not from strength. I could not stand the continuous excitement which you have gone through in your tragedy: in me it would not work itself off in tears; the tears would flow while in the act of composition, and would leave behind a throbbing head and a whole system in the highest state of nervous excitability, which would soon induce disease in one of its most fearful forms. From such a state I recovered in 1800 by going to Portugal, and suddenly changing climate, occupation, and all internal objects: and I have kept it off since by a good intellectual regimen."

Of Shelley he writes in the January of 1812

"Here is a man at Keswick, who acts upon me as my own ghost would do. He is just what I was in 1794. His name is Shelley, son to the member for Shoreham ; with £6000 a year entailed upon him, and as much more in his father's power to cut off. Beginning with romances of ghosts and murder, and with poetry at Eton, he passed, at Oxford, into metaphysics; printed half-adozen pages, which he entitled "The Necessity of Atheism;' sent one anonymously to Coplestone, in expectation, I suppose, of converting him; was expelled in consequence; married a girl of seventeen, after being turned out of doors by his father; and here they both are, in lodgings, living upon £200 a year, which her father allows them. He is come to the fittest physician in the world. At present he has got to the Pantheistic stage of philosophy, and, in the course of a week, I expect he will be a Berkleyan, for I have put him upon a course of Berkeley. It has surprised him a good deal to meet, for the first time in his life, with a man who perfectly understands him, and does him full justice. I tell him that all the difference between us is that he is nineteen, and I am thirty-seven; and I dare say it will not be very long before I shall succeed in convincing him that he may be a true philosopher, and do a great deal of good, with £6,000 a year; the thought of which troubles him a great deal more at present than ever the want of sixpence (for I have known such a want) did me. God help us! the world wants mending, though he did not set about it exactly in the right way. God bless you,

him that power which rose always to the measure of the occasion. Lord Liverpool is a cold man; you may convince his understanding, but you can only obtain an inert assent where zealous co-operation is wanted. It is, however, enough for us to know what ought to be done: the how and the when are in the hands of One who knows when and how it may be done best. Oh! if this world of ours were but well cultivated, and weeded well, how like the garden of Eden might it be made! Its evils might almost be reduced to physical suffering and death; the former continually diminishing, and the latter, always indeed an awful thing, but yet to be converted into hope and joy."

That Southey should have rejoiced intensely at the termination of the war (as it did terminate, in the complete overthrow of the tyrant by whom the Continent was held spell-bound) and the restoration of social order, could have surprised no one who knew how frequently he predicted these results, and how earnestly he had conjured the honest public men of all parties to forget their differences, and make a vigorous effort against the common enemy. Bonaparte he re

garded as an impersonation of evil, truthless, faithless, ruthless, bloody; and he himself entertained no more doubt of his final overthrow than he did that there was a God in heaven. But the whole utilitarian and materialist school of philosophers regarded him quite in another light. The great political meteor who had affrighted the nations, and, from his horrid hair, shook pestilence and war, they looked upon as a new sun in the firmament, by whom it sold glories were to be obscured. They believed that his mission of destruction was the necessary precursor of his mission of regeneration; and that, when old things had thus been made to pass away, we should have a new heaven and a new earth, wherein liberty alone should dwell. When it is considered that the parties by whom his fortunes as an author had been seriously blighted were sharers in these opinions, the reader cannot be surprised that he should have doubly rejoiced, in the falsification of their predictions, and the fulfilment of his His son writes :

own.

"How deep an interest my father had taken in the protracted contest between France and England, the reader has seen; nor will he, I think, if well acquainted with

the events of those times, and the state of feeling common among young men of the more educated classes at the close of the last century, be apt to censure him as grossly inconsistent, because he condemned the war at its outset, and augured well at the commencement of Bonaparte's career, and yet could earnestly desire that war, in its later stages, 'to be carried on with all the heart, and all the soul, and all the strength of this mighty empire,' and could rejoice in the downfall

Of him, who, while Europe crouched under his rod,

Put his trust in his fortune, and not in his God.'

For the original commencement of the war in 1792-3 had been the combination of other European powers against revolutionary France a direct act of aggression supported by England, which would now be condemned by most men, and was then naturally denounced by all those who partook, in any degree, of Republican feeling. But in the lapse of years the merits of the contest became quite altered; and from about the time when Bonaparte assumed the imperial crown, all his acts were marked by aggressiveness and overbearing usurpation. Not to speak of those personal crimes which turned my father's feelings towards the man into intense abhorrence, his political measures with respect to Switzerland, Holland, Egypt, and Malta were those of an unscrupulous and ambitious conqueror; and the invasion of Portugal, with his insolent treachery towards the Spanish royal family, made his iniquity intolerable. The real difference between my father and the mass of writers and speakers in England at that time, was, that he never laid aside a firm belief that the Providence of God would put an end to Napoleon's wicked career, and that it was the office of Great Britain to be the principal instrument of that Providence.

"But in addition to the national feelings of joy and triumph at the successful termination of this long and arduous warfare, my father had some grounds for rejoicing more peculiar to himself. When one large and influential portion of the community, supported by the Edinburgh Review,' prognosticated constantly the hopelessness of the war, the certain triumph of Bonaparte, and especially the folly of hoping to drive him out of Spain when their language was, 'France has conquered Europe; this is the melancholy truth; shut our eyes to it as we may, there can be no doubt about the matter; for the present, peace and submission must be the lot of the vanquished; he had stood forth among the boldest and most prominent of those who urged vigorous measures, and prophesied final success. And well might he now rejoice-kindle upon Skiddaw the symbol of triumph; and when contrasting the lan

guage he had held with that of those persons, exclaim, Was I wrong? or has the event corresponded to this confidence?" "

The account of the bonfire upon Skiddaw, above alluded to, we must present to the reader as he himself describes it in a letter to his brother, Dr. Southey. When we consider the scene, the occasion, and the actors engaged in it, it will be read with intense interest, and not more by the present, than by generations to come :

"Monday, the 21st of August, was not a more remarkable day in your life than it was in that of my neighbour Skiddaw, who is a much older personage. The weather served for our bonfire, and never, I believe, was such an assemblage upon such a spot. To my utter astonishment, Lord Sunderlin rode up, and Lady S., who had endeavoured to dissuade me from going as a thing too dangerous, joined the walking party. Wordsworth, with his wife, sister, and eldest boy, came over on purpose. James Boswell arrived that morning at the Sunderlin's. Edith, the senhora, Edith May, and Herbert were my convoy, with our three maid-servants, some of our neighbours, some adventurous Lakers, and Messrs. Rag, Tag, and Boptail, made up the rest of the assembly. We roasted beef and boiled plum-puddings there; sungGod save the king' round the most furious body of flaming tar-barrels that I ever saw; drank a huge wooden bowl of punch; fired cannon at every health, with three times three, and rolled large blazing balls of tow and turpentine down the steep side of the mountain. The effect was grand beyond imagination. We formed a huge circle round the most intense light, and behind us was an immeasurable arch of the most intense darkness, for our boutire fairly put out the moon.

66

The only mishap which occurred will make a famous anecdote in the life of a great poet, if James Boswell, after the example of his father, keepeth a diary of the sayings of remarkable men. When we were craving for the punch, a cry went forth that the kettle had been knocked over, with all the boiling water! Colonel Barker, as Boswell named the Senhora, from her having had the command on this occasion, immediately instituted a strict inquiry to discover the culprit, from a suspicion that it might have been done in mischief, water, as you know, being a commodity not easily replaced on the summit of Skiddaw. The persons about the fire declared it was one of the gentlemen-they did not know his name; but he had a red cloak on; they pointed him out in the circle. The red cloak (a maroon one of Edith's) identified him; Wordsworth had got hold of it, and was equipped like a Spa

nish Don-by no means the worst figure in the company. He had committed this fatal faux pas, and thought to slink off undiscovered. But as soon as, in my inquiries concerning the punch, I learned his guilt from the Senhora, I went round to all our party, and communicated the discovery, and getting them about him, I punished him by singing a parody, which they all joined in: Twas you that kicked the kettle down! 'twas you, sir, you!'"

This was probably the most joyous and happy period of his existence. His health was good, his reputation was high, his circumstances

were com

paratively easy; his reputation had risen above the obscurations of party and prejudice, and he could quietly look down upon the slanderers, both literary and political, by whom he had been defamed, with a scorn which compassionated, even more than it condemned them. Despite the venial errors of his youth, he could look back upon a life devoted to the promotion of truth and loyalty, of religion and virtue. In politics his aspirations had been gratified, and his predictions realised, to the confusion of those who had calculated upon different results, and were, in truth, to be numbered amongst the allies of the common enemy. His children were growing up in happiness and in promise around him; and, in truth, it might be said, who so blest as he.

The following we extract from his "Pilgrimage to Waterloo." He describes the greetings of his family upon his approach to his own house on his return. We regret exceedingly that we cannot give the whole description of this touching scene, as this poem is less known than any of his others to the general reader :

"O joyful hour, when to our longing home The long-expected wheels at length drew nigh,

When the first sound went forth, They come, they come !'

And hope's impatience quicken'd every eye!

Never had man whom Heaven would heap

with bliss

More glad return, more happy hour than this.

"Aloft on yonder bench, with arms dispread,

My boy stood, shouting there his father's

name,

Waving his hat around his happy head;

And there, a younger group, his sisters

came:

Smiling they stood with looks of pleased surprise,

While tears of joy were seen in elder eyes.

"Soon all and each came crowding round to share

The cordial greeting, the beloved sight; What welcomings of hand and lip were there!

And when those overflowings of delight Subsided to a sense of quiet bliss, Life hath no purer, deeper happiness.”

But soon he was to feel a pang, and a shadow was to pass over him, which darkened all his remaining days. The youth above alluded to was one of those rare and gifted spirits, full of promise both of worth and eminence, who are sometimes lent to doating parents to be, for a brief season, their hope and their joy, but only, when their hearts begin to lean too fondly upon them, to be snatched away. He was his father's pupil and playmate. Every day was developing faculties and affections which made him more beloved; and it was not until his powers, both moral and intellectual, had become not only "household words," but began to attract the admiration of strangers, that

"A wasteful malady began To prey upon him,"

and the troubled and anxious parents became tremblingly solicitous for the safety of their darling child. All was soon over. Their worst fears were realised. On the 17th of April, 1816, Herbert Southey, then in his tenth year, breathed his last, leaving a family, who had so short a time before been at the summit of happiness, steeped in affliction, of which, until the dawn of that other life, when those whom death hath separated shall be united, there could be no end. To soothe and mitigate such calamities the lenient hand of time does much; but its office is not to obliterate them. The aching void will always be felt, until we shall have learned that our saddest bereavements are intended to wean us from terrene enjoyments, to teach us, by powerful experience, to set our affections on things above, not on things of the earth, and that where our treasure is there should our hearts be also.

The following extracts from the

poet's letters, written immediately after this afflicting event, possess a touching interest:

"MY DEAR BEDFORD,-Here is an end of hope and of fear, but not of suffering. His sufferings, however, are over, and, thank God, his passage was perfectly easy. He fell asleep, and is now in a better state of existence, for which his nature was more fitted than for this. You, more than most men, can tell what I have lost, and yet you are far from knowing how large a portion of my hopes and happiness will be laid in the grave with Herbert. For years it has been my daily prayer that I might be spared this afiliction.

"I am much reduced in body by this long and sore suffering, but I am perfectly resigned, and do not give way to grief.

I will not venture to relate the boy's conduct during his whole illness. I dare not trust myself to attempt this. But nothing could be more calm, more patient, more collected, more dutiful, more admirable.

"Oh! that I may be able to leave this country! The wound will never close while I remain in it. You would wonder to see me, how composed I am. Thank God, I can control myself for the sake of others; but it is a life-long grief, and do what I can to lighten it, the burden will be as heavy as I can bear.'

"MY DEAR GROSVENOR,Wherefore do I write to you? Alas, because I know not what to do. To-morrow, perhaps, may bring with it something like the beginning of relief. To-day I hope I shall support myself, or rather that God will support me, for I am weak as a child, in body even more than in mind. My limbs tremble under me; long anxiety has wasted me to the bone, and I fear it will be long before grief will suffer me to recruit. I am seriously apprehensive for the shock which my health seems to have sustained; yet I am wanting in no effort to appear calm and to console others; and those who are about me give me credit for a fortitude which I do not possess. Many blessings are left me-abundant blessings, more than I have deserved, more than I had ever reason to expect or even to hope. I have strong ties to life, and many duties yet to perform. Believe me, I see these things as they ought to be seen. Reason will do something, Time more, Religion most of all. The loss is but for this world; but as long as I remain in this world I shall feel it.

"Some way my feelings will vent themselves. I have thought of endeavouring to direct their course, and may, perhaps, set

alort a monument in verse for him and for myself, which may make our memories inseparable.

"There would be no wisdom in going from home. The act of returning to it would undo all the benefit I might receive from change of circumstance for some time yet. Edith feels this; otherwise, perhaps, we might have gone to visit Tom in his new habitation. Summer is at hand. While there was a hope of Herbert's recovery, this was a frequent subject of pleasurable consideration; it is now a painful thought, and I look forward with a sense of fear to the season which brings with it life and joy to those who are capable of receiving thein. You, more than most men, are aware of the extent of my loss, and how, as long as I remain here, every object within and without, and every hour of every day, must bring it fresh to recollection. Yet the more I consider the difficulties of removing, the greater they appear; and perhaps by the time it would be possible, I may cease to desire it."

But

"Three things I prayed for the child's recovery, if it might please God; that if this might not be, his passage might be rendered easy; and that we might be supported in our affliction. The two latter petitions were granted, and I am truly thankful. when the event was over, then, like David, I roused myself, and gave no way to unavailing grief, acting in all things as I should wish others to act when my hour also is I employ myself incessantly, taking, however, every day as much exercise as I can bear without injurious fatigue, which is not much."

come.

"MY DEAR WORDSWORTH,-You were right respecting the nature of my support under this affliction; there is but one source of consolation, and of that source I have drunk largely. When you shall see how I had spoken of my happiness but a few weeks ago, you will read with tears of sorrow what I wrote with tears of joy. And little did I think how soon and how literally another part of this mournful poem was to be fulfilled, when I said in it

To earth I should have sunk in my despair, Had I not claspt the Cross, and been supported there.'"

We confess we have not heart, even if we had space, to proceed farther at present. In our next and concluding notice we shall find the poet in a more composed and happy frame of mind, and not leave him until we shall have followed him, also, to his latter end.