never condescended to unworthy flattery of patrons or the public. If he estimates his work too highly, he takes it as a mere matter of course that he should be independent and plain-spoken. The letters after the death of the son who was to have inherited his genius, are almost the only ones in which Southey allows himself to utter the strong domestic affections in which we see, on reflection, that he found his real happiness. Even in the midst of this grief he is, perhaps, a little over-anxious to insist upon his power of preserving a stoical calm; but for once he cannot conceal the emotions which he generally keeps in the background. Poor Mrs. Southey, one suspects, had a rather bad time of it with the anxieties which he met so gallantly. She must have grudged the purchase of that Acta Sanctorum over which he rejoices without a thought of weekly bills. When, however, one tries to form a picture of Southey's life and to supply the side which he leaves in obscurity, one begins to hope that even a journalist may save his soul. That the letters do not give up that secret at the first glance is, perhaps, the reason why they are not more generally valued; but to those who have been immersed in the same element, it should not be difficult to supply the
