preposterous honour he claims for men of genius. Perhaps he is ignorant of its nature and importance. He informs us that he is well-born and of plentiful estate; but he early in life withdrew from England, and has passed his time in retirement in Italy. He has thus missed the advantage of witnessing on the spot a most wonderful development of the tendencies and capacities of man, and missed, too, the wholesome discipline which nurtures great actors and great thinkers; a frank and frequent collision between equals, that kills the nonsense ever growing up within

us.

We will, before concluding, present to such of our readers as have not seen his works, some farther specimens of Mr. Landor's powers. They shall be of his powers under their worthier influences, for with any more of the freaks and perversities of his genius we wish not to deform our pages. He often adverts to the subject of literature, and always speaks interestingly and well upon it. We give in this passage, taken at random from a great number, a sample of his manner. There is in it a passing allusion to his compositions. It is Barrow who speaks to Newton :—

"You will become an author ere long; and every author must attend to the means of conveying his information. The plainness of your style is suitable to your manners and your studies. Avoid, which many grave men have not done, words taken from sacred subjects and from elevated poetry: these we have seen vilely prostituted. Avoid, too, the society of the barbarians, who misemploy them; they are vain, irreverent, and irreclaimable to right feelings. The dialogues of Galileo, which you have been studying, are written with much propriety and precision. I do not urge you to write in dialogue, although the best writers of every age have done it; the best parts of Homer and Milton are speeches and replies, the best parts of every great historian are the same; the wisest men of Athens and of Rome converse together in this manner, as they are shown to us by Xenophon, by Plato, and by Cicero. Whether you adopt such a form of composition, which, if your opinions are new, will protect you in part from the hostility all novelty (unless it is vicious) excites; or whether you choose to go along the unbroken surface of the didactic; never look abroad for any kind of ornament. Apollo, either as the god of day or the slayer of Python, had nothing about him to obscure his clearness, or to impede his strength. To one of your mild manners, it would be superfluous to recommend equanimity in composition, and calmness in controversy. How easy is it for the plainest things to be misinterpreted by men not unwise, which a calm disquisition sets right! And how fortunate and opportune is it to find in ourselves that calmness which almost the wisest have wanted on urgent and grave occasions. If others for a time are preferred to you, let your heart lie sacredly still! and you will hear from it the true and plain oracle, that not for ever will the magistracy of letters allow the rancid transparencies of coarse colourmen to stand before your propylæa. It

is time that philosophy should have her share in our literature; that the combinations and appearances of matter be scientifically considered and luminously displayed. Frigid conceits on theological questions, heaps of snow on barren crags, compose at present the greater part of our domain; volcanoes of politics burst forth from time to time, and vary, without enlivening the scene.-Do not fear to be less rich in the productions of your mind at one season than at another. Marshes are always marshes, and pools are pools; but the sea, in those places where we admire it most, is sometimes sea and sometimes dry land; sometimes it brings ships into port, and sometimes it leaves them where they can be refitted and equipt. The capacious mind neither rises nor sinks, neither labours nor rests in vain. Even in those intervals when it loses the consciousness of its powers, when it swims as it were in vacuity, and feels not what is external nor internal, it acquires or recovers strength, as the body does by sleep."Vol. i. pp. 487-8.

We had marked some passages of descriptive writing, and some passages of good thoughts, illustrated by original and striking fancies: but we refrain from transcribing more, in order to have room for as much as possible of the conversation between Essex and Spenser. It is one of Mr. Landor's masterpieces, and shows high dramatic art, is exquisite in composition, felicitous in thought, overflowing with feeling, and most powerful and touching in impression, Among innumerable beauties, let the reader observe the long avoidance by Spenser of a plain mention of his frightful calamity, and then, when he is forced to name it, the uncontrollable burst of heart-rending anguish followed by the weeping calmness of desolation and despair. Observe, also, the fine conduct of Essex, his friendly and cheerful contest with Spenser's grief, till its cause is told him—and then his reverence for that sacred agony, and deep sympathy with the sufferer. But these remarks are intrusive; and the piece shall speak for itself:

*

"Essex. Instantly on hearing of thy arrival from Ireland, I sent a message to thee, good Edmund, that I might learn from one so judicious and dispassionate as thou art, the real state of things in that distracted country; it having pleased the Queen's majesty to think of appointing me her deputy, in order to bring the rebellious to submission. Spenser.-Interrogate me, my lord, that I may answer each question distinctly, my mind being in sad confusion, at what I have seen and undergone. Essex. Give me thy account and opinion of these very affairs as thou leftest them; for I would rather know one part well, than all imperfectly; and the violences of which I have heard within the day surpass belief.-Why weepest thou, my gentle Spenser? Have the rebels sacked thy house? Spenser. They have plundered and utterly destroyed it. Essex.I grieve for thee, and will see thee righted. Spenser.-In this they

Essex.-

have little harmed me. Essex. How! I have heard it reported that thy grounds are fertile, and thy mansion large and pleasant. Spenser. -If river, and lake, and meadow-ground, and mountain, could render any place the abode of pleasantness, pleasant was mine, indeed!—On the lovely banks of Mulla I found deep contentment. Under the dark alders did I muse and meditate. Innocent hopes were my gravest cares, and my playfullest fancy was with kindly wishes. Ah! surely of all cruelties, the worst is to extinguish our kindness. Mine is gone; I love the people and the land no longer. My lord, ask me not about them; I may speak injuriously. Essex.-Think rather, then, of thy happier hours and busier occupations; these likewise may instruct me. Spenser. The first seeds I sowed in the garden, ere the old castle was made habitable for my lovely bride, were acorns from Penshurst. I planted a little oak before my mansion, at the birth of each child. My sons, I said to myself, shall often play in the shade of them when I am gone, and every year shall they take the measure of their growth, as fondly as I take of theirs. Essex.-Well, well; but let not this thought make thee weep so bitterly. Spenser.-Poison may ooze from beautiful plants; deadly griefs from dearest reminiscences.—I must grieve, I must weep: it seems the law of God, and the only one that men are not disposed to contravene. In the performance of this alone do they effectually aid one another. Spenser! I wish I had at hand any arguments or persuasions of force sufficient to remove thy sorrow; but really I am not in the habit of seeing men grieve at anything, except the loss of favour at court, or of a hawk, or of a buckhound. And were I to swear out my condolences to a man of thy discernment, in the same round roll-call phrases we employ with one another upon these occasions, I should be guilty not of insincerity, but of insolence. True grief hath ever something sacred in it; and when it visiteth a wise man and a brave one, is most holy.-Nay, kiss not my hand: he whom God smiteth, hath God with him. In his presence, what am I? Spenser.-Never so great, my lord, as at this moment, when you see aright who is greater. May He guide your counsels, and preserve your life and glory! Essex.-Where are thy friends? Are they with thee? Spenser.— Ah! where indeed! Generous, true-hearted Philip, where art thou? whose presence was unto me peace and safety; whose smile was contentment, and whose praise renown. My lord! I cannot but think of him among still heavier losses: he was my earliest friend, and would have taught me wisdom. Essex.-Pastoral poetry, my dear Spenser, doth not require tears and lamentations. Dry thine eyesrebuild thy house; the Queen and Council, I venture to promise thee, will make ample amends for every evil thou hast sustained. What! does that enforce thee to wail yet louder! Spenser.-Pardon me, bear with me, most noble heart! I have lost what no council, no queen, no Essex can restore. Essex. We will see that. There are other swords, and other arms to wield them, beside a Leicester's and a Raleigh's. Others can crush their enemies, and serve their friends. Spenser.-O my sweet child! And of many so powerful, many so

wise and so beneficent, was there none to save thee? None! none! Essex. I now perceive that thou lamentest what almost every father is destined to lament. Happiness must be bought, although the payment may be delayed. Consider, the same calamity might have befallen thee here in London. Neither the houses of ambassadors, nor the palaces of kings, nor the altars of God himself, are asylums against death. How do I know but under this very roof there may sleep some latent calamity, that in an instant shall cover with gloom every inmate of the house, and every far dependant? Spenser.-God avert it! Essex.-Every day, every hour of the year do hundreds mourn what thou mournest. Spenser.-Oh! no, no, no! Calamities there are around us; calamities there are all over the earth; calamities there are in all seasons; but none in any season, none in any place, like mine. Essex.-So say all fathers-so say all husbands. Look at any old mansion, and let the sun shine as it may on the golden vanes, or the arms recently quartered over the gateway, or the embayed window, and on the happy pair that haply is toying at it, nevertheless thou mayest say, that of a certainty the same fabric hath seen much sorrow within its chambers, and heard many wailings: and each time this was the heaviest stroke of all. Funerals have passed along through the stout-hearted knights upon the wainscot, and amid the laughing nymphs upon the arras. Old servants have shaken their heads, as if somebody had deceived them, when they found that beauty and nobility could perish-Edmund! The things that are too true, pass by us as if they were not true at all; and when they have singled us out, then only do they strike us. Thou and I must go too. Perhaps the next year may blow us away with its fallen leaves. Spenser. For you, my lord, many years, I trust, are waiting; I never shall see those fallen leaves. No leaf, no bud, will spring upon the earth, before I sink into her breast for ever. Essex.-Thou, who art wiser than most men, shouldest bear with patience, equanimity and courage, what is common to all. Spenser.-Enough! enough! enough! Have all men seen their infant burnt to ashes before their eyes? Essex.-Gracious God! merciful Father! what is this? Spenser.Burned alive! burned to ashes! burned to ashes! The flames dart their serpent tongues through the nursery window. I cannot quit thee, my Elizabeth! I cannot lay down our Edmund. Oh! these flames! they persecute, they enthrall me-they curl round my temples-they hiss upon my brain-they taunt me with their fierce, foul voices-they carp at me-they wither me-they consume me -throwing back to me a little of life, to roll and suffer in, with their fangs upon me. Ask me, my lord, the things you wish to know from me; I may answer them; I am now composed again. Command me, my gracious lord, I would yet serve you; soon I shall be unable. You have stooped to raise me up-you have borne with me-you have pitied me, even like one not powerful. You have brought comfort, and will leave it with me; for gratitude is comfort.-Oh! my memory stands all a-tiptoe on one burning point: when it drops from it, then it perishes. Spare me; ask me nothing; let me weeld before thee in peace; the kindest act of greatness. Essex.-I should

rather have dared to mount into the midst of the conflagration, than I now dare entreat thee not to weep. The tears that overflow thy heart, my Spenser, will staunch and heal it in their sacred stream, but not without hope in God. Spenser.-My hope in God is, that I may soon see again what he has taken from me. Amid the myriads of angels, there is not one so beautiful: and even he (if there be any) who is appointed my guardian, could never love me so. Ah! these are idle thoughts, vain wanderings, distempered dreams. If there ever were guardian angels, he who so wanted one, my helpless boy, would not have left these arms upon my knees. Essex.-God help and sustain thee, too gentle Spenser ! I will never desert thee. But what am I? Great they have called me! Alas! how powerless, then, and infantile is greatness in the presence of calamity."-Vol. ii. pp. 239

242.

Of one who could produce this noble and melting scene, we feel that it would be unhallowed, that it would be ungrateful in us to renew our censures, while the sacred source of sympathy within us, unlocked by his master hand, is still unclosed. We are content with the expression of our opinion already made. Against the judgments of his "enemies," (his name for unfavourable critics,) he has appealed to posterity, and posterity alone can settle his doom. We wonder greatly what it will be. We willingly acknowledge that he is a very remarkable writer, but is he to be loved and honoured as a great one?

ART. IV.-The Philosophy of Trade; or, Outlines of a Theory of Profits and Prices, including an Examination of the Principles which determine the relative value of Corn Labour and Currency. By PATRICK JAMES STIRLING. Edinburgh : Oliver & Boyd. 1846.

POLITICAL ECONOMY has suffered in many respects from its having been dealt with too exclusively and too rigidly, as if it were one of the exact sciences. Yet it is not to be wondered at, nay it is most natural, that it should have been thus dealt with. There is enough of number, and measurement, and proportion in the very terms which it employs, and the elements wherewith it has to do, to account for its having been regarded mainly as a science of quantities, and being treated accordingly. Possessing, as it does, these mathematical qualities, we need be at no loss to explain why so mathematical a treatment has been bestowed on it. There is scarcely one of its data which does not admit of