ROBERT SOUTHEY.

Born in Bristol, 1774. Made Laureate in 1813. Died in 1843.

(Reigns of George III., George IV., William IV., and Victoria.)

SOUTHEY'S acknowledged power as a prose writer has obscured his fame as a poet. Then he has suffered by comparison with his greater associates, Wordsworth and Coleridge. But viewing his poetical work by itself, it will be found that it has qualities which go far to justify his own delight and confidence in it. The world is beginning not only to estimate Southey as he deserves, but to realise that it needs him and his work. The romantic revival of the present time will inevitably make his warlike and spirited epics popular, and the charm of his pure and healthful views of life will be found to be irresistible. Poets have not inappropriately been termed a waiting race. The man of genius obtains his rightful place at last, even if it takes wearisome years. For fifty years or more Southey has been as much underrated as Byron has been overrated. These two extremes of view have been a literary disease which is not easily cured. But finally character tells, and has its due effect upon the public. Without moral strength and dignity in poetical work,-the outgrowth of strength and dignity of life,-no work can be permanent, nor appeal to humanity with abiding power.

The faults of Southey's poetry are obvious enough. He was unfortunate, often, in his choice of subjects, which have little human interest. He struck a new and original vein in his epics, and they are full of picturesque beauty, have many thrilling situations, many magnificent thoughts, and strike with a tender and powerful touch many chords of the most tragic feeling; and yet they lack constructive skill, are too voluminous, and the introduction of occasional peurilities mars their symmetry. Southey's work is all unequal. Far-reaching thoughts which show imaginative grasp and true poetic passion, original and exquisite forms of versification, go side by side with commonplace ideas and a diction differing little from that of prose. Southey pleases most by his descriptive powers, his splendour of imagery, his skill in narrative; by his novel and musical versification,-treating blank verse even in a wholly original way,—and by the sympathetic tenderness and delicate humour he displays when

he deals with pastoral scenes and with the humble joys and sorrows of humble men and women.

His poetry was inevitably affected by his ardent historical spirit, and it also mirrored the aspects of his age. Indeed, many of his laureate poems were written in bondage to the conservative and narrower phases of the time. We condemn The Vision of Judgment," and justly too, but some of Southey's leaureate work ranks very high for its grandeur and range. The best of his odes-the one written during the "Negociations for Peace in 1814,” was inspired not only by his hatred of Napoleon, but by a most fervent patriotism. As an artistic work it possesses the finest qualities-fire and enthusiasm of invective and exhortation.

But Southey's claim to immortality rests not alone upon his best and most characteristic poems, but upon certain of his prose works. The "History of Brazil" lives intact and in the quotations and footnotes of others. The "Life of Wesley" is a masterpiece in English biography. Dining once with the Duchess of Kent, the poet was pleased when the Princess Victoria thanked him for the pleasure she had received from reading the “Life of Nelson." Even Byron said: 'The Life of Nelson' is beautiful." Scattered through other biographies, like that of Cowper, for instance, are criticisms of insight and judgment-written in a style, like all of Southey's prose, eloquent and picturesque, idiomatic and clear. Then Southey's periodical writings show a mastery of his materials, a skilful adaptation of them to the different bearings of the subject," and a freedom from that "miserable flippancy which some reviewers mistake for wit." It is well to remember that Southey, who did so much to make successful the Quarterly Review, protested against Gifford's unjust treatment of new writers, and objected to the tone adopted by the Review on matters relating to America. But he has himself been blamed for the very abuses he sought to remove. It is well, also, to remember that when Macaulay and Jeffrey said so many malicious things of Southey, they were Edinburgh reviewers and he belonged to the Quarterly.

Southey was the son of a Bristol merchant whose misfortunes embittered and discouraged him. From his mother the poet inherited his happy, buoyant temperament, and his delicate sense of humour. His childhood was passed under the guidance of a number of teachers, whose different modes of instruction, instead of spoiling him, but tended to satisfy his restless, inquisitive intellect. His holidays, passed with an eccentric aunt, were miserable except when she took him to the theatre. He had no companions, and he was restricted in every natural outlet for his boyish fun. The child was sensitive to impressions,

enthusiastic and ardent, and early showed that love for poetry which made him dwell in an ideal and glorious world. He was fortunate, he says, in finding when very young his way into the right path. Tasso and Ariosto, Chaucer and Spenser, and the Elizabethans were his joy even at eight years of age. It is not, therefore, surprising that later Southey should be famous for his learning and his wide and varied reading in many literatures.

The poet's days at Oxford were passed amid the unparalleled enthusiasm and hope born of the important events then occurring in France. The Revolution, which had such an influence upon Wordsworth, also affected him. As Wordsworth wrote:

'Joy it was then to be alive; but to be young was very Heaven."

Before Southey became a High Churchman and a Conservative, he passed through many varied and exciting phases of thought, which had a marked influence both upon his life and on his art.

To this period belongs the composition of "Wat Tyler" and "Joan of Arc," and the wild pantisocratic scheme of emigration to America. But Southey's common sense came to his rescue and he went to Lisbon instead. Here he laid the foundation of his profound knowledge of Portuguese language and literature, and his natural love for a literary life became intensified. On his return he tried to get interested in law, and then medicine, but could not. On account of his Unitarian views his conscience decided against his taking orders, and his refusal displeased his friends, who soon left left him to his own resources. Often he would walk the London streets dinnerless and cold. His sufferings, instead of hardening him, made him always beautfully tender and sympathetic for others. That in his devotion to literature he attained such success speaks well for the quality of his work. He was fortunate at first in having the friendship of an old school-fellow, who gave him a small annuity, then after a while some official appointments helped him out, but there were many times when he was almost discouraged by the odds against him. His dauntless spirit was at length rewarded by success, but it only came after years of toil, and was only retained by maintaining the same unwearied industry. To his devotion to literature he sacrificed worldly advancement as well as personal comfort, but he never sacrificed his friends. His home first opened to receive his mother, whom he tenderly cared for; a younger brother was also under his watchful care; then in turn Coleridge and his family and many others were the recipients of his delicate and gracious hospitality. In the very beginning of his career he married for love, and he kept his love for his wife

and hers for him till the last sad close. In every relationship he showed himself to be the noble, tender, and true man, the loyal friend, the unselfish benefactor. To his brave life a few words can do no justice. It must be studied in detail to feel the influence of its strength—its compelling charm.

About 1804 Southey settled down at Greta Hall, near Keswick, and henceforth his name will ever be associated with the beautiful Lake Country. Occasional visits to London varied the 'monotony of his life, and he met many eminent people; but as the years passed he became more and more wedded to his home and to his books. Wordsworth complained to Crabb Robinson that Southey away from his books seemed out of his element.

Southey's writings would make up a good library. Forty-five independent works, one hundred and twenty-six articles in the Quarterly, and fifty-two in the Annual Review, are given as the product of his pen; besides, there are innumerable shorter pieces and poems which he wrote. Had he written less, his work would have been much better. But Southey had to be a breadwinner by his pen, and transform his fiery, soaring Pegasus into a steady-going beast of burden.

When Henry James Pye died the laurel was offered to Walter Scott, but he declined. When Southey was proposed for the honour, the Prince Regent observed that inasmuch as he had written some good things in favour of the Spaniards, the office should be given him. Southey wrote to a friend: "You will admire the prince's reason!"

Southey's political principles were now very different from what they had been in the old Oxford days. He was now a Conservative and a High Churchman. He had changed as Wordsworth changed, because his hopes for republicanism had not been realised. He found in old, ancient customs and tradition a surer resting-place; the reaction was, however, extreme, and the pendulum swung too far the other way.

Because of his somewhat restricted and narrow views, so radically opposed to those of his ardent youth, many insults were heaped upon the quiet student of Keswick. He was called renegade, time-server, and turncoat. Copies of "Wat Tyler" were sent him-even his private life was attacked. Sometimes Southey, by his dogmatism and critical spirit, made the battle wage more hotly. When he attacked what he called the Satanic School he got the worst of the fight. As Austin and Ralph put it: “The quarrel with Byron was between the petulant spleen of Byron and the outraged moral feelings of the British public, speaking through Southey; but unfortunately Southey laid himself open to much of the sarcasm which by its liveliness and force still excites a smile."

It is always to be regretted that in his anxiety to do his whole

duty, to fulfil all the obligations of his office, Southey should have written "The Vision of Judgment." The error was also partly due to a wish to strike out a new path in a somewhat dreary field, to write something different from the tiresome odes of his predecessors, to be original at the expense of good taste. The poem was certainly enough to stir up Byron's ire. Yet Byron was charmed with Southey, when they met once at Holland House. He is the best-looking bard I have seen for some time. To have that poet's head and shoulders I would almost have written his Sapphics. His appearance is epic. His talents are of the first order. His prose is perfect. In his poetry he has passages equal to anything."

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It is refreshiing to once more read this from Byron, to remove the impression of the preface to his Vision of Judgment," and the obnoxious lines in "Don Juan."

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In 1820 Oxford honoured Southey with the degree of LL. D. Then Sir Robert Peel offered him a baronetcy, but it was declined. A generous pension soon after followed. He was elected to the House, but declined to serve. Many other tempting offers were made to him to emerge from his retirement and mingle in the active affairs of the world, but he resisted them all.

During these years, when so many unsought honours came to Southey, his heart was overwhelmed by many heavy sorrows. We read of his anguish when one of his daughters was ill; how he paced the garden in uncontrollable grief. From the loss of several children of whom he was "foolishly fond," he never fully recovered. The crowning sorrow of his life was the loss of his wife's reason. "I have been parted from my wife by something worse than death," he wrote to a friend. Forty years has she been the life of my life, and I have left her this day in a lunatic asylum. God, who has visited me with this affliction, has given me strength to bear it. Mine is a strong heart. I will not say the last week has been the most trying of my life, but the heart which could bear it, can bear anything." When Edith Southey was recovered enough to be cared for at home, it was the poet who assumed that care. He was not one to shrink from an obligation and devolve upon his daughters or dependents a task he deemed it his especial duty to undertake.'

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His untiring devotion made her last days certainly less unhappy. That he married Caroline Bowles is no proof that he had forgotten" Edith the Beloved." The second Mrs. Southey had a melancholy task-that of ministering to him in his last days. The symptoms of change in him were slight at first, but gradually his own mind gave way. The record of his last days is too painful to even remember.