twenty-one, a poor youth so far in advance of his age that he died of examinations and over-cramming, by the kind but injudicious hands of the college authorities of St. John's, Cambridge, where he had gained a sizorship. He was one of those saintly youths whose religious blameless lives will aways be reverentially read by the simple public, and whose gentle, devotional verses charm and awe and touch, perhaps, a larger number of minds than are ever affected by the highest voices of poetry. An early volume of poetry, which he published at seventeen, received the honours of a kind of martyrdom from a bitter critic; and the consumptive and suffering young poet almost died of the cruel assault. Southey, always kind, was moved by this to an indignant championship of the dying youth, consoled him with tender praise, and afterwards published his little biography and innocent pious "Remains," which became dear to many a young and innocent reader.

Other young names of promise never carried out, which the always generous and tender hand of the gentle Laureate did its best to crown, might be added; perhaps that of Herbert Knowles is the only one which has lingered in any reader's memory. His "Verses in the Churchyard at Richmond" used to appear in those curious receptacles of little-known verse-school readingbooks, and other collections. And Southey's name is still more closely connected with that of Caroline Bowles, whom he married in the end of his life-an event which, as so often happens, disturbs the perfection of his domestic story, without having resulted in any special personal advantage. She was the author of various stories, poems, and essays-the latter of which, in the form of a series of "Chapters on Churchyards," published in Blackwood's Magazine, are almost the only relics of her that have a faint survival.

rapidity; in forty hours I have done a thousand lines." Soon, however, he modifies this statement. "My rapidity in the composition was not so great as I led you to imagine. My hours were four or five together after long walks, in which I brought before me the various characters, the very tones of their voices, their forms, complexions, and step. In the daytime I laboured, and at night unburdened my mind, shedding many tears." But what was to be done with it was now the question. It ought to be printed-or perhaps rather produced on the stage. It was supposed that the character of "Count Julian" would suit Kemble-and at last Southey suggested that he should take it to London and offer it. Then Landor's pride took fire. "Count Julian' shall never lie at Kemble's feet. It must not be offered for representation. I will print it, and immediately." It was then sent to Longman, with the following tragical result.

"I sent Count Julian' to your bookseller, Mr. Longman, and gave him to understand, though not in so many words, as people say, that you thought not unfavourably of it. I would have been glad to have given it up to him for half-a-dozen copies. . . . This would not do. I then proposed to print it at my own expense. This also failed. They would have nothing to do with it. We have lately had cold weather here, and fires. On receiving the last letter of Mr. Longman to this purport, I committed to the flames my tragedy of 'Ferranti and Giulio,' with which I intended to surprise you, and am resolved that never verse of mine hereafter shall be committed to anything else. My literary career has been a very curious one. You cannot imagine how I feel relieved at laying down its burden and abandoning this tissue of humiliations.”

This is Landor all over. Because one tragedy is not to be printed, to rush to the fire with another is carrying despite to the farthest limit of hotheaded folly. Perhaps, however, after all, it was but the plan of "Ferranti and Giulio" which went into the fire, which would be the less damage.

In 1816 Landor went to Italy, from whence he sent forth the Imaginary Conversations, by which he will be chiefly known to posterity. These works have been greatly applauded by the best judges; but they have not penetrated the public mind. Perhaps, however worthy they had been, the effect on the general mass could never have been great; for how were the ignorant, who scarcely knew more than the names of the great personages introduced, to understand the fine points of character which were supposed to be unfolded in their imaginary talk? And works which are by their nature beyond the comprehension of the general reader must be content with a limited appreciation. Scholarship, like everything else that is human, has its disadvantages. It is narrowing, like ignorance. It keeps the mind within a certain circle; teaches it to prefer conventional themes; and to rank perfection of expression higher than truth to nature, Landor's system and inspiration were opposed in every principle to those which Wordsworth had spent his life in expounding, and consequently to the new fountain of literary life which belonged to the age; but they have always found the audience he would himself have most desired, and will probably continue to do so. They range over a wide extent of history from the great Greeks and Romans, mediæval nobles, Italian poets, reformers, statesmen, courtiers, and great ladies of the picturesque ages, down to contemporaries of his own; and embrace almost as large a range of topics. For our own part, we find character deficient in these generally very able, and sometimes brilliant little scenes. In many of them, naturally enough, the man who is not of Landor's way of thinking has a very poor part in the discussion, being put up as a sort of foil to the eloquence of the other, who entertains the same faith as his creator; and in this way it is curious to see Melancthon, for example, that mild man of com

promises, crushing Calvin in argument, with an ease which makes the victory scarcely worth having. In some cases the familiarity of the dialogue between historical personages takes the reader aback, and in almost all we are forced against our will to see the ideas and tendencies of the nineteenth century painfully masquerading in robes of other days. But at the same time these curious historical studies have been approved and applauded by many of the most perfectly qualified critics; and Landor himself has been undoubtingly received to all the honours of the poetic craft by all the poets who were his contemporaries. He lived to be the doyen of his art, the old man eloquent, at whose feet every ardent youth was proud to sit. Not Southey alone, but all the fraternity, applauded his productions and sought his friendship. When his first volume of Imaginary Conversations appeared, Wordsworth added a postscript of thanks and approbation to Southey's letter. He had "the praise of his peers" in no limited degree: but he never penetrated to the general heart, consequently he will never be capable of the highest fame.

To give a catalogue of the miscellaneous works of Southey would be almost impossible. He produced perhaps a larger body of literature than any other man living, making his income by reviews and critical articles, by histories and biographies, few of which merit higher praise than that of being excellent and conscientious work done without prejudice or partiality. One of these at least, his Life of Nelson, has become a classic. His own purpose in its composition is explained in his preface. He found

that a life of the great seaman was wanted, "clear and concise enough to become a manual for the young sailor, which he may carry about with him till he has treasured up the example in his memory and heart." The book admirably carries out this intention. Its clear, direct,

detal The site will surely be sad for the lives of Wesley and amper sind bill are important and valuable wicks. They are poligs to ling drawn ent especially that of the militar post, in which there is so little incident: both remain standard books, and subsequent per muture has superseded them. Southey planned other and retter listened works, and contems plated with some melancholy, yet not without a certain pleasure, the illea of being defy remembered by those productions; but le 10 24 Ove to carry his larger conceptions out. The elaborate and elephantine humour of the Doctor gave himself a great deal of pleasure; but the world has no longer leisure for pleasantries, even when mingled with wislim, so lengthened and so laborious.

He put nothing out of his hand—curiously enough except his poems, which were what he loved the best and devoted himself most enthusiastically to-which was not creditable and good. The minor poems, however, aro many of them very little worthy of his reputation, and some, even of those which he himself thought well of, and which his friends praised, are of no advantage to it. William Taylor of Norwich, a name which intrudes itself continually into the literature of that time, refers in letter after letter to a certain "Old Woman of Berkeley," which Southey modestly allows to be a suecess; but we doubt whether any jury even of the gentlest readers would vote for its preservation. His weekly engagement to produce a set of verses for the Morning Post is no doubt the cause of the existence of many of these minor poems. They did very good service by