votion of high powers to worthy ends. The following estimate of his character, life, and abilities, will supersede a more minute account of the man and the poet; for which the reader is referred to the Memoir by his son, previously noticed.*

The character of Southey, as revealed in his biography, is essentially that of a man of letters. Perhaps the annals of English literature furnish no more complete example of the kind, in the most absolute sense of the term. His taste for books was of the most general description. He sought every species of knowledge, and appears to have been equally contented to write history, reviews, poems, and letters. Indeed, for more than twenty years, his life at Keswick was systematically divided between these four departments of writing.

No man, having any pretension to genius, ever succeeded in reducing literature to so methodical and sustained a process. It went on with the punctuality and productiveness of a cotton-mill or a nail-factory; exactly so much rhyming, collating, and proof-reading, and so much of chronicle and correspondence, in the twenty-four hours. We see Robert Southey, as he paints himself, seated at his desk, in an old black coat, long worsted pantaloons and gaiters in one, and a green shade; and we feel the truth of his own declaration, that this is his

*What follows has been already printed in ographical and Critical," by Henry T. Tuckerman.

Essays, Bi

history. Occasionally he goes down to the riverside behind the house, and throws stones until his arms ache, plays with the cat, or takes a mountainwalk with the children. The event of his life is the publication of a book; his most delightful hour, that in which he sees the handsomely printed titlepage that announces his long-meditated work ready at last to be ushered in elegant attire before the public; his most pleasing excitement, to read congratulatory letters from admiring friends, or an appreciative critique in a fresh number of the "Quarterly." *

Minor pastimes he finds in devising literary castles in the air, projecting epics on suggestive and unused themes, giving here and there a finishing touch to sentence or couplet, possessing himself of a serviceable but rare tome, transcribing a preface with all the conscious dignity of authorship, or a dedication with the complacent zeal of a gifted friend. From the triple yet harmonious and systematic life of the country, the study, and the nursery, we see him at long intervals depart for a visit to London to confabulate with literary lions, greet old college-friends, make new bargains with publishers, and become a temporary diner-out; or he breaks away from domestic and literary employment, in his retreat among the hills, for a rapid Continental tour, during which not an incident, a natural fact, an

*Coleridge once said, "I can't think of Southey without seeing him either mending or using a pen."

historical reminiscence, a political conjecture, or a wayside phenomenon, is allowed to escape him. Though wearied to the last degree, at nightfall he notes his experience with care, as material for future use; and hurries back, with presents for the children and a voluminous diary, to resume his pencraft, until the advent of summer visitors obliges him to exchange awhile the toils of authorship for the duties of hospitality.

To these regularly succeeding occupations may be added the privileges of distinction, the acquisition of new and interesting friends, of testimonies of respect from institutions and private admirers; and inevitable trials, such as occasional assaults from the critics, or a birth or bereavement in the household. Sequestered and harmless we cannot but admit such a life to be; and, when chosen from native inclination, as desirable for the individual as can be imagined, in a world where the vicissitude and care of active life are so apt to interfere with comfort and peace. At the age of thirty-two, when thus settled at Keswick, Southey gratefully estimated its worth in this point of view: "This is my life; which, if it be not a very merry one, is yet as happy as heart could wish."

Southey left a somewhat minute and very graphic sketch of his childhood, parts of which are written in his happiest vein. Some of the anecdotes are significant, but more as illustrations of character than of genius. He was bookish, moral and domestic,

inquiring and observant, but seems not to have exhibited any of that delight in the sense of wonder that kept the boy Schiller rocking in a tree to watch the lightning, or the generous ardor that made Byron a schoolboy champion, or the oppressive sensibility that weighed down the spirit of young life in Alfieri's breast. His autobiography, not less than his literary career, evinces the clever man of letters, rather than the surpassing man of genius. It is characteristic of this, that, between the ages of eight and twelve, he expressed the conviction, that "it was the easiest thing in the world to write a play." Such is the natural language of talent: that of genius would be, "It is the greatest thing in the world.”

The most effective portrait, in the part of his memoirs written by himself, is that of his Aunt Tyler. It is evidently drawn from the life, and would answer for a character in the very best class of modern novels. As a revelation of himself, the most excellent traits are the disposition, spirit, and state of feeling, displayed. Southey obviously possessed steady affections, self-respect, and a natural sense of duty. The embryo reformer is indicated by his essay against flogging in school; and no better proof of his reliability can be imagined, than the fact that several of his earliest friendships continued unabated throughout life. His sketches of teachers, classmates, and the scenes of boyhood, are pleasing, natural, and authentic.