THE ITALIAN ITINERANT. [William Wordsworth, born at Cockermouth, Cumberland, 7th April, 1770; died at Rydal Mount, near Grasmere, 23d April, 1850. His first volume of poems appeared in 1793, and was entitled “An Evening Walk." Soon after, he made a pedestrian tour over the Alps, and on his return to England, published his second work, Descriptive Sketches in Verse." His chief poems are, "The Excursion," and "The White Doe of Rylston." He did not obtain immediate recognition as a poet of the first rank; his reputation grew slowly, like the oak, and stands as firmly. His poetry, characterized by parity, simplicity, and earnestness, has exercised a wide and wholesome influence on modern literature. He was the principal master of what was called the Lake School of Poetry; his friends Coleridge and Southey were its next prominent representatives. Wordsworth's circumstances were comfortable. A friend provided him with an income which enabled him to pursue his studies, and at an early date he was appointed Distributor of Stamps for Cumberland and Westmoreland. In 1835, Government gave him a pension of £300 a year, with liberty to resign his office of Distributor of Stamps in favour of his son. appointed Poet-Laureate on the death of Southey in 1843.] He was little service it was destined, however, that I should never realize. Meantime, that which she rendered to me, and which was greater than I could ever have repaid her, was this:--One night, when we were pacing slowly along Oxford Street, and after a day when I felt more than usually ill and faint, I requested her to turn off with me into Soho Square: thither we went; and we sat down on the steps of a house, which, to this hour, I never pass without a pang of grief, and an inner act of homage to the spirit of that unhappy girl, in memory of the noble action which she there performed. Suddenly, as we sat, I grew much worse: I had been leaning my head against her bosom; and all at once I sank from her arms and fell backwards on the steps. From the sensations I then had, I felt an inner conviction of the liveliest kind that without some powerful and reviving stimulus, I should either have died on the spot or should at least have sunk to a point of exhaustion from which all re-ascent under my friendless circumstances would soon have become hopeless. Then it was, at this crisis of my fate, that my poor orphan companion--who had herself met with little but injuries in this world-stretched out a saving hand to me. Uttering a cry of terror, but without a moment's delay, she ran off into Oxford Street, and in less time than could be imagined, returned to me with a glass of portwine and spices, that acted upon my empty stomach (which at that time would have rejected all solid food) with an instantaneous power of restoration: and for this glass the generous girl without a murmur paid out of her own humble purse at a time-be it remembered!--when she had scarcely wherewithal to purchase the bare necessaries of life, and when she could have no reason to expect that I should ever be able to reimburse her.-Oh! · youthful benefactress! how often in succeeding years, standing in solitary places, and thinking of thee with grief of heart and perfect love, how often have I wished that, as in ancient times the curse of a father was believed to have a supernatural power, and to pursue its object with a fatal necessity of self-fulfilment,-even so the benediction of a heart oppressed with gratitude, might have a like prerogative; might have power given to it from above to chase-imagery. There are many touches of this kind which to haunt to waylay-to overtake to pursue thee into the central darkness of a London brothel, or (if it were possible) into the darkness of the grave-there to awaken thee with an authentic message of peace and forgiveness, and of final reconciliation! Now that the farewell tear is dried, 1 As a curiosity, here is an extract from the Critical Review of July, 1793 "An Evening Walk. An Epistle, in Verse. Addressed to a Young Lady, from the Lakes of the North of England, By W. Wordsworth, B. A. of St. John's, Cambridge. 4to, 28. Johnson. 1793.' Local description is seldom without a degree of obscurity, which is here increased by a harshness both in the construction and the versification; but we are compensated by that merit which a poetical taste most values--new and picturesque would not disgrace our best descriptive poets." It is droll, and instructive too, to note the tone of patronage in which one whom we regard as a master was spoken of on his first appearance. It is also an honour to the memory of the critic that he recognized a poet in the first unpractised utterances of the youth who was afterwards to become the acknowledged head of a school of poetry. Hope be thy guide, adventurous boy! But thou perhaps (alert and free A vender of the well-wrought scale Whether thou choose this useful part, Though robb'd of many a cherish'd dream, In the proud Isle of Liberty! Yet will the wanderer sometimes pine His mother's neck entwine; Nor shall forget the maiden coy parched and baked with thirst, brows pouring with sweat, cheeks flaming like a north-west moon, breeches chafing far worse than the sea, and shoes peeling heel and pinching toe, till a walk is of a composite order including drawl, drag, shuffle, sneak, lumber, and limp-we venture humbly to suggest, that a gentleman so circumstanced must be a prejudiced spectator of the beauties of nature. When the unhappy monster has toiled his way into an inn, what, pray, does he expect? not surely to be treated like a Protestant, or even a Catholic. Can he have the conscience to expect that he shall be suffered to deposit with impunity the extremities of his sweaty and dusty body upon a parlour-chair, or absolutely to fling down his loathsome length among the shepherdesses impressed on the pastoral print of a sofa in the north of England? Forbid it, waiter! and show the That would have loved the bright-hair'd boy! pedestrian into the barn. The truth must be If we were about to pay a visit to the Lakes, how should we travel? Why, in a gig or a chaise, to be sure. A pedestrian is a great ass. Feet, it is to be hoped, were given to the human race for some better purpose than walking upon; and that exercise approximates a Christian sadly to a cur. It is all right and fitting that a quadruped, or polyped, like Jock-with-themany-legs, should go on foot; but a man, being a mere biped, should know better than to walk, except on short journeys across the room, &c., when walking has always appeared to us, except in cases of extreme corpulency, at once one of the elegancies and necessaries of life. But a pedestrian pursuing the picturesque up hill and down dale, ill-protected by clouds of dust from a burning sun, with a mouth and throat told. Pedestrians, male and female, young and old, dissenters or of the Established Church, have all a smell, to which the smell of goats is as the smell of civets. How can it be otherwise? But without entering into the rationale of the matter, we just take the fact as we find it, and we declare solemnly, as if these were the last words we were ever to write in this magazine, that, in the most remote room of the largest inn, we can, nay, must, nose the arrival of a pedestrian, the moment his fetid foot pollutes the clear cool slate-stone of the threshold. This is the truth-not the whole truth; but nothing but the truth. Now, is this fair? Must I-we, we mean-sicken over our dinner, because a prig will waddle in worsted stockings, or socks, as they are with genuine beastliness called? Shall the brock be allowed to badger us, the editor of this magazine? But this is not all: he is also a foul feeder. Ale and oil to him are opening paradise-corned beef and greasy greens are crowded down, full measure and running over, as our dearly beloved friend Charles Lamb says of the wits of great Eliza's golden days, into the foul recesses of a congenial stomach. Then the sinner smokes; and after his dense dinner, comes staggering into the lobby, literally talking tobacco-which is not cigar, but shag. Shall he snore in sheets, and blubber in blankets? Yes-and who knows but into his very lair shall next night be laid some sweet spinster of seventeen, half-conscious, by an indescribable instinct, that there is something or another odious in her situation? Or perhaps a couple ere yet the honey-moon has filled her horns? Why, the very knowledge that such a thing is possible is enough to change a bridal-bed into a pigsty, in the en amoured imagination of all delicate people. | but large enough to show that his teeth are Rats are bad enough, especially when they die rotten. The puppy wears sailor's clothes, and behind the wainscot; but what are six dozen a black silk handkerchief. of dead rats to one living pedestrian? A foumart is a sweet mart to him-in short, he is as odious as he is unhappy; and the only consolation left to a true Christian is, that he is as unhappy as he is odious. That it may be seen he is a gentleman, he sports fine linen and a frill. The wretch seldom shaves. He has a burr in his throat, which sounds like a watchman's rattle made of wet indian-rubber, if the benevolent reader can imagine such a thing. He talks, with that instrument of speech and torture, of poetry, and painting, and music-and, to crown all, he is a Whig. We know of no bagman half so bad as thisand, as he used to infest the Lakes, we wish to put our readers on their guard against this walking nuisance, who, with those traits peculiar to himself, combines all the A man on horseback is bad enough, but nothing to the polecat now considered. It is probable he is a bagman-it is possible he is the bagman. Whichever he be, it is both a moral and physical impossibility that he can be sweet. For, look at him as you behold him on the road. He generally despises gloves, or wears them in his pocket. One hand, therefore, grasps the greasy reins and the other a greasier | odious characteristics of the ordinary pedeswhip. Look at his nails, and you will swear trian. he has been digging pig-nuts. The palm is cracked horn, and the back is one hairy blister. Up and down he goes on his saddle-not without reason; for he is saddle-sick. Those boots never saw Turner's blacking-they are dim, and redolent of soot and suet. Corduroy breeches are good for hiding the dirt; and divine service has been frequently performed in kirk and cathedral since brush or broomstick disturbed the pepper and salt of that jemmy jockey-frock. This is your bagman, travelling among the Lakes for orders. But, for the love of God! go to the fourth inn of the village, if you have one grain of mercy in your whole composition. Over the way yonder, the "Cat and Fiddle" is making a sign for you to enter in "The Dog" is wagging his tail, and the "Mag-Pie" chattering to her beloved bagman. There you will find a salve for every sore-there your corduroys will be washed for two-pencehalfpenny-there a fresh layer of manure will enrich the soil of your boots-and some beautiful brown soap add paleness and perfume to your mauleys. Why, if you are not a Day and Martin behind the fair, you may make your fortune by marrying the landlord's daughter. Yet we believe that we are mistaken in alluding to this person as the most odious of all pedestrians. There is an absolute class of them, one and all as odious as he and they are as follows:-Creatures of literary, metaphysical, and poetical habits, who write, we shall suppose, for the London magazines. They must all see the Lakes, forsooth, and visit Mr. Wordsworth. It is their opinion, we presume, that the language of the peasantry of the north of England is the language of poetry, and they give reasons for the faith that is in them, purloined and parboiled from the preface to the lyrical ballads. The bold, true perceptions of a great original genius become pure idiotry in their adoption by Cockneys; and surely it will be allowed to be most universally disgusting to hear empty-pated praters from Lunnun expounding the principles of one of the profoundest thinkers of the age. These metropolitan ninnies have the unendurable impertinence to take lodgings at Ambleside and Keswick.-Now, though a cat may look at a king, a Cockney ought not to be suffered to look at a mountain. But these wretches are wicked enough to wonder, and audacious enough to admire. They commit to the prison of their memory, where a few dwindled ideas, put into confinement, lie in a state of loathsome idleness, scraps of Mr. Wordsworth's poems. We would give them up Alice Fell and her duffle cloak, on condition of their stopping with her at Durham; but who, with a heart or a soul, can bear to see them offering indecencies to poor Ruth, "setting her little water-mills by spouts and fountains wild?" Who does not shudder to think that they may have given ostentatious So much for pedestrians and bagmen. Which is the most loathsomely disgusting? We cannot tell. Often, often, when sickening under the one, have we sighed for the other-and vice versa. However, to be candid and impartial, as we always are, except in politics, we certainly do know one pedestrian, who, on the whole, is worse than any bagman we have yet experienced. He is a clergyman, and wears spectacles. We wish to mention his name, but that would be personal. Let us therefore describe him as well as we can anony-alms to the "Old Cumberland Beggar," as the mously. His cheeks are bluff, puffed up, and red as cherries. His mouth is small, of course, Kendal coach was passing by with twenty outsides? These are the reptiles, that, if not trod upon, will occasion a fall in the price of land | spruce, cider, soda, and imperial pop, even in the northern counties. What, it may be asked, is the best time of the year for visiting the Lakes?-Our answer is, Any time between the first day of January and the last day of December. There is much mouthing, mumping, moping, melancholy, mournful and miserable mummery, in the talk about autumn. Autumnal tints are all very well in their way, except upon the neck of an aunt or artichoke, where they are not so sweet as seasonable. But to ninety-nine people out of a hundred it is of no earthly consequence whether tints on trees, and mountains, and so forth, are vernal (what the deuce is the proper summer adjective?), autumnal, or brumal. The colour of the country is good enough at all times, except, perhaps, when the snow happens to be six feet deep, when, loathe though we be to dissent from Mr. Coleridge, we think white is too much of the prevailing tone, and neither orange nor purple. The chief objection to travelling in a mountainous country in winter, at least after, or during a heavy fall of snow, seems to be that it is impossible. But, no doubt, a man looking out of his parlour window, with a good rousing fire at his back, and a pretty girl' (his wife) in or out of the room,-upstairs whipping the children, or down-stairs scolding the servants, may pass a few minutes in very agreeable contemplation of nature even in winter, and on the morning after halfa-dozen shepherds, and twenty score of sheep, have been lost in the snow. Let, therefore, any man that chooses visit the Lakes in winter if he can, and we shall not think him mad, only a little crazy. We should suppose that spring was a season by no means amiss for Laking. But the difficulty here is to know when it is spring. Many and oft is the time when it has slipped through our fingers without our having felt it; and then it is to be remembered, that in our island it comes round only once in seven years. When a tourist is lucky enough to find himself among the Lakes in a bona fide spring season, he will enjoy himself intensely; for the autumnal tints may ai: go to the devil and shake themselves in comparison with the beautiful glories of mother Earth and of father Jove, between the middle of April and the middle of June. Midsummer is often so horridly hot that there is no living comfortably anywhere but in the cellar, except for a few hours in the early morning and the late evening. Then all is voluptuous langouror bright awakening from a dream-or the divine hush of happy nature sinking again into dewy repose. With plenty of ginger beer, the dog-days may be made passable; and by kicking off sheets and blankets, and opening the windows of our room, a bed may be prevented from being a stew-pan, or an oven warmed by steam. PROF. WILSON, Blackwood's Mag.1 LEONIDAS. [Rev. George Croly, born at Dublin, 1780; died 24th November, 1860. He earned fame as a popular preacher, as a poet, and as a novelist. He was appointed rector of St. Stephen's, Walbrook, and subsequently of St. Benet's, London. His literary productions were "The Angel of the World;""Cataline," a tragedy; "Pride shall have a Fall," a comedy; "Salathiel," a novel, which is still a favourite with thoughtful readers; and a "Life of Burke."] "Marston," a novel; "Tales of the Great St. Bernard," Shout for the mighty men Who died along this shore- Sprang forth, than theirs who won the day Shout for the mighty men Who on the Persian tents, Like lions from their midnight den Bounding on the slumbering deer, Rush'd-a storm of sword and spear;Like the roused elements, Let loose from an immortal hand, But there are none to hear; Greece is a hopeless slave. LEONIDAS! no hand is near To lift thy fiery falchion now; No warrior makes the warrior's vow Upon thy sea-wash'd grave. The voice that should be raised by men, Must now be given by wave and glen. And it is given!-the surge The tree-the rock-the sand-On freedom's kneeling spirit urge, In sounds that speak but to the free, The memory of thine and thee! The vision of thy band 1 The first number of this magazine was published at Edinburgh in April, 1817, by Mr. William Blackwood, its projector and proprietor. He was also the practical editor of the magazine until the date of his death, 16th September, 1834. On my way back to town the other evening from a visit, I had the misfortune, at the turning of a road, not to see a projecting gateway, till I came too near it. I leaped the ditch that ran by, but my horse went too close to the side-post; and my leg was so hurt, that I was obliged to limp into a cottage, and have been laid up ever since. The doctor tells me I am to have three or four weeks of it, perhaps more. As soon as I found myself fixed, I looked about me to see what consolations I could get in my new abode. The place was quiet. That was one thing. It was also clean, and had a decent-looking hostess. Those were two more. Thirdly, I heard the wind in the trees. This was much. "You have trees opposite the window?"-"Yes, sir, some fine elms. You will hear the birds of a morning." "And you have poultry, to take care of my fever with? and eggs and bacon, when I get better? and a garden and a paddock, when I walk again, eh? and capital milk, and a milk-maid whom it's a sight to see carrying it over the field.""Why, sir," said my hostess, good-humouredly but gravely, "as to the milk-maid I can say nothing; but we have capital milk at Pouldon, and good eggs and bacon, and paddocks in plenty, and everything else that horse or man can desire, in an honest way."-"Well, madam," said I, "I shall desire nothing of you, you may depend on it, unbecoming the dignity of Pouldon or the pretty whiteness of these window-curtains."-"I dare say we shall agree very well, sir," said my good woman with a gracious smile. The curtains were very neat and white, the rest of the furniture corresponding. There was a small couch, and a long-backed arm-chair, looking as if it was made for me. "That settee," thought I, "I shall move into that other part of the room:— it will be snugger, and more away from the door. The arm-chair and the table shall go near the window, when I can sit up; so that I may have the trees at the corner of my eye, as I am writing. The table, a small mahogany one, was very good, and reflected the two candles very prettily, but it looked bald. There were no books on it. "Pray, Mrs. Wilson, have you any books?" "Oh, plenty of books. But won't you be afraid to study, sir, with that leg?" "I'll study without it, if you can undo it for me." "Dear me! sir, but won't it make you feverish?" "Yes, unless I can read all the while. I must study philosophy, Mrs. Wilson, in order to bear it: so if you have any novels or comedies-" "Why, for novels or comedies, sir, I can't say. But I'll show you what there is. When our lady was alive, rest her soul! eight months ago, the house was nothing but books. I dare say she had a matter of a hundred. But I've a good set too below; some of my poor dear husband's, and some of my own.' "I see," said I, as she left the room, "that I shall be obliged to send to the clergyman: and that's a forlorn hope. If there's a philosopher in the village,—some Jacobinical carpenter or shoemaker,—there will be another chance. At all events, I shall behave in the most impudent manner, and send all round. 'Necessitas non habet LEGS,' as Peter Pindar says. This is the worst of books. A habit of reading is like a habit of drinking. You cannot do without it, especially under misfortune. I wonder whether I could leave off reading, beginning with a paragraph less a day?" Mrs. Wilson returned with an arm full. "This, sir," said she, giving me the top one, our lady left me for a keep-sake." It was Mrs. Chapone's Essays. "Pray," said I, "Mrs. Wilson, who was the lady whom you designate as the Roman Catholics do the Virgin? Who was Our lady?" Mrs. Wilson looked very grave, but I thought there was a smile lurking under her gravity in spite of her. "Miss V., sir, was no Roman: and as to the Virgin, by which I suppose, sir, you mean the-but however-oh, she was an excellent woman, sir; her mother was a friend of the great Mr. Samuel Richardson." “Oh ho!" thought I, looking over the books, "then we shall have Pamela."-There was the Farrier's Guide, some Treatises on Timber and the Cultivation of Wood (my hostess was a carpenter's widow), Jachin and Boaz (which she called a strange fantastic book), Mrs. Glasse's Cookery, Wesley's Receipts, an old Court Calendar, the Whole Duty of Man, nine numbers of the Calvinist's Magazine, an odd volume of the |