She turned her pretty face away, and laughed--as a slave laughs, who is beginning to grow weary of an intolerable yoke.

HARRIET TALKS OF SUICIDE.

"What is your opinion of suicide? Did you never think of destroying yourself?" It was a puzzling question indeed, for the thought had never entered my head.

"What do you think of matricide; of high treason; of rickburning? Did you never think of killing any one; of murdering your mother; of setting stack-yards on fire?" I had never contemplated the commission of any of these crimes, and I should scarcely have been more astonished if I had been interrogated concerning my dispositions and inclinations with respect to them, than I was when, early in our acquaintance, the good Harriet asked me, What do you think of suicide?"

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She often discoursed of her purpose of killing herself some day or other, and at great length, in a calm, resolute manner. She told me that at school, where she was very unhappy, as she said, but I could never discover why she was so, for she was treated with much kindness and exceedingly well instructed, she had conceived and contrived sundry attempts and purposes of destroying herself. It is possible that her sister had assured her that she was very unhappy, and had supported the assurance by the incontrovertible opinion of Miss Warne, and of course Harriet became firmly convinced of her utter wretchedness. She got up in the night, she said, sometimes with a fixed intention of making away with herself--in what manner she did not unfold-and bade a long farewell to the world, looked out of the window, taking leave of the bright moon and of all sublunary things, and then, it should seem, got into bed again and went quietly to sleep, and rose in the morning and wrote neatly upon her slate, in the school-room at Clapham, the admirable ordinances of Idomeneus and Numa Pompilius as sedately as before.

She spoke of self-murder serenely before strangers; and at a dinner party I have heard her describe her feelings, opinions, and intentions with respect to suicide with prolix earnestness;

and she looked so calm, so tranquil, so blooming, and so handsome, that the astonished guests smiled. She once, in particular-I well remember the strange scene and the astonishment of the harmless company-at a Pythagorean dinner in the house of a medical philosopher, scattered dismay amongst a quiet party of vegetable-eaters, persons who would not slay a shrimp, or extinguish animal life in embro by eating an egg, by asking, whether they did not feel sometimes strongly inclined to kill themselves.

The poor girl's monomania of self-destruction, which we long looked upon as a vain fancy, a baseless delusion, an inconsequent hallucination of the mind, amused us occasionally for some years; eventually it proved a sad reality, and drew forth many bitter tears.

SHELLEY AND SOUTHEY.

How Bysshe made the acquaintance of Southey, whether by personal or epistolary introduction, or through poetic sympathy, I never knew.

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Concerning the intercourse of these two remarkable persons, I have heard from Shelley, and from others, several anecdotes. Southey had a large collection of books, very many of them old books, some rare works,--books in many languages, more particularly in Spanish. The shelves extended over the walls of every room in his large, dismal house in Keswick; they were in the bed-rooms, and even down the stairs. This I never saw elsewhere. I took out some volume one day, as I was going down stairs with him. Southey looked at me, as if he was displeased, so I put it back again instantly, and I never ventured to take down one of his books another time. I used to glance my eye eagerly over the backs of the books, and read their titles, as I went up or down stairs. I could not help doing so, but I think he did not quite approve of it."

"Do you know that Southey did not like to have his books touched. Do you know why?"

"No! I do not know."

"You do not know? How I hate that there should be any

thing which you do not know! For who will tell me if you will not?"

"I only know that persons who have large libraries sometimes have the same feeling."

"How strange that a man should have many thousands of books, and should have a secret in every book, which he cannot bear that anybody should know but himself. How rare and grim! Do you believe, then, that Southey really had a secret in every one of his books?"

"No! I do not, indeed, Bysshe."

After musing for some minutes, he added: “There were not secrets in all his books, certainly, for he often took one down himself and showed me some remarkable passage; and then he would let me keep it as long as I pleased, and turn over the leaves, if he had taken it down himself; so there could be no secret there. And yet," he continued, after further reflection, "perhaps there was a secret; but he thought that I could not find it out."

“Were the passages which he showed you really remarkable?"

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They might be, sometimes; but for the most part they were not; at least, I did not think them so. They usually appeared trifling. He never discussed any subject; he gave his own opinion, commonly, in a very absolute manner; he used to lay down the law, to dogmatize. What he said was seldom his own,—it seldom came from himself. He repeated long quotations, read extracts which he had made, or took down books and read from them aloud, or pointed out something for me to read, which would settle the matter at once without appeal. His conversation was rather interesting, and only moderately instructive; he was not so much a man as a living common-place book, a talking album filled with long extracts from long-forgotten authors on unimportant subjects. Still his intercourse was very agreeable. I liked much to be with him; besides, he was a good man and exceedingly kind."

When Southey died his books were brought to the hammer

-as the phrase is. I picked up a few of them, rather as memorials than for their intrinsic value. Several of these were bound in the Chinese fashion, as I had heard that many of his books were, that is to say, in silk, cloth, velvet, and not in leather.

Mrs. Southey had been a milliner at Bath, a certain Miss * a lovely creature, as I have been told, as every Bath milliner ought to be; and no doubt a very estimable person. After her marriage she used up her remnants in a truly conjugal and most beneficial manner, in binding strongly and very neatly such of her husband's books as required it. I possess one of these bound with a bit of modest gingham, and another in a pretty piece of Irish poplin; both volumes are likewise adorned by the autograph of the author of Madoc; they are therefore, on all accounts, to be cherished.

In associating with Southey, not only was it necessary to salvation to refrain from touching his books, but various rites, ceremonies, and usages must be rigidly observed. At certain appointed hours only was he open to conversation; at the seasons which had been predestined from all eternity for holding intercourse with his friends. Every hour of the day had its commission—every half-hour was assigned to its own peculiar, undeviating function. The indefatigable student gave a detailed account of his most painstaking life, every moment of which was fully employed and strictly pre-arranged, to a certain literary Quaker lady.

“I rise at five throughout the year; from six till eight I read Spanish; then French, for one hour; Portuguese, next, for half an hour, my watch lying on the table; I give two hours to poetry; I write prose for two hours; I translate so long; I

* [Edith Fricker. Southey married her on the 14th of November. 1795, at Radcliff Church, Bristol. "Immediately after the ceremony they parted," writes his son, the Rev. Cuthbert Southey. "My mother wore her wedding ring hung round her neck, and preserved her maiden name until the report of their marriage had spread abroad." Joseph Cottle was very kind to the lovers. "The very money with which I bought my wedding ring," Southey wrote in 1808, "and paid my marriage fees was supplied by you." Coleridge married one of the Misses Fricker, for there were three of them, Sara, and Lovell I think another.-S.]

make extracts so long;

" and so of the rest, until the poor

fellow had fairly fagged himself into his bed again.

“And, pray, when dost thou think, friend?” she asked, drily, to the great discomfiture of the future Laureate.

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From morn till night, from the cradle to the grave, the hard reading, hard writing pansophist had never once found a single spare moment for such a purpose. The fable, if it be a fable, is told of thee, too, dearest Bysshe. Shelley also was always reading; at his meals a book lay by his side, on the table, open. Tea and toast were often neglected, his author seldom ; his mutton and potatoes might grow cold; his interest in a work never cooled. He invariably sallied forth, book in hand, reading to himself, if he was alone, if he had a companion reading aloud. He took a volume to bed with him, and read as long as his candle lasted; he then slept--impatiently, no doubt-until it was light, and he recommenced reading at the early dawn. One day we were walking together, arm-in-arm, under the gate of the Middle Temple, in Fleet Street; Shelley, with open book, was reading aloud; a man with an apron said to a brother operative, See, there are two of your damnation lawyers; they are always reading!" The tolerant philosopher did not choose to be reminded that he had once been taken for a lawyer; he declared the fellow was an ignorant wretch! He was loth to leave his book to go to bed, and frequently sat up late reading; sometimes indeed he remained at his studies all night. In consequence of this great watching, and of almost incessant reading, he would often fall asleep in the day-time-— dropping off in a moment-like an infant. He often quietly transferred himself from his chair to the floor, and slept soundly on the carpet, and in the winter upon the rug, basking in the warmth like a cat; and like a cat his little round head was roasted before a blazing fire. If any one humanely covered the poor head to shield it from the heat, the covering was impatiently put aside in his sleep. You make your brains boil, Bysshe. I have seen and heard the steam rushing out violently

at your nostrils and ears!"

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