also printed in France and in America, and translations of them in Italy and Germany.

Though many of the poets of his generation had been successful in gaining admirers by immoral writing, by writing, some openly and some covertly, in behalf of vice rather than virtue, he never, in a single line or word made such an unworthy use of his powers, or so aimed at gaining popularity. He held no praise or admiration worth having if it was to be accompanied with the thought that he had used his gift of poetry for anything but good. He thought Gibbon the greatest of our English historians; but said that he would not, if he could, accept the honour of being the author of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, stained as that great work is with the blot of so many attacks upon religion and morality.

His own volumes were always in his hands; and he found a never failing source of pleasure in the attempt to make his poems better; a pleasure which is unknown to those who think that the first thoughts written down on the spur of the moment, are better than those which have been clothed with words more carefully. Wordsworth one day remarked to him that Southey, as he got old, had very much left off reading, and that he probably read his own works more than any others. 'Why, it is very natural that he should do so,' said Mr. Rogers; 'I read my works oftener than any 'others, and I dare say that you do the same.' 'Yes, 'that he does,' said Mrs. Wordsworth; 'You know 'you do, William.'

When Mr. Wordsworth died in 1850, Mr. Rogers, at

the age of eighty-seven, remained the last survivor of that bright cluster of poets that had ornamented the first half of this century. He had lived in friendship with most of them, Crabbe, Scott, Coleridge, Southey, Campbell, Byron, Moore, and Wordsworth. And he

now mourned the last of them. Upon this Prince Albert wrote to him by the Queen's command to offer him the post of Poet Laureate. But he refused it, making his age his excuse, saying that he was only the shadow of his former self. A second reason which also moved him to refuse it, he did not think proper to give; namely, that an honour accompanied by a salary was a very doubtful honour to a man in independent circumstances; and that as he had no need of the money, he did not wish for the character of withholding the one hundred pounds a year from some poet to whom it might be more useful. Prince Albert had before offered him an honorary degree in the University of Cambridge; but this he had also refused. He held, however, three unpaid and untitled offices under the Crown, given to him because of his knowledge of works of Art; he was one of the trustees of the National Gallery, one of the Commissioners for the encouragement of the Fine Arts in building the new Houses of Parliament, and one of the Commissioners for inquiring into the management of the British Museum.

During these years, for almost half a century, from when he built his house in St. James's Place till the day that he met with an accident and broke his leg, Mr. Rogers's rooms formed one of the centres of

literary society. They were hung around with a collection of pictures which received the approval of all the best judges. Almost every author and artist, on coming before the world, was there invited by him and welcomed as a friend. Perhaps no man not in some public profession, not in a political office, not in Parliament, was ever so much before the eyes of the public. His circle of acquaintance was boundless. Scarcely a biography of author or artist has been published during the latter end of his life, without frequent mention of Mr. Rogers; few foreigners have written their travels in England without describing his house, his pictures, and his conversation.

But he welcomed to St. James's Place those who had achieved eminence by their talents, hardly more than those who were endeavouring to achieve eminence. It was his delight to hold forth the helping hand to merit. Many a young man, striving in the path of letters or art, feeling as yet unable to make his works known, has breakfasted with Mr. Rogers, and been by him introduced to men of eminence in the same path, whom he had perhaps heard of or read of, and has walked home after breakfast an altered man, with stronger resolves to take pains, with renewed trust in his own powers, and encouraged with the thought that he was no longer quite unknown. In this way, while cultivating his own tastes, he enjoyed the pleasure of being useful and of guiding the tastes of others; and at the same time the pleasure of the celebrity which he gained therefrom.

Moreover, authors and artists are sometimes in want

Byron

Italy.'

Italy.'

of money, and so also are those who are aiming at becoming authors and artists. In such cases they found Mr. Rogers a kind friend, ready not only with his advice but with his purse. The same generous feelings led him also to find a place in his poems, or in the notes at the end, to mention with honour each of those poets and friends whom he might feel his equals and whom the world might think his rivals. he speaks of both in 'Human Life' and in Crabbe's power of describing he praises in Moore he calls 'a poet of such singular felicity as to 'give a lustre to all he touches.' Of Wordsworth he quotes 'a noble sonnet.' Of Scott he gives us some lines not elsewhere published. He quotes Dante from his friend Cary's Translation, Luttrell's little known but clever 'Letters to Julia' he speaks of as admirably written, and to his early friend Richard Sharp, who late in life published some Epistles in Verse, he kindly gives the title of a poet. With the same wish to please he mentions Eastlake the painter, and Herschell the astronomer, he quotes Lord John Russell's definition of a proverb; and in the edition of his works which is ornamented with the designs of Stothard and Turner, he styles them two artists who would have done honour to any age or country.

In his later years he usually spent some weeks every autumn at Broadstairs, where he lived at the hotel with his old friend Mr. Maltby. He went down with his own horses, and slept at Rochester and Canterbury to break the journey. At Canterbury he always went into the Cathedral to hear the service chanted. One

h

year he was recognised by the clergyman in authority, who to show his respect to the poet sent a verger to ask him which chant he would like to have performed. And this marked civility was repeated every year as he passed through that city. He was, of course, gratified by the attention; but his pleasure in the music was sadly lessened by it. It broke the charm to find that the clergymen were thinking of him, while he had been willing to fancy that they were at their devotions. During his last few years he spent the three winter months at Brighton, in the same house with his sister, who died only a year before himself.

My uncle's conversation could hardly be called brilliant. He seldom aimed at wit, though he enjoyed it in others. He often told anecdotes of his early recollections and of the distinguished persons with whom he had been acquainted. These he told with great neatness and fitness in the choice of words, as may be understood by an examination of the prose notes to his poems. But the valuable part of his conversation was his good sense joined with knowledge of literature and art, and yet more particularly his constant aim at improvement, and the care that he took to lead his friends to what was worth talking about. I never left his company without feeling my zeal for knowledge strengthened, my wish to read quickened, and a fresh determination to take pains and do my best in every thing that I was about. He trained his mind to look for the beautiful and the good in all that came before him. He had acquired the 'habit of looking every'where for excellencies and not for faults, whether in