[Born at Bristol, 1774. Died at Keswick, in Cumberland, 1843. Aged
69.]
An author who has earned imperishable renown in his own country, for the
dignity with which he upheld the literary character, for his virtuous
mind, for his patient, honest industry, and for his masculine prose
writings. His poetical compositions--with the exception of the minor
poems--are too laboured and too long, are too deliberately planned, and
not sufficiently impassioned to be immortal; but they contain,
nevertheless, many fine descriptive passages, abounding in strength and
beauty: the subjects are chosen, and treated, with bold and free
imagination. Southey read too much, and reflected too little; he was an
insatiable devourer of books, and almost a prisoner to his study; hence
he imbibed prejudices, and narrowed his intellectual sympathies: but his
heart was of the soundest, and his feelings of the freshest. In the
distribution of his hours he was most methodical. He had a surprising
memory, a yearning towards the romantic in his literary pursuits, and an
insuppressible vein of humour. He lived and died, comparatively poor,
and he was always a day labourer. Yet he had ever a ready ear for the
tale of distress, and an open hand for all who needed its grasp in the
difficult journey of life. He never murmured at his own inevitable yoke,
and he had self-command enough to refuse a baronetcy, when, towards the
close of his career, he was offered the honour by the Minister of the
day. It is sad to think that the mind of Southey gave way in the decline
of life. When he could read no longer, he walked to his bookshelves with
a vacant soul, and opened the volumes only to look at them, without
being able to derive the least consolation from their pages. He died
honoured, and literary men in England are proud to acknowledge, in him,
one of the worthiest of their order.
[This is a posthumous Bust, by E. H. Baily, R.A., from the marble
which forms a portion of the monument erected to the poet’s memory in
Bristol. It was carved in 1847.]