There is always a trail of worshipping women and poetasters about him to the very last; but the bad odor of his Bath troubles has followed him; Normanby, the British Minister, will give him no recognition; but there is no bending, no flinching in this great, astute, imperious, headstrong, ill-balanced creature. Indeed, he carries now under his shock of white hair, and in his tottering figure, a stock of that coarse virility which has distinguished him always--which for so many has its charm, and which it is hard to reconcile with the tender things of which he was capable;--for instance, that interview of Agamemnon and Iphigenia--so cunningly, delicately, and so feelingly told--as if the story were all his own, and had no Greek root--other than what found hold in the greensward of English Warwickshire. And I close our talk of Landor, by citing this: Iphigenia has heard her doom (you know the story); she must die by the hands of the priest--or, the ships, on which her father’s hopes and his fortunes rest, cannot sail. Yet, she pleads;--there may have been mistakes in interpreting the cruel oracle,--there may be hope still,-- “The Father placed his cheek upon her head And tears dropt down it; but, the king of men Replied not: Then the maiden spoke once more,-- ‘O, Father, says’t thou nothing? Hear’st thou not _Me_, whom thou ever hast, until this hour, Listened to--fondly; and awakened me To hear my voice amid the voice of birds When it was inarticulate as theirs, And the down deadened it within the nest.’ He moved her gently from him, silent still: And this, and this alone, brought tears from her Although she saw fate nearer: then, with sighs,-- ‘I thought to have laid down my hair before Benignant Artemis, and not have dimmed Her polisht altar with my virgin blood; I thought to have selected the white flowers To please the Nymphs, and to have asked of each By name, and with no sorrowful regret, Whether, since both my parents willed the change, I might at Hymen’s feet bend my clipt brow, And--(after those who mind us girls the most) Adore our own Athena, that she would Regard me mildly with her azure eyes; But--Father! to see you no more, and see Your love, O Father! go, ere I am gone.’ Gently he moved her off, and drew her back, Bending his lofty head far over hers, And the dark depths of nature heaved and burst: He turned away: not far, but silent still: She now first shuddered; for in him--so nigh, So long a silence seemed the approach of death And like it. Once again, she raised her voice,-- ‘O Father! if the ships are now detained And all your vows move not the Gods above When the knife strikes me, there will be one prayer The less to them; and, purer can there be Any, or more fervent, than the daughter’s prayer For her dear father’s safety and success?’