sinuated itself into his compositions destroyed their grace, he seems to have endeavored to regain his lost satisfaction by elaboration of the verse and expression,to supply beauty which could be felt by beauty which could be proved and demonstrated. The Theory might have done good service now, but in the confidence of assured and acknowledged power, he came into a gradual neglect of some at least of its main principles. He consequently soon began to fall into those faults, both of his natural genius and acquired talents, against which those published and strongly contested opinions had hitherto served as useful guards. He is often diffuse and languid; his ingenuity often leads him into an intricacy which nothing but his own truthfulness of language could save from being entirely unintelligible. In the edition of 1832, "She dwelt among the untrodden ways" stands only a page distant from "Ere with cold beads of midnight dew." Quantum mutatus ab illo ! thou silent?" If further proof be needed, let it be found in the exquisite poems addressed to his wife: never will a poet's wife possess a fairer memorial than this lady. We may here take up again and conclude our notice of the present volume. Of the poems which we have not already mentioned the greater part fall within this period, and as they belong chiefly to its latter years, they exhibit strongly its characteristic marks. Elaboration is evident in every line,-every composition betrays an intimate acquaintance with the art of weaving words. The blank verse especially, while yet far removed from that exquisite and truly original melody of the 'Tintern Abbey' and parts of the Poems on the Naming of Places,' is in another style extremely beautiful. The following piece, however, we quote less for its metrical than its other attractions. "ADDRESS TO THE CLOUDS. "Army of Clouds! ye winged host in troops whither with such eagerness of speed? To pause In this stage, we have said, we regard Mr. Wordsworth's genius to be at present, nor can there be any probability that it should now either return to its former state, or assume any condition essentially new. Yet mistaken, if we venture to think him, in his attempt to bring the Muse into such regular habits as he would make her submit to, we are convinced that the real Poet remains indestructible in his heart. Here it is that he refutes himself. If a subject touch his heart, then we have the true fire again the language clears, the measure disentangles itself, and he is again in the empyrean. If we seek those poems of this later period which, though in a different kind, show yet a true kindred with the mas-Than these, and utter your devotion there at last on more aspiring heights ter-pieces of his youth, we shall find them With thunderous voice? Or are ye jubilant, where his heart is stirred; as if we seek And would ye, tracking your proud ford the Sun, the direst and least happy, we shall find Be present at his setting; or the pomp them on the subjects which he set himself. Poising your splendors high above the heads Of Persian mornings would ye fill, and stand If any one wish to be satisfied of this, let Of worshippers kneeling to their up-risen God? him compare the noble series of sonnets Whence, whence, ye Clouds! this eagerness of dedicated to Liberty with the Ecclesiastispeed? cal Sonnets, the one almost throughout a Buried together in yon gloomy mass Speak, silent creatures!-They are gone, are fled, stream of living poesy; the other a mine That loads the middle heaven; and clear and of thought perhaps, but how little more! bright The Occasional Sonnets show almost as great a superiority over the series on the Dudden. But look still closer and we see still more clearly the same case to be true. If we sought for a sonnet which would exactly be "the feeling from the bosom thrown In perfect shape," Appear; a calm descent of sky conducting we should quote that beginning "Why art of the wild impulse. From a fount of life Here is my body doomed to tread, this path, And type of man's far-darting reason, therefore Loves his own glory in their looks, and showers Enriched-too transient were they not renewed A piece entitled 'The Cuckoo at La "All praise the Likeness by thy skill portrayed; Eyes unbedimmed, see bloom that cannot fade, Into the land where ghosts and phantoms be; "ON THE SAME SUBJECT. If we here close our account of the present volume, it is not without feeling how differently we should have looked at it coming from any one else. A drama, exhibiting such deep knowledge of human nature, cal power, couched throughout in such pure abounding in such evidences of high poetiand noble language; a body of miscellaneous poems exhibiting such various metrical and rhythmical skill, so free and vigorous a fancy, such noble and tender affections, wisdom so deep, piety so sincere—who but Mr. Wordsworth himself could have cast such works as these into even a compara. tive shade ? verna,' one of a series of memorials of an Italian tour in 1837, also seems to us very delightful; and the Norman Boy, with its sequel, if still, like the rest, devoid of the pure and Grecian grace of his earlier years, have a touching beauty of their own. But three of the sonnets appear to us really to claim admission among his master-pieces; and if the reader desire to be satisfied about what we have said of the difference between Wordsworth writing from the Affections and Wordsworth setting himself a perhaps which Mr. Wordsworth may afford But we relinquish the last opportunity task, we would desire them to compare these following with the series on the 'Punish-flections which a publication from him at without giving vent to the general re ment of Death.' XII. "Lo! where she stands fixed in a saint-like trance, But not the less-nay more-that countenance, us, his age suggests. The love of universality is one of the most obvious characteristics of the present day. Cecil-not the statesman nor the clergyman, but the coxcomb-tells us in one of those flashes of thought which so brilliantly illuminate his Autobiography, our time and country, yet there is unquesthat it is all a mistake to suppose those to tionably much ground for anxiety, as there be the great men of the world whom we is more we trust for hope. But with aboundhave always been admiring: such men, ac-ing evidences of a low and shallow spirit cording to him, are those who either pos- about us in every day's newspaper, in every sessed powers only capable of one direc-day's novel, in every day's new speech, and tion, or subjected by force of will a more perhaps we may say, in every Sunday's new universal capacity to a single object. The sermon, we have to look to men who stand real great men are not, he considers, the in opposition like Mr. Wordsworth, and to Homers, Miltons, Shakspeares, etc., but per- that large body of sounder feeling shown sons like himself, who are never heard of ex- to exist by the respect in which such men cept by some such fortunate circumstances are held, for our hope and encouragement. as have secured to the world his own his- But as long as we have such to look to we tory; their merit and their misfortune being, need not fear. Examples make the life of that being able to do all things equally well, a nation, for the strength of the social body no sufficiently salient point is left for Fame lies in the individual energies by which it to take hold of. This doctrine is found is vivified. "La France, c'est moi," was much beyond the range of the novels: who an arrogant boast in the lips of Louis; it has forgotten that brightest sally of the Bar, would have been a profound truth in those when on Lord Brougham's becoming chan- of Napoleon. cellor it was said, "Well, if Lord Brougham knew only a little law, he would know a little of every thing"? ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. life. We are all, indeed, ready to admit the uncertainty of this precious treasure, yet we act as if it were, at least, as enduring as the sky above us, or the earth upon which we tread. Now it is well to have universalists, but in an age of universalism it is of the utmost importance to have specialists. This is a general truth, and would at any time make SO MANY of those who but a few months the example of a man who, with a consis- ago constituted a prominent portion of the tency and success like Mr. Wordsworth's, present of my own time are become so comhas devoted himself to one object, a most pletely of the past, that I cannot look back important benefit. But in a time when the without chronicling death after death, so as doctrine in question has produced a very to force the considerations we too often try decided and evil influence on the genera-to put far from us, as to the uncertainty of tion which has grown up under its reign, when our liberality has so often become indifference, our cosmopolitism destroyed our patriotism, our generalization injured our investigation and analysis, then almost our only hope lies in the eminence of the ex- Wilkie, Chantry, and Allan Cunninghamceptions. Such an exception to the preva-painter, sculptor, and poet-men eminent lent character is Mr. Wordsworth. What- amongst their fellows, not only for talent, ever his faults may be they are the oppo- but for high moral worth and integrity of site ones to those of his age; and whatever purpose--are passed away. It seemed as his excellences, they spring from an indi-if, united as they were by the strong bonds viduality least to be expected in the cir- of friendship, in death they should not be cumstances of his time. He has always divided. The completion of Chantry's been in opposition-in his early life to the works was intrusted to Allan Cunningham, Toryism then manacling men's minds, in who had finished a life of Sir David Wilkie latter days to the Liberalism dissolving only two days before he was struck, for the ours. Yet he is not to be confounded with second time, with paralysis, which terminated those who are in opposition to the present fatally on Saturday last. This estimable because they can only see behind them. man has left behind him an honorable He is a true man, he has ever looked before name, and a noble example of what may be and after-ever trusted and watched the accomplished by those who, combining talife and disregarded the form: he has writ-lents with industry, are capable of the great ten sonnets in favor of railroads and steam- effort of concentrating their energies upon boats in the same spirit in which he has a given point, and are thus certain to conwritten against the abolition of the punish-quer difficulties and achieve greatness, if ment of death. God spare them health and life. The career We are not among those who look with of Allan Cunningham is one of the most contempt or terror on the present aspect of encouraging instances of literary success in modern times; progressing steadily onward, not jerked forward by unnatural excitement, nor drawn back by any decided failure. True, it must be borne in mind, that his occupation in Chantry's studio gave him a steady income, (steadied from literary fluctuation,) and that this was a great step towards victory; still his success, under all circumstances, was worthy of a strong and original mind. It is now about fifteen years since I first saw Allan Cunningham; and I can recall the interview as clearly as though but an hour had intervened. It was before I had been much in literary society, or become personally acquainted with those whose works had entered into my heart. I remember how my cheek flushed when he took me by the hand, and how pleased and proud I was of the few words of praise he bestowed upon one of the first efforts of my pen. He was at that time a tall, stout man, somewhat high shouldered, broad chested, and alto. gether strongly proportioned; his head was well and exactly placed, his mouth close yet full, his nose thick and firm; his eyes, of intense darkness,-for I never could define their colour, were deeply set beneath shaggy yet movable eyebrows, and were, I think, as powerful, and yet as soft and winning, as any eyes I ever saw. His brow was very noble and expanded, indicative not only of imagination and observation, but, in its towering height, of that veneration and benevolence which formed so conspicuous a portion of his character. His accent was strongly Scotch, and he expressed himself when warmed into a subject with eloquence and feeling, but, generally speaking, his manner was quiet and reserved; not, however, timid and gauche, like that of Sir David Wilkie, but easy and self-possessed, quiet from a habit of observing rather than a dislike to conversation. Admire him or not as you pleased, it was impossible not to respect the man who, so completely the architect of his own fortune, was never ashamed of being so, and would state the fact as an encouragement to those who needed his example to steady their progress. Burns cultivated his poetic vein while performing the laborious duties of a husbandman, and Allan Cunningham, while chiselling granite in his native country, breathed forth his soul in poetry. A gentleman, who for a long time conducted one of the most influential and the most fashionable journals of the day, told me, that it was a letter from him to the young poet which brought him to London, some five and thirty years ago. Whether this was really so or not I cannot VOL. I. No. II. 21 tell, but, whatever brought him to London, his own exertions kept him there, and his own steady, manly, and straightforward conduct, united to considerable and varied talent and most extraordinary industry, both in the acquirement and application of knowledge, rendered his society courted by the first people in the country. In after years, when it was my privilege to meet him frequently, it was pleasant to note the respect he commanded from all who were distinguished in art and literature. Miss Landon used to say, that "a few of Allan Cunningham's words strengthened her like a dose of Peruvian bark ;" and there certainly was something firm and substantial rather than brilliant in the generality of his observations, except when roused upon a literary or political question; then, in the brief pause that preceded the utterance of his opinions, his mouth would open and his eyes dilate with those lightnings that were sure to flash in unison with a bright rush of strong und natural feeling. He never referred to his own works in conversation. If any questions were asked about them, or any compliment paid to them, he gave the required information, or received the praise without any display or affectation. Constant and familiar association with persons of high mind and extensive cultivation creates, if not a harsh spirit, certainly a spirit of criticism, where pretensions are made by the unworthy or feeble to a high intellectual position. Allan Cunningham was considered a severe critic; but, setting aside his knowledge of books, the friend of Scott, Southey, Wordsworth, and Wilson, had a right to be fastidious. And, in addition to this, he entertained a most sovereign contempt-a decided antipathy-to every species of affectation, particularly of literary affectation, and certainly lashed it, even in society, by a terrible word or look, which could never be forgotten. But in the same degree that he abhorred affectation was his love of Nature. "Wherever," he would say, "wherever there is naturewherever a person is not ashamed to show a heart-there is the germ of excellence. I love nature!" And so he did. His dark eyes would glisten over a child or a flower; and a ballad, one of the songs of his own dear land, move him, even to tears, that is, provided it was sung "according to nature," the full rich meaning given to the words, and no extra flourish, no encumbering drapery of sound forced upon melody. One of the happiest and most interesting evenings of my life I passed at his house, about ten years ago, in the society of Captain (now Major) Burns, (the poet's son,) and few evenings after at my own house, where poor James Hogg, just at the time when the same party were assembled, with nuthe Londoners, glad of any thing to get up merous literary additions not easily foran excitement, turned the head of the Et- gotten. There was Miss Landon in a dress trick Shepherd by a public dinner, at the of scarlet cashmere, that rendered the puperiod when the seven or eight hundred rity of her complexion and the dark brilpounds so expended would have been of liancy of her hair and eyes a perfect atoneincalculable value to a man who, with some ment for the want of distinctive features; of Burns's talents, inherited all his heedless- there she was, full of ready smiles, and ness. On that particular evening nothing kind, appropriate words; brilliant with an could exceed poor Hogg's hilarity; in per- unwounding wit, and ready to withdraw son he was burly, of a ruddy complexion, herself to exhibit the perfections of otherswith the eye of a Silenus, and one of those the most generous of her sex and calling. loosely formed mouths that indicate a love There was Miss Jewsbury, new to the vastof pleasure, be it purchased how it may. ness and extent of London literary society, Captain Burns sang several of his father's her quick and generous appreciation of songs with a pathos and expression that excellence leading her to admire what deadded to their interest, and stimulated the served admiration, while, at the same time, Shepherd to sing his own. Nothing could her womanly vanity was wounded to see be more opposite than the minstrelsy of that she, the marvel of Manchester, was no these two men; but both were natural, ac- wonder in London. There was Barry Corncording to their nature, and so Allan Cun- wall, with his calm, philosopher-like repose ningham enjoyed both. I can recall James of observation; Mrs. Hofland, true, earnest, Hogg sitting on the sofa; his countenance and faithful; Laman Blanchard, an animated flushed with the excitement, and the epigram; Wilkie, whose pale, sad brow "toddy," of which he was not sparing, more gave little intimation of the vigor of "The in his earnestness, his wildness, his irasci- Chelsea Pensioners," or the humor of bility, (particularly when he alluded to "the "Blind Man's Buff;" Miss Edgeworth, a poets," certainly more like a half wild rare visitor in London, but an honored one Irishman than a steady son of the thistle, wherever she goes. Amongst them Hogg, shouting forth his songs in an untunable not quite so noisy as before, and anxious to voice, rendered almost harmonious by the see L. E. L., who well knew that he had spirit he threw into it, and giving us an idea written much and harshly about her. Their of the circumstances connected with the meeting was singular enough. Hogg edged birth of each song at its conclusion; one towards where she sat, fidgeting as she in particular I remember, "The women always did upon her chair; he went up like folk." "Ah, ah," he exclaimed, echoing a schoolboy that deserved a flogging, and our applause with his own hands, "that is half expected he should get it, instead of my favorite humorous song, sure enow! | which the slight, girlish-looking poetess exwhen I am forced by the leddies to sing tended her small white hand towards the against my will, which happens mair fre- huge red fist that seemed uncertain what to quently than I care to tell; and notwith- do. The appeal, accompanied by her bright standen that my friend Allan stands glow- smile, was irresistible. "God bless ye!" erin' at me with his twa een, that might he exclaimed, involuntarily, "God bless have been twins with those of Bobby Burns, ye! I did na' think ye'd been sae bonny. they're so like his. That song, notwith- I ha' written many a bitter thing about ye, standen my wood-notes wild, will never be sung by any so well again." "An' that's true!" replied Cunningham, "that's true; because you have the nature in you; but you're wrong about the eyes; the only ones I ever saw flash like his father's (alluding to Capt. Burns) were those of Michael Thomas Sadler." This opinion I heard Allan Cunningham frequently repeat, and I suppose that both were right; for, certainly, there was a great similarity between the eyes, both as to color and expression, of the then popular member for Leeds and Cunningham's own. I had an opportunity of comparing them a but I'll do so no mair. I did nae think ye'd been sae bonny.' In one corner poor Emma Roberts was talking orientally to Martin the painter; and in another, in deep, undertoned discussion, sat Wordsworth, Sadler, and Allan Cunningham. I never saw three more striking heads grouped together: Wordsworth's-so expanded and fullsprinkled with hair too thinly to add to its size, or change the character of its proportions; Sadler's smaller and feebler, but beautiful, covered with folds of premature white hair; Cunningham's, as full but not as white as Wordsworth's-fuller, indeed, for the organs of observation were more |