der the titles of "A Country Ball," and "Packing Up after the Ball." During these youthful days Caroline paid a visit to some relations in Jersey, and reproduced her hosts long afterwards as the gentle clergyman, Mr. Seale, and his sweet old maiden sister, Mrs. Helen, in her" Chapters on Churchyards." At that time she had no idea of writing for publication. On the contrary, the prejudice against female authorship was so strong in the circle to which she belonged that she would have shrunk from incurring it. ing out their minds than conversation ; and it was some years before they met. No one, however, better deserved the once coveted name of "une charmante raconteuse" than Miss Bowles. She had a quaint caustic style of telling an anecdote that was entirely her own; and in ghost stories she was inimitable. Besides being agreeable herself, she had the rare talent of making every one she wished to please feel agreeable too; and rather surprised her visitors now and then, not with her own talents, but with those they appeared to be gifted with in It may readily be imagined that with so her society. It is still only fair to add, many pleasant accomplishments, and a that her strong sense of the ridiculous, tolerably good fortune, Miss Bowles had and her utter absence of sentimentality, many admirers. She did indeed return disappointed comparative strangers, who the long attachment of one in every re-expected something pathetic from the spect worthy of her; but it was at last writer of so many touching poems. decided by the family conclave that her Things common enough in themselves, engagement should be broken off, owing however, when they had passed through to want of sufficient means on the gentle- the crucible of her mind, were found to man's part. She submitted her own have unlooked-for ore adhering to them. judgment to that of her relations, but she No one more readily caught a friend's formed no other engagement till she ac-idea; but it was quite a chance whether cepted Robert Southey. From that time she would hold it up in a comical light, or she turned to literature as her "chief re- with a variety of new shades added to it source from wearying thoughts." that came from her own fancy; or how, indeed, if it happened to have struck her imagination at all, she would finally dispose of it! Her first long poem was a novel in verse, called "Ellen Fitzarthur." Southey was then at the height of his fame, and after long hesitation she ventured to send Everywhere, of course, she was a welthe manuscript to him, determining to come guest; and there were many abide by his opinion as to whether it delightful houses amongst the "walks" should go into a publisher's hands or not. of the New Forest at which she occaHe read it with great interest, and wrote sionally stayed. Calshot Castle (of which judiciously and kindly to his unknown two Sir Harry Burrards had successively correspondent, whom he warmly encour- been governors) continued after the aged. The poem, followed by several death of her uncle to be the home of his shorter pieces, was accordingly pub-widow and family. No one who sees it lished; and the latter especially were very much admired. In those happy days authoresses were very few, and she at once received, through her bookseller, letters of praise from many distinguished writers. After her mother's death, in 1817, part of her fortune was lost in the failure of an Indian bank; and as she now lived alone, with her faithful "bonne" and two other attached servants, at Buckland Cottage, she found the reward of her labours very useful. But she never thoroughly settled down into what could be called a literary life. She kept up an animated correspondence with Southey, who from the first felt the charm of her sympathy, and wrote frequently and fully about his own works, with abundant criticisms on those of others. Letter-writing was naturally to them both a more perfect means of pour from the Solent, standing round and grim on a long neck of rocky beach which runs out to sea, would think of it as a pleasant ladies' abode. But such it was. The deep embrasures of the windows in the ordinary sitting-room, each formed a recess for drawing or writing, or some artistic fancy-work; the walls were covered with books, carvings, and pictures painted by various members of that accomplished family; and the heavy buttresses were made to afford shelter to flowers, and abundance of climbing plants. The woods that surrounded " Luttrell's Folly" were not far off; and the cottages of the Forest, half-hidden by moss and house-leek, formed endless subjects for the pencil; as well as the ever-shifting lights and shadows on the shores of the Isle of Wight. The old fortress was as much a home to Caroline Bowles as Buckland. Comparatively early in her long acquaintance with Southey, she was gratified by his mention of Paul Burrard, who was aide-de-camp to Sir John Moore at Coruña, and fell mortally wounded, just after his chief had been struck, when scarcely nineteen. These are some of Southey's lines: attached to him by the strongest ties of affection and gratitude. For them he worked so hard that he denied himself the rest and change of scene that might have prolonged his life, and perhaps made his enormous learning and industry more productive of books that paid. No one enjoyed a holiday more thoroughly, and it may be well imagined that with so agreeable a guest he put forth his pleasantest powers. Not unprepared The heroic youth was found, for in the ways Of piety had he been trained; and what The dutiful child upon his mother's knees Had learned, the soldier faithfully observed. In chamber or in tent, the Book of God Was his beloved manual; and his life Beseem'd the lessons which from thence he friend Wordsworth to show her the coun drew. For gallant as he was, and blithe of heart, There was no lack of conversation at Greta Hall of an evening; but excepting for a short hour's walk, which he took as a duty every day, he remained as usual shut up with his writing, appointing his try. Mr. Wordsworth, she said, used to walk for miles by the side of her pony, promptpointing out every fold of the hills, with their glens and tarns. Scarcely a shadow from the passing clouds swept across lake or upland pasture without his remarking it. He was fond of repeating his own poetry in illustration of the scenery, and did so with a strong north-country accent, and very sonorous voice, pronouncing the "1" in such words as "walk" and "talk,” in a peculiar manner. Upon the spot from whence he just had seen ground Was it his fate, like many a British heart, best, Unconscious of its import, heard the gun It was about the time this poem was written that Miss Bowles paid her first visit to Keswick, where Mr. and Mrs. Southey were surrounded with their large household. Her host was chained so resolutely to his desk among the books of his library, that he was only able to give up one day to the enjoyment of showing her the scenery of his beloved hills. When Miss Bowles left Keswick, she carried away a characteristic present from Southey- an extract he had made while in Portugal from an old woodenbound book, which he found in a convent library. It had apparently never been opened, since the monks had chained it so near the ceiling that he had to stand on a high ladder to reach it, and to write out the legend, for it was covered with thick cobwebs. She also took back to Buckland Cottage a drawing she had made of the interior of that pleasant room in which the family collected of an evening with their On that exquisite summer's day, a frequent guests, but which overflowed party had been got up by the young with the books of the master of the people, who had themselves prepared the house. These were dear to him as the meal that was spread somewhere near the dearest friends, and he loved an old volFails of Lodore. Sara Coleridge, who ume with creamy paper, and broad black was then in the bloom of her ethereal printing, finely bound in vellum or Rusbeauty, had made a basketful of remark- sia leather, right well, almost to the last. ably nice cakes; and Caroline Bowles The view of his library, with the open kept a record of the charming figure box of books just arrived by coach from offering them to her friends, in a sketch, London, in the foreground, soon took which was in due time lithographed. It its place in Miss Bowles' pretty drawingcontains likenesses of all who were as-room; and the extract from the monkish sembled on that occasion, and is named volume, made its appearance in "The "A Picnic among the Hills." She had met Southey first in London (as far as I recollect) at her publishers', the Messrs. Blackwood; but she now saw him in the midst of his family, who were Legend of Santarem;" which she published a good while afterwards. Southey used to say that "she only required concentration of thought and energies to produce a great work." This she never attempted, nor was it at all within the scope of her powers. She contented herself with sending beautiful and popular sketches to Blackwood's Magazine, which were chiefly taken from domestic incidents belonging to her own family histories. The pathetic story of Andrew Cleaves, which is probably her best, belonged purely to fiction; but is worked up with wonderfully graphic details. It was written while she was watching the dying bed of "ma bonne," who lived to unusual old age, and sank to rest in the arms of her nurse-child, by whom she was so fondly cherished. She is mentioned in several poems as the last of that household which had surrounded her youth. The good Quaker, Bernard Barton, used often to persuade Miss Bowles to write for his Annual. Alaric Watts also claimed frequent contributions from her pen; and her works became especially popular in America, where Washington Irving had revived the love of all things pertaining to old-fashioned English life. She was very often amused by letters from her American admirers, who implored her to cross the Atlantic and to gladden their country with her presence. Than such a prospect, as may well be supposed, nothing could have been farther from her wishes! Her health had always been delicate, and did not improve as she advanced in life on the contrary, she was subject to severe suffering from neuralgic and other causes, which made her frequently unable to see her most intimate friends. It was a very great pleasure to her, therefore, to alter and improve her little domain, which she did with the proceeds of "The Widow's Tale," and other works. She found an unfailing source of interest in her conservatory; and the rustic dairy, richly furnished with old China, which she had built under a great elm-tree on her lawn; and also in her little pony carriage, in which she constantly visited her poor people on the outskirts of the New Forest, followed by her great black mastiff. amusement of guests staying at that hospitable house. On one occasion, when she happened to meet a large party assembled there for Christmas festivities, she, like every one else, appeared thoroughly mystified by a bundle of torn letters which the hostess had picked up in the corridor, and which had apparently met with some accident on their way to the post-office. Everybody was requested to claim from among them his or her property, the signatures being unluckily missing. They contained strictures, more or less true, on every one's manners, aspirations, and general character; and so well was the deception kept up that it was not traced to its proper source for some time. About the year 1831, Edward Irving, then still a popular preacher, and undoubtedly a man of noble intellectual powers, came for a short summer-holiday with his wife, to Mrs. Baring-Wall's house at Lymington. He preached (as is common with Scotch ministers) at the Independent Chapel, and its narrow walls could not contain the eager crowds who flocked to hear him. He therefore agreed to the generally expressed wish, and it was given out that he would preach once on Milford Common, near the old encampment of the French Royalists. A golden afternoon glowing on the harvest-fields and hedgerows by which it is surrounded, and on the Solent dotted with white sails, brought out all the carriages of the neighbourhood. Most people declared they were driving that way by chance: but so it was, that they all stopped to hear, and it certainly was an hour worth stopping for. The great preacher was then in the prime of life and of energy, with a magnificent figure, which could well bear to stand with the westering sun for a background; and a great crowd gathered in front of him, watching every change of his countenance, and catching to its farthest outskirts every intonation of his wonderfully flexible voice. He preached on the great harvest to be gathered in by One of her greatest friends for many all who were ready to serve the Lord of years was an accomplished Swiss lady, the harvest. His imagery was taken whose husband was descended from from the surrounding scenery and the Lord Chesterfield's "Dayrolles," and associations of the place, and the effect who as a widow had happily settled near Lymington. was electrical. No one who heard that sermon ever thought very hardly in afterdays of Irving himself, however much they may have dissented from his peculiar views and conduct. Miss Bowles was of course there in her pretty pony carriage; and on the following morning she met him (with the writer) at Mrs. Wall's house. They had a long conversation, in the course of which Mr. Irving spoke warmly of the obligations he owed to Coleridge at the beginning of his career in London. He loved, he said, "to watch for Coleridge's grand ideas looming through the mist." Caroline Bowles afterwards remarked that he reminded her, as a preacher, of Robert Hall, whose eloquence till then she had thought unsurpassed; and in personal appearance of Mr. Southey. She was convinced that if the latter could have held ten minutes' conversation with Edward Irving, against whom he had written with extreme bitterness, "they would have stalked together away towards Brockenhurst, the best friends in the world." But Southey never had such an opportunity, and Miss Bowles never saw Irving again. In the course of the same summer she had the pleasure of a second visit from Southey; but the chief part of his time was occupied in writing for the Quarterly Review. In a letter to Mrs. Hodson he says: "The remainder of the paper was written at Caroline Bowles', where I shut myself up for eleven days, refusing all invitations, seeing no visitors, and never going out, excepting when she mounted her Shetland pony and I walked by her side for an hour or two before dinner." So far, indeed, did he carry this sauvagerie, that on one occasion, when an old and dear relative of his hostess persuaded her to open the door of the room in which Southey was writing, she was so much struck by his air of annoyance that she directly closed it. As they met again, her guest exclaimed, "When you had shown my.mane and my tail, you might as well have let me roar !" In 1834 his great sorrow came upon him in the illness of his wife, which ended in mental alienation. "Forty years," he writes, "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, and will, I know, support me to the end, whatever that may be." His letters at this period all breathe the same spirit of resignation and of steadfast endurance, but his health was greatly impaired by three years of de voted watchfulness, accompanied by the necessity for literary labour. On the 16th of November, 1837, Elith Southey sank painlessly and peacefully to rest. However thankful her husband must have been for such a release from suffering, he did not recover the loss of one who had been for two-thirds of his life his chief object as he was hers. His friends persuaded him to seek restored health and cheerfulness by going abroad; and on his return to England he paid a visit of some weeks to Buckland Cottage, arriving there in October, 1838. His spirits revived in the society of his old friend, and a few months later he wrote thus to Walter Savage Landor: "Reduced in number as my family has been within the last few years, my spirits would hardly recover their habitual and healthy cheerfulness if I had not prevailed on Miss Bowles to share my lot for the remainder of our lives. There is just such a disparity of age as is fitting. We have been well acquainted with each other more than twenty years, and a more perfect conformity of disposition could not exist: so that in resolving upon what must be either the weakest or the wisest act of a sexagenarian's life, I am well assured that, according to human foresight, I have judged well and acted wisely, both for myself and my remaining daughter." He naturally did not allude to the fact, that when he first made an offer to Caroline Bowles, she "refused to burden him with an invalid wife." That objection was happily removed by her gaining an unwonted degree of health; and on the 5th of June, 1839, she was married to him at Boldre Church. The rest of the summer was chiefly spent in paying visits among her relations, to whom her husband now showed himself in the pleasantest character. He was extremely agreeable, when thoroughly at his ease in society; and he apparently took great interest in the new family circle in which he found himself so cordially welcomed. The first symptoms of failure of memory soon unhappily appeared, but they were looked upon as mere absence of mind, and excited no uneasiness. Southey had once dedicated a poem to Caroline Bowles, his "kind friend and sister poetess," called "The sinner well saved." It was the story of "the wretched Eliemon who sold his soul to the demon;" and of course belonged to a class dred a-year, in consideration of the benefits received by literature from her husband's works. This pension had been granted owing to the unceasing efforts of her brother-in-law, Dr. Southey, on her behalf; and was therefore all the more welcome to her. of subjects which had a singular attraction for him. He explained that the Satan of the Middle Ages appeared to him a purely mythological personage, whom he had as much right to use as he would have had to introduce Pan or Faunus into a poem. This in some degree accounts for the reasonable offence She paid at least one visit to London given by many too many of his writ- to see the beautiful recumbent statue of ings. Quite a new subject was now to Southey which lies above his tomb. The engage his own pen and his wife's. They original intention and agreement with Mr. projected and partly accomplished a Lough, the sculptor, was, that the monupoem, which was to take up and weavement should be of Caen stone; but with together the legends of our Saxon hero, characteristic liberality he executed it in Robin Hood. Mrs. Southey was full of hope, when he had settled again amongst his old pursuits and friends and books, that he would entirely recover a healthy tone of mind, and all his former vigour; and she still looked forward to many happy years. This, however, as we all know, was a fallacious hope; his mental powers gradually diminished; and although he long enjoyed hearing her read, and nearly to the end loved the sound of her voice and of her name, the torch burnt lower and lower till it was finally extinguished. The last year of his life was passed in a tranquil dreamy state, in which he recognized no one, not even his wife. Robert Southey died on the 21st of March, 1843, and was borne to his rest on a stormy morning in the beautiful churchyard of Crosthwaite. Few besides his own family and immediate neighbours followed his remains; but his intimate friend Mr. Wordsworth crossed the hills on that wild morning to be present at the funeral. As soon as her shattered health allowed her to undertake the journey to Hampshire, Mrs. Southey returned to Buckland Cottage. There surrounded by her nearest relations and oldest friends, she gradually recovered the energies of a mind shaken indeed by long anxiety and sorrow, but not weakened. Her old gaiety was forever gone, and she shrunk from any new literary exertion. During the remaining years of her life she chiefly occupied herself with arranging a complete edition of her works, including the finished portions of "Robin Hood," and a life of Peter Bell, which she had begun at Keswick. On her marriage Mrs. Southey had lost an annuity bequeathed to her by a relation of her father's, Colonel Bruce. It was therefore with great satisfaction that she learnt in 1852 that the Queen had conferred on her a pension of two hun white marble; he presented also a fine cast of the bust to his widow. When the writer of these brief records went to see it at his studio, Mr. Lough remarked how like Mrs. Southey's eye and the expression of her features was to her husband's. In 1853 Caroline Southey also passed away. Only a few hours before her death she was watching a fine East-Indiaman that had purposely been run aground near the Needles, to avoid swamping a little fishing-boat that crossed her track. She observed to Lady Burrard, who was with her to the last, how impossible it was for her to realize that death was close at hand, with her mind so fully awake to all the interests of life! Her early prayer was fulfilled, as it seemed, to the letter Come not in terrors 'clad to claim Come like an evening shadow, Death And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath; She lies in the churchyard at Lymington, surrounded by many generations of her kindred, far away from the stormband. But it is right that some memoswept grave of her poet-friend and husrial of her should be associated with his name and memory. E. O. From Blackwood's Magazine. THE DISAPPOINTING BOY. "My dear Septimus," I said, "I congratulate you on your son. He is a most pleasant fellow; cheerful without silliness intelligent, but not a prig." "Humph!" replied my friend. A great part of conversation in this country is carried on by grunts; but if there is anything which cannot be ex |