Among “the laborers of literature” Southey was eminently distinguished by skill, regularity, perseverance, and other qualities hardly less essential to continuous and satisfactory success in his profession. Few men have practiced more resolute industry, or exhibited the literary character in a more estimable light; and his example, in this respect, is peculiarly worthy of being presented to the attention of aspiring and intellectual youths.

He was descended from a sturdy race of yeomen, who had been settled for a considerable period in the county of Somerset. He would, it seems, have liked well to believe that his ancestors had fought beneath the cross in Palestine; but was fain to content himself with ascertaining the less gratifying fact that one of them had risen in rebellion with the reputed son of “the merry monarch,” and narrowly escaped the fangs of such law as was administered by the ruthless and unsparing chief-justice of the last popish sovereign of England. It happened that, during the last century, a kinsman of the family being engaged in trade as a grocer in the city of London, Southey’s father was sent to try his fortune in the metropolis; his relations, in all likelihood, regaling their fancies with the agreeable delusion that he would in good time, and by some easy but mysterious process, attain the wealth and dignity of a Whittington. The young apprentice, however, was naturally, to a great extent, disqualified for pursuing his occupation with success, being by birth and training excessively fond of rural affairs and field sports. The sight of a dead hare carried along the street brought tears to his eyes, and the mention of a greyhound made his heart sick. Many a time, no doubt, did he sigh with heaviness for the green pastures, running streams, and shady orchards of his native shire, as he pensively took down his master’s shutters, and prepared to drag himself through the care, toil, and uncongenial duties, which were brought by each successive day in endless round. While thus occupied, the Somersetshire lad, on the death of his employer, had an opportunity of transferring himself to Bristol; and there he was placed, with due form, in the establishment of a linen-draper, who kept the principal shop in the rich old town. While thus situated learning his business, and applying the yard-wand to crapes and muslins, it was his fortune to become acquainted with the son of a widow lady, whose relationship was miscellaneous, and who resided on a small estate that had belonged to her husband’s forefathers for generations. The bold draper speedily formed an intimacy with the family—got into the habit of being a regular Sunday guest—became enamored of one of the daughters, and took her to wife, after embarking in business on his own account; though it does not appear that he ever enjoyed much prosperity. Nevertheless, it was ordered that his name should not sink into utter oblivion, even though his shop—which, true to hereditary tastes, he had called the “Sign of the Hare”—was not the most flourishing concern; for under its roof, on the 12th of August, 1774, Robert Southey was born; and he was so fat, large, and ugly an infant, that the nurse in attendance expressed no slight disappointment at his unprepossessing appearance. The space of two years, however, served to change him completely in this respect; and by that time he had manifested a peculiarly sensitive disposition. In childhood he was often affected to tears by the songs, ballads, and stories, which were sung, recited, or told by the affectionate inmates of his father’s house to amuse and interest him; and in after life the author of “The Doctor” never could listen to a tale of woe without experiencing painful sensations and feelings of sadness.

Southey was still less than three years old when it was his fate to be removed to Bath, and soon after placed, though by no means willingly, at the school of a dame whose countenance seems almost to have frightened him out of his wits. Indeed, her aspect was so forbidding, that the little pupil was shocked at its excessive plainness, and loudly expressed the terror with which he was inspired, entreating, but vainly, to be sent home. His struggles and complaints proving of no avail he was compelled to submit to this petticoat government until his sixth year; and while under it conceived the idea of going, with two of his school-mates, to an island, and living by themselves. As it was to include mountains of sweetmeats and gingerbread, the place, as may be supposed, was sufficiently fascinating to their imaginations. Southey at this time lived with Miss Tyler, his mother’s half-sister, a full-blown spinster of considerable personal attractions, but with an imperious will and a violent temper. The discipline to which she subjected the young poet, though irksome and despotic, was not altogether disadvantageous to the rise of his intellect. He was not permitted to play with any of his companions, and he was made aware that to soil his garments was deemed an inexpiable crime; but being much in the company of people older than himself, he mused and romanced at an unusually early age; and he was soon, like other boy-bards, inspired

His original aspirations, however, were of a martial cast; he longed, with all the enthusiasm of an incipient poet, to be a soldier, and to possess the various weapons used in battle. On one occasion he was lulled into a temporary feeling of full and complete happiness by being allowed to take the sword of a military visitor to bed with him; and sadly was he mortified, on awaking, to perceive by the morning light that it had in the mean time escaped from his grasp, and disappeared. On another, he incurred a sharp infliction of the horsewhip for strolling from home with a barber’s assistant, who had promised to furnish him with a suitable blade, but proved faithless to his plighted word.

As soon as Southey had learned to read, one of his aunt’s friends presented him with a number of children’s books, which he much prized and eagerly perused; and thus, perhaps, was implanted in his glowing breast the germs of that extraordinary passion for literature which made him in later days regard the fame arising from it as the most worthy and desirable, as well as least evanescent of any. Moreover, his maiden guardian was extremely fond of frequenting the theatre, and had an extensive acquaintance among people connected with histrionic affairs. Thus, at the age of four, Southey was taken to witness a play, which so much delighted him, that he speedily, conceived a keen relish for the stage. He heard more of theatrical matters than of any other subject; and soon essayed to write dramas himself. His aunt was also much given to reading romances, and trained her little nephew to do likewise.

Notwithstanding this unquestionable fascination held out by her, the capricious sway which she exercised with incessant vigilance was so much felt by the boy, that he rejoiced exceedingly when allowed to return to his father’s house, where he enjoyed comparative freedom, and could walk into the neighboring fields, which with him, at this period, was the greatest of all pleasures and the chief of all delights.

Miss Tyler had sternly prohibited her charge being breeched, like other juveniles of the day; and though he was six years old, and tall for his age, she had forced him to wear a childish, fantastic dress. It was now gladly exchanged for a garb befitting the dignity of ambitious boyhood; and the youthful dramatist was placed at a day-school, kept by a Baptist minister. There, though a docile boy, he received somewhat harsh treatment, and the only flogging on record that he ever underwent at the hands of a teacher; but he did not profit, to any extent, by the tuition. In twelve months the reverend pedagogue died; and Southey was sent to a boarding-school about nine miles from Bristol, at a house which, in other days, had been the seat of a provincial family of consequence. The broken and ruinous gateways about which the urchins sported, the walled garden transformed into a play-ground, the oaken staircase on which they aspiringly scrawled their names, and the tapestry which covered the old walls of the school-room, conveyed to the heart of the young rhymer mournful impressions and associations, and produced an impression on his memory not soon effaced. When in the pride of youthful and eccentric intellect, he visited the spot in company with a versifying friend, and described it in his early poem, the “Retrospect.” He knew well how to appreciate the ideas suggested by such a scene.

Meantime, at this educational institution he managed, rather by assisting his comrades than any guidance he himself had the advantage of, to acquire some knowledge of Latin, which was only taught occasionally by a Frenchman who came from Bristol for the purpose. Southey and his fellow-imps were rather meanly fed; and their ablutions, performed chiefly in a stream that passed through the grounds, were conducted with much less precision and completeness than would have satisfied the scrupulous cleanliness of the fastidious Miss Tyler. Indeed, the carelessness habitually permitted and practiced in this respect would with some reason have driven her into one of her boiling passions, which such an event as the wedding of a servant-maid never failed to raise. The seminary was, besides, much too disorderly to be in any degree comfortable; yet the boys were not without days and seasons of juvenile enjoyment. In spring each was allowed to cultivate a small allotment of garden-ground, on which was grown salad, which served for a frugal supper; and in the autumn there was a plentiful and animating crop of apples and other fruit to gather from the adjoining orchards. On one occasion they unfortunately exceeded all discretion, and appropriated so liberally those set apart for the master’s use, that grave suspicions were excited and acted on, their drawers and boxes searched, and the whole plunder recaptured. The youthful band knew well that a moderate extent of pocketing would not have been inquired into. As it was, every apple was taken from them, and Inopem me copia fecit might have been the exclamation of each votary of mischief, as he hung his head and reflected on the vexatious incident. They were dressed in their best, Southey, doubtless, wearing his cocked hat, when Rodney went from Bath to Bristol, to be entertained by the corporation of the great commercial emporium; and they were marched to a convenient spot on the wayside, to give him three cheers as he passed. They exerted their lungs with no small effect, and the gallant admiral returned the salute with right hearty good-will.

At this not very advantageous seminary Southey remained for twelve months, but at the end of that period a panic occurred, in consequence of some disease prevailing in the establishment; and the future Laureate was withdrawn from its precincts in tremulous haste, and given again into the safe custody of his irascible but affectionate aunt.

Miss Tyler had by this time deserted Bath and all its social and theatrical delights. On the death of her mother she had taken possession of the latter’s house at Bedminster; and it was deemed expedient to deliver Southey over to her tender mercies, while his father looked out from his linens and broadcloth for a proper school at which to place the clever youth. In this old-fashioned retreat, the successful biographer of the greatest of English admirals confesses to having spent some of the happiest days of his boyhood. Even at that early age his pleasure seems to have been in retirement, and his satisfaction in secluded labor; he had little relish for boyish games, and he found so much amusement in the garden among flowers and insects, that, had his taste in this branch of study been encouraged and taken advantage of, he might, perhaps, have figured as a distinguished naturalist. But that was not his destiny. His pen, wielded by a willing hand and directed by a suggestive brain, was his weapon; and before thirteen he had indulged his young ambition by compositions of various kinds, and his imagination by perusing and devouring the pages of Tasso, Ariosto, and Spenser.

Meantime, as early as assorted with his worthy father’s convenience, Southey was placed as a day-boarder at a school in his native city, where he appears to have been tolerably well taught. He had already, as has been intimated, aspiringly commenced composition in verse. Wordsworth dated his love of rhyme, and the tendency which colored his manhood, from his tenth year; but his future friend and eulogist seems to have received the “poetic impulse” at a much less mature time of life, and to have commenced gratifying his sensations and prepossessions by practicing the “art divine” at an age when he could hardly have learned to hold or handle his pen with any degree of facility. Owing to his aunt’s histrionic predilections, Shakspeare, as the prince of dramatists, had been put into his little hands almost as soon as he could read; and he went through the historical plays with rapture. It then occurred to him that there would, in all probability, be civil wars in his day, similar to those of which he read; and he conceived the ambitious desire of rivaling the valorous feats and lofty fame of Richard Neville, earl of Warwick, the setter-up and puller-down of kings. So imbued did his mind and spirit become with this notion, that he began nightly to dream of tents, battle-fields, beating drums, clashing spears, and all the “pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war.” Besides perusing with avidity the works of Shakspeare, he had read those of Beaumont and Fletcher before he was eight years old; and his fancy, thus stimulated, glowed with romantic thoughts and charming visions. Moreover, he had already been present at numerous plays, and listened with awakened and lively curiosity to interminable conversations about their writers and actors, whom he regarded as the greatest of men. In this way his first aspirations after authorship naturally took the dramatic form; and he did not hesitate to express his opinion on the subject with great confidence and complacency.

“It is the easiest thing in the world to write a play,” observed he one day, at this period, to a female friend of his aunt, with whom he happened to be on a journey.

“Is it, indeed?” she said, not a little surprised.

“Yes,” replied Southey; “for you have only to think what you would say if you were in the place of the characters, and make them say it.”

Acting on this not very correct principle, he not only produced pieces himself, but endeavored to persuade his puerile associates to do likewise. In the latter attempt he, of course, found his zealous efforts altogether futile, but experienced much consolation from the pride derived by his gentle mother, when she discovered that her boy was so highly gifted. These were not the days of popular literature; and the worthy draper’s dusty shelf did not present to his son’s keen appetite for knowledge any very various or interesting collection of books; but Southey about this time had the good fortune to meet with Spenser’s “FaËry Queen,” which charmed him much with its sweetness. He was soon, however, removed once more from under the paternal roof into more congenial company.

His aunt, Miss Tyler, took a small house near Bristol; and he was once more handed over to her care. A brother of the restless spinster also went to live with her—a strange, half-witted man, whose enormous consumption of ale and tobacco astonished his young kinsman, and brought on himself a premature old age. He had a strong affection for Southey, and loved well to have a game at marbles with him when an opportunity presented itself; though apparently, he was better pleased to smoke a pipe and drink beer in the shady arbor during summer, or by the kitchen chimney in colder and less agreeable seasons. Some of his wise, old-world saws, his nephew did not soon forget.

During his twelfth and thirteenth years Southey, ever eager in his beloved pursuit, exercised his poetic powers with much industry and enthusiastic perseverance. When writing, he searched and labored diligently to make himself master of the necessary historic facts and information relating to the particular subject with which he happened, from inclination, to be occupied. Even at this date he was fitting and accomplishing himself, by solitary and unaided study, and by practice in the coining and structure of sentences, for the career which circumstances and a genuine love of such matters led and incited him to select; and which he afterward did follow with an ardor, patience, and resolution in the highest degree creditable to himself, though rarely if ever equaled, and never surpassed by others. It was perfectly natural that the members of his family and their relations should experience a very justifiable elation at talents which were thus, perhaps, a little too precociously displayed; and Miss Tyler, flushed with pride at the acquirements of her clever nursling, insisted on his being educated to one of the learned professions. In this proposal she was, luckily, supported by Southey’s maternal uncle, a clergyman, who handsomely offered to defray the expenses which this otherwise satisfactory scheme would entail. Accordingly, in the spring of 1788, it was resolved that the young prodigy should be sent to Westminster School. His gayly-disposed aunt was rejoiced at so favorable an opportunity for going to London—then no such easy business as at present; and he was conveyed thither under her protecting wing.

After a short time spent in visiting some of the imperious lady’s friends and acquaintances he was duly entered, and soon after had the task of writing some Latin verses from Thomson’s “Seasons,” which was a process quite new to him, and productive of some trouble and perplexity. However, he surmounted the difficulties, and even practiced himself so far as to produce about fifty verses on the “Death of Fair Rosamond” from choice. But that classical effort satisfied his ambition, and he never afterward strove to excel save in his native tongue. At this period the success of the “Microcosm,” and the reputation it won for its institutors, the Eton boys, set the ambition of the Westminster scholars on fire, and a weekly paper, entitled the “Trifler,” was speedily commenced among them. In this little periodical Southey requested the insertion of some verses of his on the death of a dear sister, but he was balked in his wish by a mortifying neglect. He next, in conjunction with several of his new associates, projected a paper bearing the title of the “Flagellant,” which only reached nine numbers, when a fierce attack on corporal punishments annoyed and enraged the head-master of Westminster so highly that he commenced a prosecution for libel against the more responsible parties. Southey at once confessed himself to be the author of the obnoxious article, and he was, in consequence, compelled to leave the school. In the age of boy-periodicals this was certainly a most provoking consequence of his first effort at furnishing contributions, and misfortunes, according to the proverb, seldom come singly. His expulsion from Westminster was speedily followed by circumstances still more adverse and distressing. His father who, behind the counter, had languished, like an animal transplanted to an uncongenial climate, became bankrupt and died.

Southey was now sent to matriculate at Oxford. It had been intended that he should enter at Christ Church, and his name had accordingly been put down there. But the Westminster mishap having reached the dean’s ears, that dignitary, alarmed at the idea of insubordination, refused him admittance, and he consequently entered at Balliol College in 1792. His views and opinions, in regard to the forms and discipline of the place, were not such as to favor his profiting much by his residence there; and, though destined by his well-meaning relations for the Church, he seems never to have cherished the prospect of clerical honors with any degree of mental satisfaction. Yet, with all his eccentric tenets and sentiments, he was staid and decorous in demeanor, and meritoriously refrained from the excesses which he too frequently witnessed.

Southey was, by this time, animated and deluded by all the too sanguine credulity and glowing enthusiasm which so often mark and cloud the morning of genius, and lead its possessor astray. While in a state of intellectual fever and political excitement he made the acquaintance of Coleridge, with whom he soon devised the fanciful and bubble-like scheme since known and ridiculed as “Pantisocracy.” This consisted of fantastic plans for collecting a number of discontented youths, as brother-adventurers, and forming a colony in the New World, on a thoroughly social basis. Southey wasted much time and care on this chimerical idea; and it was decided that the aspirants to perfect earthly content and felicity should commence operations by purchasing, with their common contributions, a quantity of land, which they were all to spend their labor in cultivating. Each was to have a fair share of work assigned to him, while it was arranged that the female emigrants—for one important regulation provided that they were, without exception, to be married men—should manage all domestic matters. Southey luxuriated in golden dreams and visionary anticipations; his ardent spirit swelled and rose high. All obstacles disappeared before his enthusiastic gaze, and he engaged the hand and affections of a dowerless but captivating damsel in his native place, who rejoiced in the very romantic name of Edith, and had no insuperable objections to accompany him to the land of promise, which lay sweetly, as his fancy pictured it, ready to receive them on the banks of the Susquehannah River, flowing with milk and honey. So far all went as smoothly with Southey as a total inexperience of the real world, and full and entire confidence in his own untried powers of action, could render matters to a strong imagination. But there was yet a lioness of no ordinary ferocity in the way. Miss Tyler had still to be informed, and the startling intelligence that her hopeful nephew had, without consulting her wishes, selected a partner for life, was instantly productive of one most inconvenient result. It brought upon him the sudden and rebounding torrents of her wrath. The night was rainy, but she was cut to the heart; and, mercilessly turning him out of doors, she never condescended to see his face again. This was a sufficiently portentous commencement for the Pantisocratic form of society; and the scheme, as might have been foreseen, proving utterly impracticable, the day-dream vanished into thin air when the most distant effort was made to realize it.

Southey was now, for the first time, thrown entirely on his own resources, and that struggle for existence by exertion, which invigorates the mind and influences the understanding, began in earnest. Under no circumstances could his ambitious spirit have been still at this date. The stream was still near its rise, and fretted itself into foam against each opposing rock; but the time was approaching when its course was to be more smooth, and its waters not less clear. His first step was to arrange with Mr. Cottle, of Bristol, for the publication of “Joan of Arc,” with which he had been for a considerable time occupied, and the next to deliver a course of historical lectures, which were numerously attended. Nevertheless, it appears that his pecuniary affairs were not by any means in a flourishing condition at this crisis.

In 1794 he had, in conjunction with his friend Mr. Lovell, under the names of Moschus and Bion, published a volume of poems; and about the same period Southey, then glowing with revolutionary zeal, composed his “Wat Tyler.” It is spoken of as a production of no merit, and utterly harmless from its weakness. Long after the author had recanted his early heresies, it was published surreptitiously to annoy him, and he, in self-defense, applied for an injunction against the printers. But the Chancellor refused to interfere in the matter, on the ground of the peculiarly objectionable principles which the book contained. The writer of this hapless—and, as it turned out, perplexing—revolutionary brochure, in after life thus accounted for its unwelcome existence:

“In my youth, when my stock of knowledge consisted of such an acquaintance with Greek and Roman history as is acquired in the course of a scholastic education, when my heart was full of poetry and romance, and Lucan and Akenside were at my tongue’s end, I fell into the political opinions which the French revolution was then scattering throughout Europe; and, following those opinions with ardor, wherever they led, I soon perceived that inequalities of rank were a light evil compared to the inequalities of property, and those more fearful distinctions which the want of moral and intellectual culture occasions between man and man. At that time, and with those opinions, or rather feelings (for the root was in the heart, and not in the understanding), I wrote ‘Wat Tyler,’ as one who was impatient of all the oppressions that are done under the sun. The subject was injudiciously chosen; and it was treated as might be expected by a youth of twenty, in such times, who regarded only one side of the question. Were I to dramatize the same story now, there would be much to add, but little to alter; I should write as a man, not as a stripling; with the same heart and the same desires, but with a ripened understanding, and competent stores of knowledge.”

Next year, while “Joan of Arc” was still in the press, Southey was, with a view to his welfare, urged and persuaded to accompany his uncle, Mr. Hill, to Lisbon, where that gentleman was chaplain to the factory. Consequently, when the epic poem appeared, its author had left the country; but not until he had contracted a matrimonial alliance, under circumstances so romantic as to put to shame the inventive faculty of novelists, and furnish another instance of truth being often stranger than fiction. His reverend friend and patron was under the impression that a change of scene and society would effectually dissipate and banish all fine visions of love, emigration, and social perfection on the banks of a North American river: but Southey clung to the object of his affection with poetic indiscretion and disinterestedness, and took a very conclusive precaution that the first part of this anticipation should be falsified. On the eve of departure for the continental excursion, he took the bold and irretrievable course of privately leading the adored Edith to the altar, where he received her hand as his bride, and united their earthly fortunes forever. It is stated that they parted immediately after their marriage, at the portico of the church; and the bridegroom set off on his travels. Doubtless, in subsequent years he had no cause to repent of having thus baffled the well-meant designs of his relative, anxious as the latter unquestionably was to promote his interests; and many, as well as Southey, who have, after a similar fashion, defied the fears of the wise, and rushed desperately on matrimony, have found in the duties which attend it, the best incitements to exertion, and the elements of honorable success in life. Yet early marriages in circumstances like his are extremely unsafe to stand upon; and Southey’s kinsman was quite justified in telling him to beware.

In the year 1796 Southey joyfully returned to England where his poem had in his absence been published; and he began to form the notes he had made while abroad into “Letters from Spain and Portugal.” He found it necessary to accept the fulfillment of an old promise of pecuniary assistance from a very intimate college friend; and then he proceeded to London, with the grand intention of studying and accomplishing himself in the laws of the realm. He was duly entered as a student at Gray’s Inn, and made an attempt to combine legal studies with poetical prepossessions; but this, as might have been expected, proved quite futile. Law and poetry—the perusal of Blackstone and the writing of “Madoc”—were not very harmonious conjunctions, as he soon discovered, to the neglect of the former.

Sometime afterward Southey took a small house at Westbury, a beautiful village, where, in the society of his beloved wife, he resided about twelve months, and spent some of his most satisfactory days. He then produced more poetry than he ever did in the same space of time before or after; and he enjoyed the particular intimacy of Sir Humphry Davy, whose ardent genius was then making itself felt at Bristol. The rising man of science took a deep interest in, and heard passages read from, “Madoc,” as its composition was proceeded with by the aspiring and painstaking author.

Southey was likewise employed, at this time, in preparing a volume of minor poems, and a new edition of his “Letters from Spain and Portugal,” to which he had paid a second visit; besides editing the “Annual Anthology,” the first portion of which then appeared. His literary occupations were so decidedly and undeniably to his taste, and became so much “the life of his life,” that the idea of being chained to the law, and harassed by the beckonings of conscience in the direction of dry and dusty volumes, was gradually found to be more irksome and intolerable. Thus his attention was wisely and deliberately withdrawn from the concerns of a profession for which he was not calculated, and wholly concentrated on literature. Indeed the law is, of all others, a jealous mistress, and will accept of no divided allegiance; and such a result as that at which the poet arrived might easily have been foretold, in the case of one who commenced the marvelous achievement of “eating terms,” with indulging in the prospective pleasure of burning his law-books after he should, by their aid, have amassed a magnificent fortune, and retired to enjoy it in Christmas festivities among lakes and mountains.

Trusting now chiefly for support and distinction to his literary effusions, Southey speedily became one of the most industrious of living mortals. His devotion to his pursuits was intense and unparalleled, and indeed so great, that he considered the correcting of proof-sheets as a luxury of the highest kind. In fact, he seems to have regarded literature as the most agreeable of worldly concerns, and the fame arising from its successful cultivation as that kind of which a wise man should be principally ambitious, because the most permanent. This principle regulated his conduct and stimulated his exertions in his chosen field. He guided himself by it with singular resolution; his actions became extremely uniform; and the eccentric workings of his youthful spirit having ceased, his life was as calm and cheerful as could have been desired.

In 1801 Southey had the good fortune to obtain the appointment of private secretary to the Irish Chancellor of the Exchequer, whom he accompanied to Dublin; and in the same year published “Thalaba the Destroyer,” an Arabian fiction of considerable power, beauty, and magnificence. Soon after this, a pension was bestowed upon him by Government.

Southey now deemed it advisable to settle on the banks of the Greta, near Keswick, and pursued his avocations with keen and constant diligence. He wrote perpetually. Each day, and each hour of the day, had their appropriate tasks. He secluded himself much from society, but found consolation in the company of his pretty numerous household, and the well-stocked library which it was his fortune to collect and possess. He now sent into the world, from his agreeable retreat, a volume of “Metrical Tales,” and “Madoc.” After them appeared “The Curse of Kehama,” considered as the most meritorious of his poetic works, but founded on the Hindoo mythology, and therefore not peculiarly interesting to general readers. Some years later he published “Roderick, the last of the Goths,” a noble and pathetic poem.

In the mean time, Southey had not disdained the less pretending species of composition. His “Life of Nelson” is considered the best of his admirable prose works. When published, in 1813, it instantly rose into popular favor, and was recognized by the public as a standard biography. It was originally issued in two small volumes, since compressed into one. He subsequently contributed to “Lardner’s CyclopÆdia” a series of lives of British admirals. Besides, he again testified his biographic skill by a “Life of Wesley,” the celebrated founder of Methodism. He evinced therein a minute acquaintance with the religious controversies of the day, and presented curious and interesting sketches of field-preachers and their performances. There were successively other works, less generally admired, relating to history, politics, morals, and philosophy. His numerous writings are characterized by an easy and flowing style, yet they did not secure him much real popularity; but this must, in a great measure, be attributed to the nature of the subjects. His prose was described as perfect by Lord Byron, who styled him “the only existing entire man of letters.”

Southey had, long ere this, relinquished the opinions which prompted him to produce “Wat Tyler;” and when the “Quarterly Review” was established in 1809, he became connected with the enterprise which was then entered upon, and furnished several of the prominent articles to that distinguished periodical in the earlier stage of its career.

Though not enjoying that measure of popular favor to which, as an author of merit and a man of worth and prudence, he was justly entitled, Southey ranked high among the writers of his day; and he was fully appreciated by those most capable of judging critically.

In 1821, the degree of LL.D. was conferred on him by the University of Oxford; and other marks of distinction were within his grasp, if he had chosen to accept them. He was unambitious of public celebrity, and cared little for going into the world. In fact, he is pronounced to have mixed too little with his fellow men, and was therefore wanting in that particular kind of intelligence and information which can only be obtained by a free and familiar intercourse with the world. That “the proper study of mankind is man,” is a doctrine with which he appears to have had little or no sympathy, so long as he had it in his power to say with truth:

One of Southey’s latest prose compositions consisted of his “Colloquies on the Progress and Prospects of Society,” in which Montesinos is made to converse with the ghost of Sir Thomas More.

On the death of Mr. Pye, the poet-laureate, the vacant dignity had been offered to Sir Walter Scott; but the great Border Minstrel declining to accept of it, used his influence in favor of Southey, who was accordingly appointed. In this capacity he composed his “Carmen Triumphale” and “The Vision of Judgment,” which, like the productions of other laureates, encountered much ridicule. His latest poetical emanations were, “All for Love,” and “The Pilgrim of Compostella.”

Southey’s repute as an author and political writer rose so high, that he was offered a baronetcy, and election to the representation in Parliament of a ministerial borough. However, his knowledge was rather of books than human affairs; he was by no means qualified to “make himself formidable” as a senator; he was ever in extremes, and had no experience of that middle path which can alone be permanently maintained in dealing with public affairs, and which is ever chosen by those not incapacitated by nature to learn from the past, and meet the shadowy future with prescience. Under these circumstances he acted with wisdom and prudence: he considered that his fame and prosperity could only be preserved by a resolute adherence to his studious occupations; and he declined both distinctions, continuing his habits of ceaseless reading and composition. It seems that, in his entranced devotion to his literary projects, he had neglected that exercise which he had declared so essential to health, and during his three last years he became the victim of disease. The early partner of his joys and sorrows had already sunk into the grave; and Southey had contracted a second union with a lady known for her poetic accomplishments. He is said to have left a considerable fortune—the result of his industry—at his death, which took place on the 21st of March, 1843. He was buried in the church-yard at Crosthwaite, in the neighborhood of his residence by lake and mountain; and an inscription for the tablet to his memory was furnished by the venerable Bard of Rydal Mount, who succeeded him in the laureateship, and was, ere long, laid at rest at no great distance from his former compeer.