of the same tenderness, which now watches night and day in the darkened cell, where a glorious mind has withdrawn from its former intercourse with the living? I trust to be forgiven for selecting from one of her recent letters, a few passages for the friends, who in this western world have admired, in almost every de- partment of literature, the inventive genius of Dr. Southey, his comprehensive learning, and his aston- ishing industry.
"You desire to be remembered to him who sang, 'of Thalaba, the wild, and wonderous tale.' Alas, my friend, the dull cold ear of death is not more insensible than his, my dearest husband's, to all communication from the world without. Scarcely can I keep hold of the last poor comfort of believing that he still knows me. This almost complete unconsciousness has not been of more than six months' standing, though more than two years have elapsed, since he has written even his name. After the death of his first wife, the "Edith" of his first love, who was for several years insane, his health was terribly shaken. Yet for the greater part of a year that he spent with me, in Hampshire, my former home, it seemed perfectly reëstablished, and he used to say, "It had surely pleased God, that the last years of his life should be happy." But the Almighty will was otherwise. The little cloud soon appeared, which was in no long time to overshadow all. In the blackness of its shadow
