard you accused of being a violent man, I have frankly acknowledged it; limiting however your violence to persons guilty of meanness, roguery, or duplicity; by which I meant, and said, that you utterly lost your temper with the Italians." It will not be supposed that these sentences, or even the entire contents of the letter, if it had been possible to quote them, are thought by me to afford the justification for which they were sought by Landor and written by his friend: but what they tell has the value of suggesting much that the writer had not the power to tell; the "gentlemanly demeanour" and the "unbounded "love" are significant of more than was intended by such contrasted expressions; and in the scene referred to, taken at its worst, even in the step that followed, extravagant as it was, the reader of former passages of this work may possibly see but the sequel of what could not ever have been expected to have favourable issue. If, at the same time, I have delineated fairly the character it was my purpose to express, it will seem that no injury so fatal could be done, nor any of fence so unpardonable be committed, as one that might wound such a man in his self-love by lowering him in his own opinion before others, with whom especially he desired to stand well. He fled from his young wife at Jersey, not because of her expressions, but because her little sister heard them;† and he had now the same reason for deserting his home at Fiesole, without, alas, the same excuse for returning. It was a * Ante, i. 323-326, 411-413. |