de in his condition, and the misery of the first night which he passed at school is thus described in the same

poem :

"Sadly at night

I sat me down beside a stranger's hearth,
And when the lingering hour of rest was come,
First wet with tears my pillow."

The school to which he had been transferred was a very indifferent one, and the master, though a man of considerable attainments as a mathematician, : utterly unfit for his profession. But little attention was paid to the pupils, eithe in or out of school, and the domestic arrangements were most defective. One of the discomforts of the place made a strong impression upon poor Southey, and is thus spoken of in the letters to his friend May. "I dreaded nothing so much," he says, "as Sunday evening in winter; we were then assembled in the hall, to hear the master read a sermon, or a portion of Stackhouse's History of the Bible. Here I sat at the end of a long form, in sight but not within feeling of the fire, my feet cold, my eyelids heavy as lead, and yet not daring to close them, kept awake by fear alone, in total inaction, and under the operation of a lecture more soporific than the strongest sleeping dose. Heaven help the wits of those good people who think that children are to be edified by having sermons read to them!"

At this school Southey remained another twelvemonth, when he was removed, and sent on a visit to his grandfather at Bedminster. This was a delightful change. A large garden was attached to his grandfather's house, which appeared to the emancipated school-boy quite a paradise, and in which he spent some of the happiest days of his childhood. The poet has favoured us with a minute description of this magic spot, in the course of which he refers to a constitutional peculiarity in his friend Wordsworth which may not be generally known :—

After staying at Bedminster some time, Southey was taken home, and placed as a day-boarder at a school in Bristol, kept by a Welshman named Williams, where he remained between four and five years, 'which, if not profitably, were at least," he says, "not unhappily spent." For the first two years of this period he lived at his father's; but his holidays were always spent with Miss Tyler at Bath. Upon that lady, however, coming to reside at Bristol, he took up his abode with her altogether; and his early taste for literature was naturally directed into a dramatic channel from the associations he formed at this period. Shakspere was put into his hands as soon as he could read, and before he was eight years old he had gone through all the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher. He was likewise, as in the days of his childhood, frequently taken by his aunt to the Bristol theatre; and in imitation of what he had seen passing on the stage, he soon began to compose dramas of his own. The first subject he attempted was the Continence of Scipio, in which battles were plentifully introduced, because the battle in Cymbeline was then one of his favourite scenes. Of this production, his patience only enabled him to finish about an act and a half; but he set to work upon other subjects, and whilst his dramatic passion lasted, teazed his playmates to engage in the same occupation, and was much surprised to find they were not able "to write plays as well as to do their lessons."

It had been decided by Southey's uncle, the Rev. Mr. Hill, that he should be sent to Westminster, as soon as he was old enough to enter a public school; but the following incident led to his leaving Williams's seminary somewhat earlier, perhaps, than he might otherwise have done. Williams," he says, "who read well himself, and prided himself upon it, was one day very much offended with my reading, and asked me scornfully who taught me to read. I answered, My aunt.' Then,' said he, 'give my com"The side of the house," he says, "in the forc-pliments to your aunt; and tell her that my old horse court also was covered with an apricot-tree, so that every luxury of this kind which an English sun can rpen, was there in abundance. Just by the orchardgate was a fine barberry-bush; and that peculiar odour of its blossoms, which is supposed to injure the wheat within its reach, is still fresh in my remembrance. Wordsworth has no sense of smell. Once, and once only in his life, the dormant power awakened. It was by a bed of stocks in full bloom, at a house which he inhabited in Dorsetshire, some fire-and-twenty years ago; and he says it was like a vision of paradise to him; but it lasted only a few minutes, and the faculty has continued torpid from that time. The fact is remarkable in itself, and would be worthy of notice, even if it did not relate to a man of whom posterity will desire to know all that can be remembered. He has often expressed to me his regret for this privation. I, on the contrary, possess the sense in such acuteness, that I can remember an odour and call up the ghost of one that is departed."

that has been dead these twenty years could have taught you as well.' I delivered the message faithfully, to her great indignation. It was never forgotten or forgiven, and perhaps it accelerated the very proper resolution of removing me." Upon being taken from the guardianship of Williams, he was placed for a twelvemonth, under a clergyman named Lewis, at whose house he attended for a few hours every day as a private pupil. The profit he derived from this year's tuition was very small, and it was found at the end that Lewis's assistance had enabled him to add but little to his stock of school-learning. On the other hand, aided by solitary and congenial studies, he became conscious of the growth of his intellectual nature, and the poetical spirit, which, like a plant, "required no forcing, nor artificial culture, only air and sunshine, and the rains and the dews of heaven," was gradually maturing itself within him. In the thirteenth and fourteenth years of his age, the frequent perusal of Tasso, Ariosto, and Spenser, had filled his mind with visions of romance, which entirely super

seded his dramatic furor. At this period, also he were far too widely removed from strict orthodoxy to wrote some heroic epistles in rhyme, and made trans-permit him sincerely to entertain the notion of becoming lations from Virgil, Ovid, and Horace, besides a minister of the Church of England. Under these projecting more ambitious works in imitation of his circumstances, with little practical knowledge of new models. the world, he began to look around for some occupation which might furnish him with the means of subsistence, without requiring the sacrifice of his opinions. Whilst he was making inquiries upon this subject, and meeting with disappointment at every turn, he made the acquaintance of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, then an undergraduate of Jesus College, Cambridge; and this incident led to some of the most important events of his life.

In his fifteenth year, Southey was placed at Westminster, being at the time, as he confesses, in every way ill qualified for the discipline of a public school. Nor was his career there very fortunate. He formed, it is true, many valuable friendships, which were of signal service to him in after life, but his stay was shortened by a disagreeable occurrence which attended his first appearance in print. With some of his school friends, he had joined in the publication of a little periodical, called "The Flagellant," which had reached its ninth number, when a sarcastic article appeared, on the subject of corporal punishment. This paper gave great offence to Dr. Vincent, the head-master of Westminster, who proceeded so far as to prosecute the printer for a libel. Upon this, Southey promptly acknowledged the authorship of the article, and offered to make an apology; but Dr. Vincent was inexorable, and he was in consequence compelled to quit the school.

At the time that Southey was introduced to Coleridge, the latter was on a visit to an old schoolfellow at Oxford. A marked similarity in their religious and political views made them close friends from the beginning; and whilst they were declaiming together on the abuses in the social system, and on the misery and injustice that prevailed in their native country, Mr. Coleridge started the idea of a new scheme of colonization, to which he proposed to give the name of "Pantisocracy." The writings of English and foreign socialists have made us familiar with similar Utopias, and their pretensions would now appear trite and stale, but in the days of Southey's early manhood such schemes were well calculated to attract the attention of the earnest visionary. The details of the plan were soon arranged, and the cooperation of some congenial spirits readily promised. Among the first converts were Mr. Robert Lovell, the son of a rich Quaker, and three of Southey's fellowcollegians, of good family, named Burnett, Allen, and Seward. Mr. Lovell, it may be necessary to state, had married a Miss Fricker, of Bristol, and to one of that lady's sisters Southey had recently engaged himself. For a time the young enthusiast contrived to prevent the news both of his intended marriage and of the scheme of Pantisocracy from reaching the ears of his aunt; but at length all was discovered, and a storm ensued which rendered him a homeless adventurer. The Pantisocratic scheme soon failed, from the vulgar want of funds to carry it into execution, and Southey and Coleridge found themselves under the necessity of doing something for a livelihood. Some literary engagements were at length obtained, and a course of historical lectures delivered at Bristol by the two friends, which proved, it appears, highly successful. In his own words, the young poet had "cut his cable, and was drifting on the ocean of life." Whilst engaged in this manful struggle, the death of his friend Seward plunged him into the deepest distress, and the mode in which he lamented his loss, both in poetry and in prose, will convey some idea of At this period of his life Southey was an ardent the intensity of his sufferings. "Bedford-he is and sincere republican. The French Revolution had dead; my dear Edmund Seward! after six weeks' excited in his young mind feelings of enthusiastic suffering. In that room where I have so often sympathy and admiration, and although its excesses seen him, he now lies in his coffin! It is like a served to moderate his democratic views, he could dream, the idea that he is dead-that his heart is cold not easily forget his early dreams of human perfecti--that he, whom but yesterday morning I thought bility. His religious views were also unsettled, and and talked of as alive-as the friend I knew and

On leaving Westminster, Southey returned to Bristol, and for some months resided with his aunt, Miss Tyler. It had been long resolved to send him to Oxford, with the view of his entering the church, and accordingly, after some delay, arising out of family troubles, he was entered at Balliol College, having been previously rejected by the Dean of Christ Church, (Cyril Jackson,) on account, it is said, of the part he had taken at Westminster in the publication of the "Flagellant." In January, 1793, he began his residence at the University, with an ardent thirst for knowledge, and a genuine taste for literary pursuits, but with little prepossession in favour of college discipline. Almost immediately on his arrival, he thus wrote to a Westminster friend, Mr. Grosvenor Bedford. "Behold me, my friend, entered under the banners of science or stupidity, which you please, and like a recruit got sober, looking to the days that are past, and feeling something like regret. . . . I feel myself entered upon a new scene of life, and, whatever the generality of Oxonians conceive, it appears to me a very serious one. Four years hence I am to be called into orders, and during that time, (short for the attainment of the requisite knowledge,) how much have I to learn! 1 must learn to break a rebellious spirit, which neither authority nor oppression could ever bow; it would be easier to break my neck. I must learn to work a problem, instead of writing an ode. I must learn to pay respect to men remarkable only for great wigs and little wisdom."

...

"Unalterably Yours."

of which I had awkwardly nourished, notwithstanding | turers in each than can possibly find employment; my propensity to reserve. Mr. T. will be there; let hence poverty and crime. Do not misunderstand me me with confidence assure you that him and brothers as asserting this to be the sole cause, but it is the will be very happy to meet you and brothers. Us girls most frequent one. A system of colonization, that cannot go for reasons; the attention of the cows claims should offer an outlet for the superfluous activity of our assistance in the evening. the country, would convert this into a cause of general good; and the blessings of civilization might be extended over the deserts that, to the disgrace of man, occupy so great a part of the world! Assuredly poverty and the dread of poverty are the great sources of guilt." This extract-which is as full of good feeling as of good sense-shows that the poet was still actuated by the same philanthropic ardour and the same earnest anxiety for the welfare of his species which, in early life, had hurried him into some extravagances.

In the spring of 1800, Southey departed with his wife for Lisbon. A series of letters written during his residence there to friends in England, are included in the present biography, and abound with lively and interesting descriptions of the place and people. The following characteristic passages are from a letter to Lieutenant Southey, written May 23d, 1800: "Lisbon has twice been clean since the creation; Noah's flood washed it once, and the fire after the earthquake purified it. . . . . Government will neither cleanse the city themselves, nor suffer any one else to do it. An English merchant applied lately for permission to clear the street in which he lived, and it was refused. . . No doubt this is a regular government; it is an old monarchy, and has an established church. . . . An ac

As literary occupation flowed in upon him, and engrossed all his time, Southey felt himself placed in a position of some embarrassment. All his tastes and wishes disposed him to prefer the peaceful cultivation of literature to any other employment, and he felt, moreover, that his delicate constitution was unfitted to sustain the wear and tear of a lawyer's life. But he still, says his son, thought it right to continue to keep his terms at Gray's Inn: though every day he became more convinced of his peculiar inaptitude for the legal profession. On the 21st of December, 1799, he thus writes from Bristol to his friend Mr. Bedford: "Grosvenor, I have nothing of what the world calls ambition. I never thought it possible that I could be a great lawyer; I should as soon expect to be the man in the moon. My views were bounded -my hopes-to an income of 500l. a-year, of which I could lay by half to effect my escape with . . . . I am not indolent; I loathe indolence; but, indeed, reading law is laborious indolence-it is thrashing straw. I have read, and read, and read; but the devil a bit can I remember. I have given all possible attention, and attempted to command volition.quaintance of mine (Tennant, well known for some No! The eye read, the lips pronounced, I understood and re-read it; it was very clear; I remembered the page, the sentence,-but close the book, and all was gone! Were I an independent man, even on less than I now possess, I should long since have made the blessed bonfire, and rejoiced that I was free and con-government: a man stabs his antagonist, wipes the tented."

His health continuing "in a most, unsatisfactory state," he now made up his mind to try the air of Lisbon for a short time. Meanwhile his hands were full of work, and his brain constantly employed. He had commenced his poem of Thalaba-the most original and successful of his poetical productions-and was rapidly proceeding with it. He also found time for some nobler speculations. Willing to lend his aid to any project of practical benevolence, he meditated, at the suggestion of a friend, " an essay upon the state of women in society; and its possible amelioration by means, at first, of institutions similar to the Flemish Beguinages." "The object," he says, (writing to his friend Mr. John May,) "is to provide for the numerous class of women who want employment the means of respectable independence, by restoring to them those branches of business which the men have mischievously usurped or monopolised, when they ought only to have shared. Oh! what a country might this England become, did its government but wisely direct the strength, and wealth, and activity of the people! Every profession, every trade is overstocked; this was in February 1800] there are more adven

....

famous chemical experiments on the diamond) met an Irishman in Switzerland, who had been at Rome. He said it was the most laineant government in the world; you might kill a man in the streets, and nobody would take the laist notice of it. This also is a laineant

knife in his cloak, and walks quietly away. It is a point of honour in the spectators to give no information. If one servant robs his master, it is a point of honour in his fellow-servants never to inform of him. Both these points of honour are inviolable from prudence, for a stab would be the consequence. One method of revenge used in the provinces is ingeniously wicked: they beat a man with sand-bags. These do not inflict so much immediate pain as a cane would do, but they so bruise all the fine vessels, that, unless the poor wretch be immediately scarified, a lingering death is the consequence." In another letter to Lieutenant Southey, he thus describes some of the drawbacks to the fine climate of Lisbon. "The warm weather is come; we shut our windows to exclude the heated air, and our shutters to darken the room: if half the money expended upon the souls in purgatory were employed in watering the street, we should be relieved from the torment of burning. Yet is the heat more endurable than the intense light; this is insufferably painful: the houses are white, the stones in the street white, the very dust bleached, and all reflect back upon us the scorching sun; the light is like the quivering of a furnace fire; it dazzles and makes the