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Southey think that the body of the English peasantry live, or ever lived, in substantial or ornamented cottages, with box- hedges, flower-gardens, beehives, and orchards? If not, what is his parallel worth? We despise those mock philosophers, who think that they serve the cause of science by depreciating literature and the fine arts.

Ponting, had been in quite constant correspondence with Mr. Southey, and Mr. Coleridge, and had once, when on a visit to London, spoken to the great Lord Byron himself. This tradition of aristocracy remained, and the present Mr. Pouting always advised the Bishop what to read and was consulted by Mrs. Lamb, our only authoress, on questions of publishers and editions and such technical points.

And although Burns and Wordsworth, Coleridge and Southey, all knowing it or not, fought on his side, it was left for another knight to break through the hedge and make us free of the Enchanted Land. And that knight's name was Walter Sir Walter, too for, like a true knight, he won his title in the service of his lady.

"Sir," said the mighty warrior, "dislodge those damn pests in the chimney, without delay." Two soldiers were ordered to climb the roof and dislodge the enemy. Yet the swallows were not dislodged, for the soldiers could not reach them. So Jeffrey's tirades were unavailing, and Wordsworth was not dislodged. "He might as well try to crush Skiddaw," said Southey. TO MR. BROOKFIELD September 16, 1849

We will propose a very plain dilemma: either physical pain is an evil, or it is not an evil. If it is an evil, then there is necessary evil in the universe: if it is not, why should the poor be delivered from it? Mr. Southey entertains as exaggerated a notion of the wisdom of governments as of their power. He speaks with the greatest disgust of the respect now paid to public opinion.

No service was too mean or troublesome for him to perform. I can't think what but the devil, "that old spider," could have suck'd my heart so dry of its sense of all gratitude. If he does come in your way, Southey, fail not to tell him that I retain a most affectionate remembrance of his old friendliness, and an earnest wish to resume our intercourse. In this I am serious.

In Paraguay a female child is described by Southey as lamenting, in heart-breaking tones, that her mother did not kill her when she was born; and Sir A. Mackenzie declares that there is a class of women in the north who performed this pious duty towards female infants, whenever they had an opportunity. But wherever Christ is known and loved, the daughter is a gift of God as well as a son.

A really acute critic could hardly have mistaken the difference between Scott's verse and the fustian or tinsel of the Della Cruscans, the frigid rhetoric of Darwin, or the drivel of Hayley. Only Southey had as yet written ballad verses with equal vigour and facility; and, I think, he had not yet published any of them. It is Scott who tells us that he borrowed

When he came back, and had to tell his aunt that he was married, he and his wife were thrown upon their own resources. He worked manfully; his uncle still abiding by him. In 1800 Southey went with his wife to visit Mr. Hill, in Lisbon. While winning his place among the English poets, Robert Southey more than once turned to account his Spanish studies.

He has not certainly the same range of speculation, nor the same flow of sounding words, but he makes up by the details of knowledge, and by a scrupulous correctness of statement for what he wants in originality of thought, or impetuous declamation. The tones of Mr. Coleridge's voice are eloquence: those of Mr. Southey are meagre, shrill, and dry. Mr.

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