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THE ALTRIVE TALES.

By the Ettrick Shepherd.

Mr. Hogg proposes to collect and reprint under the above title, the best of the grave and gay tales with which he has aided the Magazines and Annuals during the last few years.  The Series will extend to fourteen volumes, the first of which, now before us, preceded by a poetical dedication and autobiographical memoir.  The poem is an exquisite performance; but the biography, with due allowance for the Shepherd’s claim, is a most objectionable preface.  It is so disfigured with self-conceit and vituperative recollections of old grievances, that we regret some kind friend of the author did not suggest the omission of these personalities.  They will be neither advantageous to the writer, interesting to the public, nor propitiatory for the work itself; since the world care less about the squabbles of authors and booksellers than even an “untoward event” in Parliament; and if the writer of every book were to detail his vexations as a preface, the publication of a long series of “Calamities” might be commenced immediately.

To our way of thinking, the pleasantest part of the Shepherd’s memoir is his reminiscences of men of talent, with whom his own abilities have brought him in contact.  Thus, of

Southey.

“My first interview with Mr. Southey was at the Queen’s Head inn, in Keswick, where I had arrived, wearied, one evening, on my way to Westmoreland; and not liking to intrude on his family circle that evening, I sent a note up to Greta Hall, requesting him to come down and see me, and drink one half mutchkin along with me.  He came on the instant, and stayed with me about an hour and a half.  But I was a grieved as well as an astonished man, when I found that he refused all participation in my beverage of rum punch.  For a poet to refuse his glass was to me a phenomenon; and I confess I doubted in my own mind, and doubt to this day, if perfect sobriety and transcendent poetical genius can exist together.  In Scotland I am sure they cannot.  With regard to the English, I shall leave them to settle that among themselves, as they have little that is worth drinking.

“Before we had been ten minutes together my heart was knit to Southey, and every hour thereafter my esteem for him increased.  I breakfasted with him next morning, and remained with him all that day and the next; and the weather being fine, we spent the time in rambling on the hills and sailing on the lake; and all the time he manifested a delightful flow of spirits, as well as a kind sincerity of manner, repeating convivial poems and ballads, and always between hands breaking jokes on his nephew, young Coleridge, in whom he seemed to take great delight.  He gave me, with the utmost readiness, a poem and ballad of his own, for a work which I then projected.  I objected to his going with Coleridge and me, for fear of encroaching on his literary labours; and, as I had previously resided a month at Keswick, I knew every scene almost in Cumberland; but he said he was an early riser, and never suffered any task to interfere with his social enjoyments and recreations; and along with us he went both days.