life an exaggerated notion of their importance in the economy of the world. At his death he had not completed his preparations even for a History of Portugal. His History of Brazil is a storehouse of facts relating to a comparatively uninteresting and unimportant race. He imagined that when the Brazilians became a powerful nation it would be to them what the work of Herodotus was to Europe. It is a monument of industry. One cannot but admire the skill with which the simple, uneventful story of the country's progress is unfolded, but one cannot also help doubting whether the work will ever redeem, or deserve to redeem its original failure. No one now dips into the three quarto volumes of the History of the Peninsular War. It is, like the History of Brazil, a colossal piece of work, an honest narrative of facts, inspired by a profound enthusiasm for the Spanish cause, and a very hearty hatred of Bonaparte and all his works. Yet Wellington justly said it was wholly inadequate, and displayed gross ignorance; and it has been fairly enough criticised as an exhibition of useless erudition. Southey, beyond all doubt, took immense pains with his historical work. He consulted all available sources, witnesses, and books. He set down the truth in plain narrative. His success was the measure of his capacity, not of his industry or of his good intentions.

In biography Southey attained a far higher level. Here he was unmistakably at his best, and that best was excellent. Judged by his most famous and enduring work, The Life of Nelson, he has all the virtues of a first-rate biographer, except a large knowledge of the world, and the very highest skill in the appreciation of character. In writing biographies at all events he did not fail, as in his histories, to distinguish between what interested him and what interested the public. His Life of Cowper and his Life of Wesley are only not so good as his Life of Nelson. His style is natural, easy, unaffected; a better for the purpose could not be imagined. Though he never got to the bottom of Nelson's character, and "walked among sea-terms as carefully as a cat does among crockery," he produced a splendid panorama of the deeds of the naval hero. His Cowper, though it has not kept its place as a popular classic, any more than his Wesley, which Coleridge could "read for the twentieth time" is a sound literary performance. Southey's translations of romantic fiction are wholly admirable. His rendering of The Cid

into limpid English prose has not been superseded.

Southey, the poet laureate (successor of Pye, and predecessor of Wordsworth), the historian, the biographer, the literary critic, made in reality a deeper impression on his time in political controversy than in any other department of letters. The sometime republican and enthusiast for the Revolution became, in the pages of the Quarterly Review, the leading champion of Toryism. He suffered obloquy for his apparently cardinal change of views. But we at this time of day are better able to judge of the morality of his political evolution than hostile reviewers and politicians in the beginning of the century. Crabbe Robinson drew from his published correspondence a "conviction of the perfect freedom of his mind from all dishonourable motives in the change that has taken place in his practical politics and philosophy." While others in consequence of the horrors of the French Revolution lost all faith in the future, Southey never doubted the cause of human improvement. But he came to believe more and more in the slow process of education, and to disbelieve in the Radicalism to which he had pinned his early faith. The cast of his mind and his temperament indeed sufficiently account for his seeming tergiversation. He was incapable of clear sustained thought on any subject. He was ever swayed by his feelings rather than by reason; his judgments were too often hasty and incomplete. But he could sustain a long argument with both power and skill, and being always confident in his monopoly of the truth, he wrote with an ease and lucidity which gave distinction to his controversial style, and helped to keep literature of the kind remarkably pure and elevated in tone at a time when party passion ran high. De Quincey, although he would not allow Southey the loftier qualities of style, admitted him to have been completely successful in the conduct of elaborate and involved controversy. The dignity of his argumentative writing is indeed very notable. Never walking on stilts, he never lets himself down below a certain decorous level. It is worth while to quote the conclusion of his reply to a Mr. William Smith who, while Southey was expounding Toryism in the press, raked up in Parliament an early revolutionary poem of his, Wat Tyler, which was never published by himself. "How far," he wrote, "the writings of Mr. Southey may be found to deserve a favourable acceptance from after ages time will decide; but a name which, whether worthily or not, has been conspicuous in the literary history of its age, will certainly not perish. Some account of his life will

always be prefixed to his works, and transferred to literary histories and to the biographical dictionaries not only of this but of other countries. There it will be related of him that he lived in the bosom of his family in absolute retirement; that in all his writings there breathed the same abhorrence of oppression and immorality, the same spirit of devotion, and the same ardent wishes for the melioration of mankind; and that the only charge which malice could bring against him was that, as he grew older, his opinions altered concerning the means by which the melioration was to be effected, and that, as he learned to understand the institutions of his country, he learned to appreciate them rightly, to love, and to revere, and to defend them. It will be said of him that, in an age of personality, he abstained from satire; and that during the course of his literary life, often as he was assailed, the only occasion on which he ever condescended to reply was when a certain Mr. William Smith insulted him in Parliament with the appellation of renegade. On that occasion it will be said that he vindicated himself as it became him to do, and treated his calumniator with just and memorable severity. Whether it shall be added that Mr. William Smith redeemed his own character by coming forward with honest manliness and acknowledging that he had spoken rashly and unjustly concerns himself but is not of the slightest importance to me.”

The necessary allowance made for the personal equation, this proud apologia presents the real Southey. His correspondence proves him to have been a kindly, generous, plain-living, and high-thinking man. His epistolary style, particularly in his mature years, was a model at once of simplicity and of neatness. Southey essayed yet another method of composition. Into The Doctor, a sort of novel with the slenderest thread of story, he poured the contents of his note-books, and all the vagrant thoughts of an active brain. It contains fragments of narrative of great beauty, and some good stories, but even the immortal Three Bears cannot redeem the book from the charge of intolerable dulness. Espriella's Letters, purporting to be a Spaniard's impressions of England, can still be read. For the Colloquies on Society, Macaulay's celebrated article has secured immortality of a sort.

WILLIAM WALLACE.

THE BATTLE OF CORUÑA

THE preparations for embarking were completed on the morning of the 16th, and the General gave notice that he intended, if the French did not move, to begin embarking the reserve at four in the afternoon. This was about mid-day. He mounted his horse, and set off to visit the outposts: before he had proceeded far, a messenger came to tell him that the enemy's line were getting under arms; and a deserter, arriving at the same moment, confirmed the intelligence. He spurred forward. Their light troops were pouring rapidly down the hill on the right wing of the British, and the advanced picquet were already beginning to fire. Lord William Bentinck's brigade, consisting of the 4th, 42nd, and 50th regiments, maintained this post. It was a bad position, and yet, if the troops gave way on that point, the ruin of the army was inevitable. The Guards were in their rear. General Paget was ordered to advance with the reserve, and support Lord William. The enemy opened a cannonade with eleven heavy guns, advantageously placed on the hills. Two strong columns, one advancing from a wood, the other skirting its edge, directed their march towards the right wing. A third column approached the centre: a fourth advanced slowly upon the left, a fifth remained half way down the hill, in the same direction. Both in number and weight of guns they had a decided superiority; and they fired with such effect from the commanding situation which they had chosen, that the balls in their bounding reached the British reserve, and occasioned some loss there.

Sir David Baird had his arm shattered with a grape-shot as he was leading on his division. The two lines of infantry advanced against each other: they were separated by stone walls and hedges which intersected the ground; but as they closed, it was perceived that the French line extended beyond the right flank of the British, and a body of the enemy was observed moving up the

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valley to turn it. Marshal Soult's intention was to force the right of the British, and thus to interpose between Coruña and the army, and cut it off from the place of embarkation. Failing in this attempt, he was now endeavouring to outflank it. of the 4th regiment was therefore ordered to fall back, forming an obtuse angle with the other half. This manœuvre was excellently performed, and they commenced a heavy flanking fire. Sir John Moore called out to them that this was exactly what he wanted to be done, and rode on to the 50th, commanded by Majors Napier and Stanhope. They got over an enclosure in their front, charged the enemy most gallantly, and drove them out of the village of Elvina; but Major Napier, advancing too far in the pursuit, received several wounds, and was made prisoner, and Major Stanhope was killed.

The General now proceeded to the 42nd. "Highlanders," said he, "remember Egypt!" They rushed on, and drove the French before them, till they were stopped by a wall: Sir John accompanied them in this charge. He now sent Captain Hardinge to order up a battalion of Guards to the left flank of the 42nd. The officer commanding the light infantry conceived, at this, that they were to be relieved by the Guards, because their ammunition was nearly expended, and he began to fall back. The General, discovering the mistake, said to them, "My brave 42nd, join your comrades: ammunition is coming, and you have your bayonets!" Upon this, they instantly moved forward. Captain Hardinge returned, and pointed out to the General where the Guards were advancing. The enemy kept up a hot fire, and their artillery played incessantly on the spot where they were standing. A cannon-shot struck Sir John, and carried away his left shoulder and part of the collar-bone, leaving the arm hanging by the flesh. He fell from his horse on his back, his countenance did not change, neither did he betray the least sensation of pain. Captain Hardinge, who dismounted, and took him by the hand, observed him anxiously watching the 42nd, which was warmly engaged, and told him they were advancing; and upon that intelligence his countenance brightened. Colonel Graham, who now came up to assist him, seeing the composure of his features, began to hope that he was not wounded, till he saw the dreadful laceration. From the size of the wound, it was in vain to make any attempt at stopping the blood; and Sir John consented to be removed in a blanket to the rear. In raising him up, his sword,