ment induced him to accompany me as guide. It was not without great misgivings that I looked at the very old, and almost decrepit creature, who was to be my companion through a solitary mountain region. The few stairs he had to mount in the little inn where I put up seemed a sore trial to his strength and chest; but he assured me that once out of the smoke of the town, and with his foot on the "short grass of the sheep-patch," he'd be like a four-year-old; and his neighbour having corroborated the assertion, I was fain to believe him. Determined, however, to make his excursion subservient to profit in his old vocation, he provided himself with some pounds of tobacco and a little parcel of silk handkerchiefs, to dispose of amongst the country people, with which, and a little bag of meal slung at his back, and a walking-stick in his "We'll have a wet day I fear,Jerry," said I, looking out. "Not a bit of it," replied he. ""Tis the spring tides makes it cloudy there beyant; but when the sun gets up it will be a fine mornin'; but I'm thinkin' ye'r strange in them parts;" and this he said with a keen, sharp glance under his eyes. Donegal is new to me, I confess," said I, guardedly. "Yes, and the rest of Ireland, too," said he, with a roguish leer. "But come along, we've a good step before us ;" and with these words he led the way down the stairs, holding the balustrade as he went, and exhibiting every sign of age and weakness. Once in the street, however, he stepped out more freely, and before we got clear of the town, walked at a fair pace, and, to all seeming, with perfect ease. LIFE AND CORRESPONDENCE OF ROBERT SOUTHEY. CONCLUDING ARTICLE. THE task of filial duty, undertaken by Mr. Cuthbert Southey, has been completed. The last, being the sixth volume, lies before us; and we can truly say that the duty of arrangement and compilation has been well performed, and the whole life of his distinguished father exhibited with a fulness, and a veracious lucidity, which leaves nothing to be desired. Had he aimed at more, he might have accomplished less. He could not enter fully into critical dissertations upon the numerous works of his beloved parent, without extending the biography to an inconvenient length; and, possibly, he is not the person best fitted for bestowing upon them a closely critical and impartial examination. That belongs to those who view them not through the medium of so tender a relationship, and cannot be influenced by the endearing ties which bound, as it were, into a common identity, such a father and such a son. Perhaps we may not weary our readers if we indulge ourselves in a retrospect of some of the poems, which, when they first appeared, were dealt with harshly and ungenerously by hostile critics, while they well pleased our youthful fancy, and are remembered with pleasure after many years. "Madoc was written in very early youth. It was in progress of composition long before the publication of "Thalaba." It is founded upon a portion of Welch history; time, the twelfth century. At the death of Owen Gwyneth his sons dispute the succession. David, the eldest son by a second wife, succeeds by the deposition and death of Hoel, who was illegitimate, in establishing himself as de facto sovereign; and, by persecution, banishment, and death, seeks to rid himself of all more legitimate claimants. Madoc, heart-sick from the miseries of his country, gathers a band of devoted followers, and sails with them "to the west, in search of some better resting-place." Having found, in America, a region with which he was well pleased, and having settled some of his people there, he returned with the remainder to bring out a fresh at last the time came to carry away the barrels, on a species of handbarrow, the fellows stepped in time, as if on the march, and moved in measure, a degree of indifference which, to judge from the good Bishop's countenance, evidently inspired as many anxieties for their spiritual welfare, as it suggested astonishment and admiration for their courage. He himself, it must be owned, displayed no sign of trepidation; and in the few words he spoke, or the hints he dropped, exhibited every quality of a brave man. At moments the peril seemed very imminent indeed. Some timber having caught fire, slender fragments of burning wood fell in masses, covering the men as they went, and falling on the barrels, whence the soldiers brushed them off with cool indifference. The dense, thick smoke, too, obscuring every object a few paces distant, added to the confusion, and occasionally bring ing the going and returning parties into collision, a loud shout, or cry, would ensue; and it is difficult to conceive how such a sound thrilled through the heart at such a time. I own that more than once I felt a choking fulness in the throat, as I heard a sudden yell, it seemed so like a signal for destruction. In removing one of the last barrels from the hand-barrow, it slipped, and falling to the ground, the hoops gave way, it burst open, and the powder fell out on every side. The moment was critical, for the wind was baffling, now wafting the sparks clear away, now whirling them in eddies around us. It was then that an old sergeant of Grenadiers threw off his upper coat and spread it over the broken cask, while, with all the composure of a man about to rest himself, he lay down on it, while his comrades went to fetch water. Of course his peril was no greater than that of every one around him; but there was an air of quick determination in his act which showed the training of an old soldier. At length the labour was ended, the last barrel was committed to the earth, and the men, formed into line, were ordered to wheel and march. Never shall I forget the Bishop's face as they moved past. The undersized and youthful look of our soldiers had acquired for them a kind of depreciating estimate in comparison with the more mature and manly stature of the British soldier, to whom, indeed, they offered a strong contrast on parade; but now, as they were seen in a moment of arduous duty, surrounded by danger, the steadiness and courage, the prompt obedience to every command, the alacrity of their movements, and the fearless intrepidity with which they performed every act, impressed the worthy Bishop so forcibly, that he muttered half aloud, "Thank heaven there are but few of them!" Colonel Charost resisted steadily the Bishop's proffer to afford the men some refreshment; he would not even admit of an extra allowance of brandy to their messes. "If we become too liberal for slight services, we shall never be able to reward real ones," was his answer; and the Bishop was reduced to the expedient of commemorating what he could not reward. This, indeed, he did with the most unqualified praise, relating in the drawing-room all that he had witnessed, and lauding French valour and heroism to the very highest. The better to conceal my route, and to avoid the chances of being tracked, I sailed that evening in a fishing-boat for Killybegs, a small harbour on the coast of Donegal, having previously exchanged my uniform for the dress of a sailor, so that if apprehended I should pretend to be an Ostend or Antwerp seaman, washed overboard in a gale at sea. Fortunately for me I was not called on to perform this part, for as my nautical experiences were of the very slightest, I should have made a deplorable attempt at the impersonation. Assuredly the fishermen of the smack would not have been among the number of the "imposed upon," for a more sea-sick wretch never masqueraded in a blue jacket than I was. My only clue, when I touched land, was a certain Father Doogan, who lived at the foot of the Bluerock Mountains, about fifteen miles from the coast, and to whom I brought a few lines from one of the Irish officers, a certain Bourke of Ballina. The road led in this direction, and so little intercourse had the shore folk with the interior, that it was with difficulty any one could be found to act as a guide thither. At last an old fellow was discovered, who used to travel these mountains formerly with smuggled tobacco and tea; and although, from the discontinuance of the smuggling trade, and increased age, he had for some years abandoned the line of business, a liberal offer of pay ment induced him to accompany me as guide. It was not without great misgivings that I looked at the very old, and almost decrepit creature, who was to be my companion through a solitary mountain region. The few stairs he had to mount in the little inn where I put up seemed a sore trial to his strength and chest; but he assured me that once out of the smoke of the town, and with his foot on the "short grass of the sheep-patch," he'd be like a four-year-old; and his neighbour having corroborated the assertion, I was fain to believe him. Determined, however, to make his excursion subservient to profit in his old vocation, he provided himself with some pounds of tobacco and a little parcel of silk handkerchiefs, to dispose of amongst the country people, with which, and a little bag of meal slung at his back, and a walking-stick in his hand, he presented himself at my door just as day was breaking. "We'll have a wet day I fear, Jerry," said I, looking out. "Not a bit of it," replied he. ""Tis the spring tides makes it cloudy there beyant; but when the sun gets up it will be a fine mornin'; but I'm thinkin' ye'r strange in them parts;" and this he said with a keen, sharp glance under his eyes. 66 Donegal is new to me, I confess," said I, guardedly. "Yes, and the rest of Ireland, too," said he, with a roguish leer. "But come along, we've a good step before us ;" and with these words he led the way down the stairs, holding the balustrade as he went, and exhibiting every sign of age and weakness. Once in the street, however, he stepped out more freely, and before we got clear of the town, walked at a fair pace, and, to all seeming, with perfect ease. LIFE AND CORRESPONDENCE OF ROBERT SOUTHEY. CONCLUDING ARTICLE. THE task of filial duty, undertaken by Mr. Cuthbert Southey, has been completed. The last, being the sixth volume, lies before us; and we can truly say that the duty of arrangement and compilation has been well performed, and the whole life of his distinguished father exhibited with a fulness, and a veracious lucidity, which leaves nothing to be desired. Had he aimed at more, he might have accomplished less. He could not enter fully into critical dissertations upon the numerous works of his beloved parent, without extending the biography to an inconvenient length; and, possibly, he is not the person best fitted for bestowing upon them a closely critical and impartial examination. That belongs to those who view them not through the medium of so tender a relationship, and cannot be influenced by the endearing ties which bound, as it were, into a common identity, such a father and such a son. Perhaps we may not weary our readers if we indulge ourselves in a retrospect of some of the poems, which, when they first appeared, were dealt with harshly and ungenerously by hostile critics, while they well pleased our youthful fancy, and are remembered with pleasure after many years. "Madoc was written in very early youth. It was in progress of composition long before the publication of "Thalaba." It is founded upon a portion of Welch history; time, the twelfth century. At the death of Owen Gwyneth his sons dispute the succession. David, the eldest son by a second wife, succeeds by the deposition and death of Hoel, who was illegitimate, in establishing himself as de facto sovereign; and, by persecution, banishment, and death, seeks to rid himself of all more legitimate claimants. Madoc, heart-sick from the miseries of his country, gathers a band of devoted followers, and sails with them "to the west, in search of some better resting-place." Having found, in America, a region with which he was well pleased, and having settled some of his people there, he returned with the remainder to bring out a fresh supply of colonists. The poem opens with his return; and its commencement, although picturesque and simple, is, we think, injudiciously interlarded with a variety of very unpronounceable Welch names; which, although acceptable enough to those who may be "to the manner born," cause the rythm to halt in the mouths of English readers. But whenever Southey had to touch the secret springs of human tenderness, he always did it with a master-hand. He is seen, just after his landing, by his old foster-father, Urien, who greets him with an impassioned wel come, and informs him of the tyranny of David, who is just about to marry an English princess, to the great disgust of all true Welchmen, and is cruelly persecuting his brethren. Madoc asks for his sister Goervyl, and is told that she is pining in solitude, longing for and yet despairing of his return. He desires immediately to see her, but the old man fears the sudden shock, and proposes to prepare her gradually for his presence, lest the unexpected apparition of her long lost brother should overpower her. The interview and its antecedents are thus described: : "So Urien sought Goervyl, whom he found Oh you are welcome, Urien!' cried the maid. "The old man replied, With difficult effort keeping down his heart, "Ill judging kindness!' said the maid, 'Have I not nurst, for two long wretched years, Grew weaker, like a baby sick to death, Yet dearer for its weakness, day by day? No more.shall we see his daring bark; I knew and felt it in the evil hour, When forth she fared! I felt it-his last kiss "And she paused to curb Urien!' she cried,- thou art not mocking me!' In narrating, at his brother's festal board, the motives for his voyage, he is led to mention the fact, that, upon the field of battle where Hoel was slain, and whither he had hastened in the hope of preventing the conflict, but came too late, he met a man, who, seeing that he was a stranger, invited him to the hospitality of his humble dwelling. An old, blind man was its only other inmate. He was the son of the prince who had preceded Owen upon the Welch throne, but was defrauded of his inheritance and deprived of sight by his uncle, David, Madoc's father. Years had reconciled him to his unhappy lot, and extinguished in his heart all resentment against the cruel author of his wrongs. From some conversation which took place between the guest and his companion, he gathers who Madoc is, and the following "But anon, The old man's voice and step awakened us, I could not choose but look upon his face: His eyes, which had their hue of brightness left, A brother, prince, he cried, . . or the dim ear Of Owen turn away! Wilt thou come hither, O my God, Bless this young man! he cried; a perilous state "I raised my eyes, Inquiring, to Cadwallon. Nay, young prince, In these touches of nature Southey excelled. He makes us discover hidden wells of feeling, of which the possessors were altogether unconscious; veins of precious ore which had lain concealed, and which, by a magic touch of his pen, as though of a divining rod, he reveals, and reveals only to purify, not to make sentiment war against morality, as was too often the case with some of his contemporaries; but that they might become the true riches, and teach us to cherish in our heart of hearts love to God and love to man. Through the whole of this original poem the reader, whose temperament is poetical, will proceed as over a moonlit sea. Madoc, its hero, is a grave and gentle personage, inclined to peace rather than war, but brave withal; and "when the blast of war blows in his ear," prepared to meet its most startling emergencies. The characters of the Welch are well brought out; intensely national, ardent, and choleric; fast in their friendship, fierce and stern in their hate; and the Indians of the newly-discovered world-the red men-are presented in their individuality with a vivid distinctness, which would make the reader almost suppose that he drew not from imagination but from reality, and that they and the poet had been personally acquainted. The voyage out, although not handled as Byron would have handled it, whose words of fire would have quelled the mutineers, when despair began to supervene upon the hopes which had at first sustained them, and who would have been a laughing demon in the storm, is yet characteristic of the prince by whom it is narrated, and told with the feeling of one whose present hopes or fears were in abeyance to the earnestness with which he looked forward to his ulterior objects. The following words are truly descriptive of the sensations of one for the first time traversing the deep profound, without land-marks to tell of his progress, and unknowing of the immensity by which he is surrounded: |