several records in Wordsworth's poems, and to them his biographer has now added the exceedingly interesting journal of his sister. That journal adds much to the interest of the poems. Our contracting limits render it impossible for us to do more than say that Scott did the honours of Melrose; and it is a delightful thing to us to find, in all the letters and journals that each day brings to view, evidence of the great admiration and affection with which our great poets regarded each other. Whenever Coleridge is incidentally mentioned by either Wordsworth or his sister, it is in such a manner as to show with what real love he was regarded. Southey's correspondence is filled with similar proofs of regard for Coleridge and for Wordsworth; and Scott appears to have thought of all and each with admiration, while Southey would seem to us to have been more intimately and in a truer sense of the word his friend than any of the rest. Still the affection that each felt for the other is a delightful and a cordial thing to think of, as it shows a good chance of the proverbial jealousies of men of letters being soon utterly got rid of, and as little marring the peace of families as the accidents of professional success or employment disturb the fraternity of lawyers. After recording the incidents of the Scottish tour, our biographer devotes a chapter to the friendship of Wordsworth and Sir George Beaumont. This chapter is of great interest as containing some of Wordsworth's letters; one, of very great value, to Lady Beaumont, illustrative of some of the principles on which his poetry was written; and another to Sir George, in both of which he comments more freely, and more as if they were the words of another onpassages of his own. This can seldom be gracefully done, but in letters to a

end it may, if anywhere; and we think the thorough understanding of the poems is greatly aided by such disquisition.

Wordsworth's head quarters continued at Grasmere, till 1813, with, however, some occasional changes of residence. Two of his children died at Grasmere; and this, conspiring with

other causes, made him remove from the neighbourhood. In the spring of 1813 he removed to Rydalmount, where he resided till his death in 1850. In that same year he was given the office of distributor of stamps in the county of Westmoreland. This raised his circumstances to easy competency. "He was," says his biographer, "released from anxiety, without forfeiting leisure and liberty; he was also left in his own picturesque county. In whose direct gift the office was we do not happen to know, but it was obtained through the intervention of Lord Lonsdale.

"It were much to be desired, that such situations as these were more numerous than they are, and that those which exist were more carefully conferred. They are better than pensions, as rewards for literary men; for they do not encourage the notion, that literary service of the highest order can be compensated by money, and they do not exhibit those who hold them as wearing the livery of a political party, or as stipendiaries of the state. It is no objection to say that some of them are almost sinecures. Mr. Wordsworth's office was by no means a sinecure, as his coadjutor and successor can attest. But, grant that some of these offices are sinecures: what then? A sinecure, which would have relieved Dante or Tasso from the cravings of penury, would have had a function attached to it of the noblest kind. Such sinecures (if such they must be called) are more useful to the public than some laborious offices, the duties of which are discharged with bustling and restless activity."

In the course of the same year Wordsworth was enabled, as the immediate effect of this appointment, honourable to every one connected with the gift, to publish the great poem of our times, "THE EXCURSION." Soon after this appointment Wordsworth declined one much more lucrative, the collectorship of the town of Whitehaven. He had enough, and he sought

no more.

It would be impossible for us to do justice to the volumes before us in such space as that to which we are necessarily limited. Some subjects we must

altogether omit; some future opportu nity may arise of discussing Wordsworth's poetry; and should such arise, we shall be compelled to make much use of these instructive volumes. They are, in fact, rather a commentary on Wordsworth's works than an account of his life. That life, unvaried by incident, was one singularly happy; one, of which, even on that account, there could be little to record. The dates of his successive publications are the subjects of chief external interest. We wish we had room for a letter of great beauty, of the Rev. Mr. Graves's, describing the effect upon Wordsworth of the account of Coleridge's death. In one of Wordsworth's poems, where he speaks of Coleridge's death, he speaks with distinct anticipation of his own. But he survived for many years; and though to the last he was led to exercise the gift of poetry, his vigour seemed equal to that of his earlier day; while there was in the language, and yet more in the versification, of all his latter pieces, something of an autumnal colouring that added a beauty of its own to what was before beautiful. In this feeling are all the poems written which refer to his tour in Italy in 1837. This, too, remarkably distinguishes those in which the decline and death of Scott are alluded to.

Among the most beautiful of Wordsworth's poems is "The Triad," a poem in which he describes his daughter DORA, afterwards Mrs. Quillinan. Her death was one of his great afflictions.

"On Sunday, the 10th of March, 1850, Mr. Wordsworth attended divine service at Rydal Chapel, for the last time." In the afternoon of that day he set out to walk to Grasmere. "The weather was ungenial, with a keen wind from the north-east." He was lightly

clad.

On that day and the next, however, he walked out, and visited some friends. On the evening of Tuesday a friend called to drink tea at Rydal; but Wordsworth, feeling himself unwell, went early to bed. On the following Sunday, on which he completed his eightieth year, he was prayed for morning and evening in Rydal Church. On the 20th he received the holy communion; "and on or about that day Mrs. Wordsworth, wishing to communicate to him his approaching death, said, William, you are going to

Dora.' He made no reply at the time, and the words were supposed to have been unheard; but in more than twenty-four hours afterwards, one of his nieces came into the room, and was drawing aside the curtain of his chamber, and then, as if awaking from a quiet sleep, he said, 'Is that Dora?"" We conclude the narrative in the language of his biographer:

"Tuesday, April 23.-The report this morning was, 'Mr. Wordsworth is much the same.' And so he remained till noon. The entry in Mr. Quillinan's journal for this day is as follows: Mr. Wordsworth breathed his last calmly, passing away almost insensibly, exactly at twelve o'clock, while the cuckoo clock was striking the hour.'

"Wordsworth died on the same day as that on which Shakspeare was born, April 23, being also the day of Shakspeare's death.

"On Saturday, the 27th, his mortal remains, followed to the grave by his own family and a very large concourse of persons, of all ranks and ages, were laid in peace, near those of his children, in Grasmere churchyard. His own prophecy, in the lines

"Sweet flower! belike one day to have A place upon thy Poet's grave, I welcome thee once more,"

He

is now fulfilled. He desired no splendid tomb in a public mausoleum. reposes, according to his own wish, beneath the green turf, among the dalesmen of Grasmere, under the sycamores and yews of a country churchyard, by the side of a beautiful stream, amid the mountains which he loved; and a solemn voice seems to breathe from his grave, which blends its tones in sweet and holy harmony with the accents of his poetry, speaking the language of humility and love, of adoration and faith, and preparing the soul, by a religious exercise of the kindly affections, and by a devout contemplation of natural beauty, for translation to a purer, and nobler, and more glorious state of existence, and for a fruition of heavenly felicity."

We take leave of this book, thanking its author for what we regard as a very valuable commentary on Wordsworth's works-indispensable to any one wishing to form a perfect acquaintance with the most valuable poetry of the last half century.

Os a hot and sultry day of June, I found myself seated in a country cart, and under the guard of two mounted dragoons, wending my way towards Kuffstein, a Tyrol fortress, to which I was sentenced as a prisoner. A weary journey was it; for in addition to my now sad thoughts, I had to contend against an attack of ague, which I had just caught, and which was then raging like a plague in the Austrian camp. One solitary reminiscence, and that far from a pleasant one, clings to this period. We had halted on the outskirts of a little village called "Broletto," for the siesta; and there, in a clump of olives, were quietly dozing away the sultry hours, when the clatter of horsemen awoke us; and on looking up, we saw a cavalry escort sweep past at a gallop. The corporal who commanded our party hurried into the village to learn the news, and soon returned with the tidings that "a great victory had been gained over the French, commanded by Bonaparte in person; that the army was in full retreat; and this was the despatch an officer of Melas' staff was now hastening to lay at the feet of the Emperor."

"I thought several times this morning," said the corporal," that I heard artillery; and so it seems I might, for we are not above twenty miles from where the battle was fought."

"And how is the place called?" asked I, in a tone sceptical enough to be offensive.

66

"Marengo," replied he; mayhap the name will not escape your memory."

How true was the surmise, but in how different a sense from what he uttered it! But so it was; even as late as four o'clock the victory was with the Austrians. Three separate envoys had left the field with tidings of success; and it was only late at night that the General, exhausted by a disastrous day, and almost broken-hearted, could write to tell his master that "Italy was lost."

VOL. XXXVIII.-NO. CCXXIII.

I have many a temptation here to diverge from a line that I set down or myself in these memoirs, and from which as yet I have not wandered-I mean, not to dwell upon events wherein I was not myself an actor; but I am determined still to adhere to my rule; and leaving that glorious event behind me, plod wearily along my now sad journey.

Day after day we journeyed through a country teeming with abundance; vast plains of corn and maize, olives and vines everywhere: on the mountains, the crags, the rocks, festooned over cliffs, and spreading their tangled networks over cottages, and yet everywhere poverty, misery, and debasement, ruined villages, and a halfnaked, starving populace met the eye at every turn. There was the stamp of slavery on all, and still more palpably was there the stamp of despotism in the air of their rulers.

I say this in a sad spirit; for within a year from the day in which I write these lines, I have travelled the selfsame road, and with precisely the selfsame objects before me. Changed in nothing, save what time changes, in ruin and decay! There was the dreary village as of yore; the unglazed windows closed with some rotten boarding, or occupied by a face gaunt with famine. The listless, unoccupied group still sat or lay on the steps before the church; a knot of nearly naked creatures sat card-playing beside a fountain, their unsheathed knives alongside of them; and lastly, on the wall of the one habitation which had the semblance of decency about it, there stared out the "double-headed eagle," the symbol of their shame and their slavery! It never can be the policy of a government to retard the progress and depress the energies of a people beneath its rule. Why, then, do we find a whole nation, gifted and capable as this, so backward in civilisation? Is the fault with the rulers? or are there, indeed, people, whose very de

H

velopment is the obstacle to their improvement; whose impulses of right and wrong will submit to no discipline; and who are incapable of appreciating true liberty? This would be a gloomy theory; and the very thought of it suggests darker fears for a land to which my sympathies attach me more closely!

If any spot can impress the notion of impregnability, it is Kuffstein. Situated on an eminence of rock over the Inn, three sides of the base are washed by that rapid river, a little village occupies the fourth; and from this the supplies are hoisted up to the garrison above, by cranes and pulleys; the only approach being by a path wide enough for a single man, and far too steep and difficult of access to admit of his carrying any burthen, however light. All that science and skill could do is added to the natural strength of the position, and from every surface of the vast rock itself the projecting mouths of guns and mortars show resources of defence it would seem madness to attack.

Three thousand men, under the command of General Urleben, held this fortress at the time I speak of; and by their habits of discipline and vigilance, showed that no over-security would make them neglect the charge of so important a trust. I was the first French prisoner had ever been confined within the walls, and to the accident of my uniform was I indebted for this distinction. I have mentioned that in Genoa they gave me a staff-officer's dress and appointments, and from this casual circumstance it was supposed that I should know a great deal of Massena's movements and intentions, and that by judicious management I might be induced to reveal it.

General Urleben, who had been brought up in France, was admirably calculated to have promoted such an object, were it practicable. He possessed the most winning address, as well as great personal advantages; and although now past the middle of life, was reputed one of the handsomest men in Austria. He at once invited me to his table, and having provided me with a delightful little chamber, from whence the view extended for miles along the Inn, he sent me stores of books, journals, and newspapers, French, English, and German, showing by the very candour of their tidings a most flattering degree of confidence and trust.

If imprisonment could ever be endurable with resignation, mine ought to have been so. My mornings were passed in weeding or gardening a little plot of ground outside my window, giving me ample occupation in that way, and rendering carnations and roses dearer to me, through all my after life, than without such associations they would ever have been. Then I used to sketch for hours, from the walls, bird's-eye views, prisoner's glimpses, of the glorious Tyrol scenery below

us.

Early in the afternoon came dinner, and then, with the General's pleasant converse, a cigar, and a chessboard, the time wore smoothly on till nightfall.

I will

An occasional thunder-storm, grander and more sublime than anything I have ever seen elsewhere, would now and then vary a life of calm, but not unpleasant monotony; and occasionally, too, some passing escort, on the way to or from Vienna, would give tidings of the war; but except in these, each day was precisely like the other, so that when the almanac told me it was Autumn, I could scarcely believe a single month had glided over. not attempt to conceal the fact, that the inglorious idleness of my life, this term of inactivity at an age when hope, and vigour, and energy were highest within me, was a grievous privation; but, except in these regrets, I could almost call this time a happy one. The unfortunate position in which I started in life, gave me little opportunity, or even inclination, for learning. Except the little Pére Michel had taught me, I knew nothing. I need not say that this was but a sorry stock of education, even at that period; when I must say, the sabre was more in vogue than the grammar.

I now set steadily about repairing this deficiency. General Urleben lent me all his aid, directing my studies, supplying me with books, and at times affording me the still greater assistance of his counsel and advice. To history generally, but particularly that of France, he made me pay the deepest attention, and seemed never to weary while impressing upon me the grandeur of our former monarchies, and the happiness of France when ruled by her legitimate sovereigns.

I had told him all that I knew myself of my birth and family, and frequently would he allude to the subject

of my reading, by saying, "the son of an old Garde du Corps' needs no commentary when perusing such details as these. Your own instincts tell you how nobly these servants of a monarchy bore themselves-what chivalry lived at that time in men's hearts, and how generous and self-denying was their loyalty."

Such and such like were the expressions which dropped from him from time to time; nor was their impression the less deep, when supported by the testimony of the memoirs with which he supplied me. Even in deeds of military glory, the Monarchy could compete with the Republic, and Urleben took care to insist upon a fact I was never unwilling to concede-that the well-born were ever foremost in danger, no matter whether the banner was a white one or a tricolour.

"Le bon sang ne peut meutir" was an adage I never disputed, although certainly I never expected to hear it employed to the disparagement of those to whom it did not apply.

As the winter set in I saw less of the General. He was usually much occupied in the mornings, and at evening he was accustomed to go down to the village, where, of late, some French emigré families had settled-unhappy exiles, who had both peril and poverty to contend against! Many such were scattered through the Tyrol at that period, both for the security and the cheapness it afforded. Of these Urleben rarely spoke; some chance allusion, when borrowing a book or taking away a newspaper, being the extent to which he ever referred to them.

One morning, as I sat sketching on the walls, he came up to me and said, "Strange enough, Tiernay, last night I was looking at a view of this very scene, only taken from another point of sight; both were correct, accurate in every detail, and yet most dissimilar-what a singular illustration of many of our prejudices and opinions. The sketch I speak of was made by a young countrywoman of yours-a highly gifted lady, who little thought that the accomplishments of her education were one day to be the resources of her livelihood. Even so," said he, sighing, "a Marquise of the best blood of France is reduced to sell her drawings!"

As I expressed a wish to see the sketches in question, he volunteered

to make the request if I would send some of mine in return, and thus accidentally grew up a sort of intercourse between myself and the strangers, which gradually extended to books, and music, and, lastly, to civil messages and inquiries of which the General was ever the bearer.

What a boon was all this to me! What a sun-ray through the bars of a prisoner's cell was this gleam of kindness and sympathy! The very similarity of our pursuits, too, had some-thing inexpressibly pleasing in it, and I bestowed ten times as much pains upon each sketch, now that I knew to whose eyes it would be submitted.

"Do you know, Tiernay," said the General to me, one day, "I am about to incur a very heavy penalty in your behalf-I am going to contravene the strict orders of the War Office, and take you along with me this evening down to the village."

I started with surprise and delight together, and could not utter a word.

"I know perfectly well," continued he, "that you will not abuse my confidence. I ask, then, for nothing beyond your word, that you will not make any attempt at escape; for this visit may lead to others, and I desire, so far as possible, that you should feel as little constraint as a prisoner well may."

I readily gave the pledge required, and he went on

"I have no cautions to give you, nor any counsels. Madame d'Aigreville is a Royalist.

"She is madame, then!" said I, in a voice of some disappointment.

"Yes, she is a widow, but her niece is unmarried," said he, smiling at my eagerness. I affected to hear the tidings with unconcern, but a burning flush covered my cheek, and I felt as uncomfortable as possible.

I dined that day as usual with the General; adjourning after dinner to the little drawing-room, where we played our chess. Never did he appear to me so tedious in his stories, so intolerably tiresome in his digressions, as that evening. He halted at every move he had some narrative to recount, or some observation to make, that delayed our game to an enormous time; and at last, on looking out of the window, he fancied there was a thunder-storm brewing, and that we