of the wife, over-exertion prostrated those of the husband. The first indications of imbecility were so slight, the approaches so gradual, that they escaped the attention of his nearest friends. Failure of memory, confusion of time and place, starts of irritability so foreign to his nature, these were all overlooked at the time, but too faithfully remembered when the appalling reality broke upon them.
In the latter end of 1838, he was urged to undertake a short trip on the continent; and a party of six met in London, and started on a tour through Normandy and Brittany. On their return to England, they separated; his son, who had been one of the party, proceeding to Oxford; and Southey purposing to stay at Buckland, the residence of Miss Caroline Bowles, on his way home. He afterwards proceeded to London, and the change in his condition became painfully perceptible. It was hoped, however, that the derangement might be but temporary, and that his faculties would be re-invigorated by repose; but the bow had lost its spring, the tendon was too fretted to be re-braced. He ceased from his labours—with him how sad a proof of sheer inability to proceed!—the over-tasked brain refused all further exercise, the hand declined for ever its habitual occupation.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the alienation of mind became complete. Still would he wander among his books, and fix a vacant gaze on those changeless friends of fifty years; take down from its shelf some well-worn volume, and tenderly replace it; and long he continued mechanically to read, after all power of comprehension was gone. Still, too, visions of great works yet unaccomplished floated across his phantasy. "The History of the Monastic Orders," "The Doctor," and above all, "The History of Portugal." This, the darling dream of his life—the first high effort he had meditated in boyhood among the beauties of the clime it was to celebrate—"the
