must make room, as it describes briefly yet very faithfully," says Mr. Cuthbert Southey, "the place destined to be my father's abode for the longest portion of his life-the birthplace of all his children save one, and the place of his final rest.” "Our house," says Coleridge, "stands on a low hill, the whole front of which is one field, and an enormous garden, nine-tenths of which is a nursery garden. Behind the house is an orchard, and a small wood on a steep slope, at the foot of which flows the river Greta, which winds round, and catches the evening lights in the front of the house. In front we have a giant's camp-an encamped army of tentlike mountains, which, by an inverted arch, gives a view of another vale. On our right the lovely vale, and the wedge-shaped lake of Bassenthwaite, and on our left, Derwentwater and Lodore full in view, and the fantastic mountains of Borrowdale. Behind us the massy Skiddaw, smooth, green, high, with two chasms, and a tent-like ridge in the larger. A fairer scene you have not seen in all your wanderings: without going from our own grounds, we have all that can please a human being. As to books, my landlord, who dwells next door, has a respectable library, which he has put with mine-histories, encyclopædias, and all the modern gentry. But then I can have, when I choose, free access to the princely library of Sir Guilford Lawson, which contains the noblest collection of travels and natural history, of perhaps any private library in England: besides this, there is the cathedral library of Carlisle, from which I can have any books sent me that I wish; in short, I can truly say that I command all the libraries in the county." Southey still wished for a warm climate. Portugal would be the place which he himself would have chosen, but there seemed to have been some facilities for obtaining for him the office of secretary to an Italian legation, and in expectation of this he exulted; why, think you? Let his letter to Grosvenor Bedford answer. "It is unfortunate that you cannot come to the sacrifice of my one law book, my whole proper stock, whom I design to take to the top of mount Etna, for the purpose of throwing him down straight to the devil-huzza! Grosvenor, I was once afraid I should have a deadly deal of law to forget whenever I had done with it, but my brains, God bless them! never received any, and I am as ignorant as heart could wish. The tares would not grow." Southey did not go to mount Etna to visit the devil, but to Ireland. FIRE, FAMINE, and SLAUGHTER, had been there a year or two before, and, indeed, every year, for the last five hundred, and it seemed no bad place to go to for the purpose of burning his law books. Well, away he goes. "I saw," says he, "the sun set behind Anglesea, and the mountains of Caernarvonshire rose so beautifully before us, that though at sea, it was delightful-the sun-rise was magnificent." Then comes a storm. At last they land at Balbriggen. Mr. Corry was Chancellor of the Exchequer in Ireland, and Southey was appointed his private secretary, with a salary of £400 a-year. But before Southey reached Dublin, whom did he meet? "A man whose name is as widely known as that of any human being, except, perhaps, Bonaparte. He is not above five feet, but notwithstanding his figure, he soon became the most important personage of the party. Sir,' said he, as soon as he set foot in the vessel, I am a unique; I go anywhere, just as the whim takes me; this morning, Sir, I had no idea whatever of going to Dublin; I did not think of it when I left home, my wife and family knew nothing of the trip. I have only one shirt with me, besides what I have on; my nephew here, Sir, has not another shirt to his back; but money, Sir, money-anything may be had in Dublin.' Who the devil is this fellow, thought I. We talked of rum-he had just bought a hundred puncheons, the weakest drop fifteen above proof-of the west of England, and out he pulls an Exeter newspaper from his pocket -of bank paper, his pocket-book was stuffed full of notes, Scotch, Irish, and English; and I really am obliged to him for some clues to discover forged paper. Talk, talk, everlasting; he could draw for money on any town in the United Kingdom-aye, or America. At last he was made known for Dr. Solomon. At night I set upon the doctor, talking of disease in general, beginning with the Liverpool flux-which remedy had proved most effectualnothing like the cordial balm of Gilead. At last I ventured to touch upon a tender subject-did he conceive Dr. Brodum's medicine to be analogous to his own? Not in the least, Sir— colour, smell, all totally different; as for Dr. Brodu, Sir, all the world knows it, it is manifest to everybody, that his advertisements are all stolen, verbatim et literatim, from mine. Sir, I don't think it worth while to notice such a fellow.' But enough of Solomon and his nephew, and successor that is to be-the Rehoboam of Gilead-a cub in training." On their route from Balbriggen to Dublin they saw no trees, all had been cut down for pike-handles. On being installed in his office, Southey found he had but little to do in what he regarded as his proper business, as secretary, but Corry expected him to act as private tutor to his children, and this did not answer the poet's purposes; so they parted company, and Southey took up his tent at Greta Hall. Coleridge went to Malta, as secretary to Sir Alexander Ball. "Mr. Smith says, 'Coleridge is making a fortune in his present situation, or at least, that any one but a poet would make one in it.' How amusing, that the author of Fire, Famine, and Slaughter,' should be a commissary fattening under war and Pitt!"* * Taylor to Southey, Oct. 1805. His admiration of Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Lamb. 409 Southey speaks with impatience of his weary, weary work of criticism : Solemn as lead, Judge of the dead, By men called Criticism! "This vile reviewing still bird-limes me. e. I do it slower than anything else, yawning over tiresome work;" yet, in the midst of the rubbish which he had to clear away, as he best could, amid all his dreary journey-work, he never lost sight of the better purposes for which his nature fitted him; and he was wise enough also in his dealings with the booksellers, to reserve some share to himself of the future copyright in most of what he published. In 1807 we find him mentioning his history of Brazil, and his determination to print it at his own risk, rather than part with the copyright, for which he says he might obtain five hundred guineas; "but I will not sell the chance of greater eventual profit. This work will supply a chasm in history. This is not all I cannot do one thing at a time; so sure as I attempt it, my health suffers. The business of the day haunts me in the night, and though a sound sleeper otherwise, my dreams partake so much of it as to harass and disturb me. I must always, therefore, have one train of thoughts for the morning, another for the evening, and a book not relating to either, for half-an-hour after supper, and thus neutralizing one set of associations by another, and having (God be thanked!) a heart at ease, I continue to keep in order a set of nerves as much disposed to get out of order as any man's can be." Of Mr. Cuthbert Southey's work, enough has not been published to enable us to form any very decided opinion. It is written in an unaffected, unambitious tone, and in great kindliness of spirit to every one mentioned in it. Indeed, we think that in some cases, at this distance of time, there could scarcely have been occasion for the asterisks and blank lines which we now and then meet, filling up the places of omitted names. passages should be left out or the names given. The The great admiration with which Southey regarded Coleridge is often expressed in his letters. Of Lamb, too, and Wordsworth, we have frequent mention, and always in language of the strongest affection. It is really wonderful how with his mind engaged in so many projects of his own, he could so fully appreciate the claims of others, and have his heart always awake to their interests. "My father," says Cuthbert Southey, "has yet to be fully known, and this I have a good hope will be accomplished by the publication of these volumes." We conclude with extracts from two poems of Southey's, describing himself, one in a playful, the other in a serious spirit. "Robert the rhymer who lives at the Lakes, Describes himself thus to prevent mistakes. He is lean of body and lank of limb; * The man must walk fast who would overtake him. He hath a long nose with a bending ridge, It might be worth notice on Strasburg bridge. A man he is by nature merry, Somewhat Tom-foolish, and comical, very; Who has gone through the world not mindful of pelf, Along by-paths and in pleasant ways, Caring as little for censure as praise.' * * * "My days among the Dead are past ; Where'er these casual eyes are cast, "With them I take delight in weal, 66 And while I understand and feel My cheeks have often been bedew'd With tears of thoughtful gratitude. My thoughts are with the Dead! With them Their virtues love, their faults condemn, And from their lessons seek and find My hopes are with the Dead! anon Yet leaving here a name I trust Julius Müller-German Philosophy and Theology. 411 ART. V.-1. Die Christliche Lehre von der Sünde: von JULIUS MÜLLER. Breslau, 1844. 2. Studien und Kritiken. DE WETTE. Bemerkungen über die Lehre von der Sünde mit Rücksicht auf das Werk von JULIUS MÜLLER. Pp. 539-578. 1849. pre THE name of Julius Müller is probably not known beyond the limited circle of our readers who interest themselves in the sent movements of German theological literature. In his own country his name is a host; but in ours it is little more as yet than a shadow. He belongs to the same class with Schelling and Hegel among the philosophers, and Schleiermacher among the theologians, whom a British public has punished for the alleged sin of loving the darkness rather than the light by neglecting to translate, and of whose works, except in snatches and fragments, it may still be said, "Longa premuntur Nocte, carent quia vate sacro." Dr. Beard of Manchester has, we believe, translated his admirable recension of Strauss' "Leben Jesu," in the "Studien und Kritiken," perhaps the most solid, in a brief compass, of the innumerable replies which that notorious work called forth from all sections of the Church, orthodox and heterodox, in Germany. But nothing else as yet has received an English dress. His sermons on the Christian life, the most pleasant specimens we know of Scotch-like preaching in a country where it is very rare, have not made their way to a country which would appreciate them; and his celebrated Treatise on Sin, of which the title stands at the head of this Article, is, so far as translation or even occasional reference is concerned, all but unknown. It must be admitted that the book is thoroughly German in its plan of investigation and cast of style, a little too dark perhaps, and a little too long, and that it takes for granted some familiarity with the last fifty years' struggles of philosophy and theology, in that most revolutionary half century. The author is clad in the panoply of the schools, and is familiar with all their weapons. He is no holiday theologian, to whom religion is but a jousting-field. He displays quite visibly "the dinted shield and helmet beat;" and the scars which speculation often leaves are all upon him, though they are not unhealed. Had the book been entirely relative to one-sided and ephemeral German theories, the very earnestness of Christian feeling which pervades it would have redeemed its transcendentalism; but it is far from needing any apology for VOL. XII. NO. XXIV. 2 E |