1

Bristol was full of painful recollections, and Cole-ing down into the sky, and the whole range of ridge was still living at Keswick. Thither he mountains, having one line of summits under my

went :

Would that you could see (he wrote to his brother) these lakes and mountains, how wonderful they are! how awful in their beauty! All the poet part of me will be fed and fostered here. I feel already in tune.

He had now lived thirty years, and supposed himself to be growing old :—

Not so much by the family Bible, as by all external and outward symptoms. The gray hairs have made their appearance; my eyes are wearing out my shoes, the very cut of my father's, at which I used to laugh; my limbs not so supple as they were at Brixton in '93; my tongue not so glib; my heart quieter; my hopes, thoughts, and feelings all of the complexion of a sunny autumn evening. In a letter of nearly the same date, to Mr. Duppa, we stumble upon a pleasant allusion to Hazlitt, who had dropped for a few days into the Lake country, and having painted Coleridge for Sir George Beaumont, was emboldened to try his hand on Wordsworth. The portrait was so dismal, that one of the poet's friends, on looking at it, exclaimed, "At the gallows, deeply affected by his deserved fate, yet determined to die like a man." Southey returns more than once to the salutary effects of the scenery upon his mind, and speaks of the best seasons for visiting it; adding, with great beauty of thought, that in "settled fine weather there are none of those goings on in heaven, which at other times give these scenes such an endless variety." He had not, however, become accustomed to the stern severity of that hilly and tempestuous climate; he thought the white bear had one advantage over a mountain resident, and would gladly have rolled himself up until the end of October, leaving particular directions to be called early on the first of May. We have been greatly delighted with one picture which he gives Mr. Bedford; and remember no prose description that surpasses it, unless it be Gray's charming account of sunrise at Southampton:

feet, and another above me, seemed to be suspended between the firmaments. Shut your eyes, and dream of a scene so unnatural and so beautiful. What I have said is most strictly and scrupulously true; but it was one of those happy moments that can seldom occur, for the least breath stirring would have shaken the whole vision, and at once unrealized it. I have before seen a partial appearance, but never before did, and perhaps never again may, lose sight of the lake entirely; for it literally seemed like an abyss of sky before me, not fog and clouds from a mountain, but the blue heaven spotted with a few fleecy pillows of cloud, that looked as if placed there for angels to rest upon them.-P. 259.

He had formed a canine

"Homed and housed" at Keswick, the poet
lived in a sort of domestic solitude; working upon
reviews and graver themes, which he variegated
with occasional glasses of port wine, and glimpses
of the view before his window. He portrays
himself with quite a Montaigne simplicity and
liveliness. We see him bending over his desk,
in the large odd-looking study, dressed in long
worsted pantaloons and gaiters, and with a green
shade to protect his eyes. The cat, having soon
found his room the quietest in the house, gives him
her constant company, and sits by his side, and
purrs with almost as much melody and rhythm as
many lines in Kehama.
as well as a feline acquaintanceship. Poets, from
Pope and Shenstone to Cowper and Miss Mitford,
have rejoiced in dogs. Southey had one, a well-
bred hound, Dapper by name; affectionate, but a
coward. Of deficiency in courage some convincing
illustrations are recorded. A porcine apparition
shook Dapper's nerves for the day. But other
And now the
qualities overbalanced the defect.
poet closes his book, and sauntering down to the
river (Dapper at his heels) which runs at the bot-
tom of the orchard, he throws stones until his arms
ache. Not a thought of history or drudgery goes
with him. He confessed that he never got into
any regular train of thought unless the pen was
in his hand. The shade of orchard-trees was for

poetry and Madoc.
This great opus, of which numberless intima-
tions meet the reader of the Correspondence, at
length reached Keswick in its presentable shape;
—a beautiful book in quarto, very dear, and having
Snowdon" spelt wrong throughout. "I cannot
help feeling," he wrote, "that the poem looks like
the work of an older man; that all its lights are
evening sunshine." Madoc did very well; half
of the edition having been exhausted in three
months. Although late in appearance, it had been
among the earliest of his poetical visions, and he
entertained the most confident hopes of its lasting
fame. He knew its execution to be the finest he
had produced.

I have seen a sight, more dreamy and wonderful than any scenery that Fancy ever yet devised for Faery-land. We had walked down to the lake side; it was a delightful day; the sun shining, and a few white clouds hanging motionless in the sky. The opposite shore of Derwentwater consists of one long mountain, which suddenly terminates" in an arch, thus, and through that opening you see a long valley between mountains, and bounded by mountain beyond mountain; to the right of the arch the heights are more varied and of greater elevation. Now, as there was not a breath of air stirring, the surface of the lake was so perfectly still that it became one great mirror, and all its waters disappeared; the whole line of shore was represented as vividly and steadily as it existed in its actual being-the arch, the vale within, the single houses far within the vale, the smoke from their chimneys, the farthest hills, and the shadow Compare it (he said) with the Odyssey, not with and substance joined at their bases so indivisibly, the Iliad; with King John and Coriolanus, not that you could make no separation even in your Macbeth and the Tempest. The story wants unity, judgment. As I stood on the shore, heaven and and has, perhaps, too Greek, too stoical, a want of the clouds seemed lying under me. I was look-passion; but as far as I can see, with the same

once.

A FAITHFUL SLAVE LIBERATED.-GARRICK'S FIRST APPEARANCE IN LONDON. 589 eyes wherewith I read Homer, and Shakspeare, | Elinsley, and passed a few days with Walter Scott and Milton, it is a good poem, and must live. at Ashestiel. He tracked the Last Minstrel through

Perhaps all works—whether of the pen, the his pleasant haunts, and even took spear in hand pencil, or the chisel—require patient scrutiny, in against the salmon. The Scottish men of letters proportion to the delicate harmony of their compo

did not surprise him ; he considered them to be sition. A glance of the eye takes in Tintoret;

fairly represented by the diminutive literatuli. but a whole day scarcely unfolds the grace of But the country he thought charming—Teviotdale, Raffaelle. Sir Walter Scott assured Southey that the Yarrow, the Tweed, and romantic Melrose, he had read Madoc three times, and with an in- won his praise. For Presbyterianism, with its creasing sense of its merits. We are, nevertheless, twang and its frost, he had no sympathy. He unwilling to admit the high panegyric bestowed returned to Keswick while the news of Nelson's on the poem by its author. Taking occasion to death was bursting, in thunder, over England. He mention William Taylor's opinion, that the press

wrote to Mr. Bedford, “ What a death is Nelson's ! had sent out no production equal to Madoc since It seems to me one of the characteristics of the Paradise Lost, Southey adds—" Indeed, this is not sublime, that its whole force is never perceived at exaggerated praise, for unfortunately there is no

The more it is contemplated, the deeper is competition.” This was a bold saying ; and bolder its effect. When this war began I began an ode, than it was wise. In that long interval of, more

which almost I feel now disposed to complete." than one hundred and thirty years, our poetry was And to his brother, “ You will have heard of Nelenriched with contributions which will be treasured son's most glorious death. He leaves a name for all time. Milton himself had built a wing to above all former admirals.” A volume, or an artihis splendid palace of song ; inferior in its archi- cle, could not have a better conclusion. Southey tecture, and less sumptuously furnished; but still did something more for Nelson than completing of grand design and beautiful execution. Dryden the ode. had written his exquisite Fables ; Pope had in one piece displayed the lustrous gayety of Ariosto, A Faithful Slave LIBERATED.—The following with chaster graces of fancy and taste ; Thomson is an extract from the will of Judge Upsher, late had dipped his language in the lights of the rain- secretary of state of the United States, killed by bow; Young had shed abroad the full wisdom of " I emancipate and set free my servant David Rich,

the explosion on board the steamer Princeton :his most thoughtful mind; and Akenside had re- and direct my executors to give him one hundred vived among us the fading bloom of classic color dollars. I recommend him in the strongest manand outline.

ner to the respect, esteem, and confidence of any Our remarks upon these volumes have been, community in which he may happen to live. He of necessity, too rapid to permit of any close or has been my slave for twenty-four years, during all chronological arrangement. With so large a tract

which time he has been trusted to every extent, to fly over, we have been obliged to keep almost been unbounded; his relation to myself and family

and in every respect. My confidence in him has constantly upon the wing. Dropping down now has always been such as to afford him daily opporand then among the corn, we have found a few tunities to deceive and injure us, and yet he has ears to carry away. To some of the literary never been detected in any serious fault, nor even notices which are scattered through the poet's let- in an unintentional breach of the decorums of his ters, reference has already been made. Towards station. His intelligence is of a high order, his the end of this second volume we meet with two integrity above all suspicion, and his sense of right or three slight sketches, which are not without in- that he is justly entitled to carry this certificate

and propriety correct, and even refined. I feel Mrs. Bare-bald (as he named the ingenious from me in the new relations which he must now lady of Evenings at Home) had said something form : it is due to his long and most faithful seruncivil of Lamb, whom he wished 10 “ singe her vices, and to the sincere and steady friendship which flaxen wig with squibs.” Of Coleridge he observes, I bear him. In the uninterrupted and confidential “ His mind is in a perpetual St. Vitus' Dance- intercourse of twenty-four years, I have never eternal activity without action;" a most penetrating word. I know no man who has fewer faults or

given, nor had occasion to give, him an unpleasant and happy criticism, which Coleridge unconsciously more excellences than he.” — Chambers' Journal. confirms in the Prospectus of The Friend, when he says :-" I am inclined to believe that this want of perseverance has been produced in the muin by

GARRICK's First APPEARANCE IN LONDON.–At an over-activity of thought modified by a constitu- a sale of a collection of autograph letters were fifty tional indolence.” We might enlarge these little of the celebrated David Garrick. In one, which sketches from a visit which Southey made to Lon- was written on the night of his first appearance in don in the summer of 1804. He dined with Sothe- London, he says :-"My mind has always been by, the translator of Oberon, whom he liked; and inclined to the stage

Last night I met Price, “ the picturesque man, and Davies played Richard the Third to the surprise of everyGiddy,” whose face he declared ought to be body; and, as I shall make very near £300 per

annum of it, and as it is really what I dote upon, I perpetuated in marble for the honor of mathemat- am resolved to pursue it.”. This interesting series ics." In the autumn of the following year he of letters sold at high prices, amounting in the went to Edinburgh, in the company of Peter / whole to about £110.

terest.

1

From Punch.

Forester (thoughtfully to himself.)-Elderly lady.

SCENE FROM THE LIFE OF AN UNPROTECTED Longs is n't it, ma'am? Here you are.

FEMALE.

The Bank. The Unprotected Female escapes from the hands of her cab-driver, after an hour of stoppages, prayers, fears, remonstrances, higglings, and general uncomfortablenesses of all kinds. Unprotected Female (before the bank entrance.Thank goodness! (Gazes eagerly round her.) Oh! I wonder where Mr. Jones is. (St. Paul's clock strikes" Three.") Oh! it's 3 o'clock, and I ought to have been here at 2. (She enters the court.) I thought he would have waited. (To the Stately Beadle in the cocked hat.) Oh, please, has Mr. Jones been here?

Stately Beadle (vacantly.)-Jones? There's a deal o' Joneses.

Unprotected Female.-Oh, thank you; I'm sure I didn't know (goes to the nearest desk and addresses herself to nobody in particular.)—Please, I've come for my dividends.

Clerk (seizing a disengaged moment and whipping
open transfer-book.)-What name?
Unprotected Female (not understanding.)-Eh?
What?

Clerk.-Watt! Go to the W's.

Unprotected Female (bewildered.)-The W's? Clerk (pointing with his pen.)—Over the wayfourth desk-there!

Unprotected Female mechanically obeying and accosting clerk at the desk indicated.)—Please, I've come for my dividends, and they told me to come to the W's.

Clerk.-Name?

Unprotected Female (replunged into bewilderment.)

Clerk.-Christian name?

[Running over the "Watt's" with his finger in the Transfer-book.]

Unprotected Female (with unsolicited communicativeness.)-It's Mr. Jones who is in the city, and has always come with me to draw my dividends;-What? and he said he would meet me here to-day, at 2; but the horrid cabman would get into a stoppage, and it's past 3, and I don't see him; and I've got all my papers here; and if you please, do you think they'd give me the money? and where am I to go? and it's too bad of Mr. Jones; for he knows I'm not used to business; and, please, could you direct me to the Funds?

Stately Beadle (whose attention has wandered a good deal during the above.)-Fust door to the right. Unprotected Female.-Oh, thank you!

[Enters the door of the Rotunda, which, it being a dividend day, is filled with an average of half-adozen customers to each clerk.]

Unprotected Female (looking about her in alarm.) -Oh, I wish Mr. Jones was here. (Addressing herself to the nearest group of two very impatient city gents, an embarrassed elderly lady, a deaf old gentleman, and a widow, all upon one clerk.)-Oh! please, I've come for my dividends. (Finding herself not listened to, she raps the counter.) Please, I've come for my dividends.

a

Unprotected Female.-Martha.

Clerk.-No Martha Watt here. Must have made mistake, ma'am.

Unprotected Female (in great wretchedness.)—Oh, they told me to come.

Clerk.-How do you spell your name?
Unprotected Female.-ST-

Clerk (indignantly.)—Then what do you come to the W's for? You gave me your name" Watt." Unprotected Female (explanatorily.)-No, I said "What?"

Clerk.-Well," Watt." That don't begin with

ST

592

A BLACK STATUE TO THOMAS CARLYLE.-PROSPERITY AND THE BOARD OF TRADE.

Unprotected Female.-In the Funds. Clerk.-Bank Stock, Consols, Reduced, Threeand-a-Quarters, or terms of years?

Unprotected Female (solemnly, but with much alarm.)-No, it's all in the Funds.

Clerk.-Yes, but what stock?

Unprotected Female (in a tone intended to inspire respect.)-In the Government Securities, every farthing of it.

Clerk (suddenly.)-Oh! you 've got your stock receipts there. Let me look. (Holding his hand.) Unprotected Female (suspiciously.)-Oh, but Mr. Jones said I was n't. They 're my securities.

Clerk (half amused, half hopeless of arriving at a result.)-Hold 'em tight, Ma'am; only let me look. Longs, and Three-and-a-Quarters. (Makes out the warrant for the Long Annuities' Stock.) Now, sign there, Ma'am. (Pushes the Dividend-book over to her. Unprotected Female is about to write her name promiscuously.) No, no. Opposite thereSo.

Unprotected Female (suddenly seized with a qualm.) -But you'll pay me?

Clerk.-Dear, dear, dear! Now sign there. (Giving her the warrant.) So. (signs.) Now, take that to the Rotunda, and they'll give you the

money.

Unprotected Female.-Oh, but can't you, please?

I'd rather have it here.

Clerk.-No. We don't pay here. There, it's that round room you came through. Unprotected Female.—Oh, but I asked there as I came on, and they would n't.

you

Clerk. But they will now, if show 'em that. Now do go, ma'am. These gentlemen are waiting.

Harassed Clerk (comprehending at a glance.)— 2007. in Longs, the rest in Three-and-a-Quarters. If you bring the warrant for the rest, I'll pay you. You can only have 2007. on this

Unprotected Female (clasping her hands in despair.)-Oh, they did n't give me anything but that, and they said you'd pay me if I showed it you— and now you won't-Oh

Harassed Clerk (on the verge of an explosion.)— Bless the woman!

Unprotected Female (passing suddenly from the depths of despair to the summit of felicity.)—Oh, there's Mr. Jones! Oh, Mr. Jones! [Rushes towards that individual, who enters the Rotunda; all but falls into his arms, and the scene closes on her rapture of relief.]

66

A BLACK STATUE TO THOMAS CARLYLE.Pleasant is it to record the ready gratitude of bodies with his iron pen, pricks" wind-bags;" who, with of men. Well, Thomas Carlyle, the man who, his iron-tipped shoon, kicks "flunkeydom;" who, with his Vulcanic fist, knocks down the giant the West India planters for his late advocacy of Sham,"-Thomas Carlyle is to be rewarded by with which he has all-but destroyed emancipated "the beneficent whip," and the Kentuckian wrath "Black Quashee," the wretch who will not work among sugar-canes, unless well paid for his sweat :* preferring to live upon pumpkin! to be, in fact, a free, luxurious citizen of accursed Pumpkindom. Thomas Carlyle is to be vicariously executed in black marble, and to stand in the most conspicuous spot of the island of Jamaica, with a pumpkin fashioned into a standish in one hand, and the sugarcane pointed and nibbed into a pen in the other.