him; nothing to be regretted but that one so ripe for heaven should so
soon have been removed from the world.

He was born in Nottingham, March 21, 1785, of honest tradesman parents;
his origin reminds one inevitably of that of Keats. From his earliest
years he was studious in temper, and could with difficulty be drawn from
his books, even at mealtimes. At the age of seven he wrote a story of a
Swiss emigrant and gave it to the servant, being too bashful to show it
to his mother. Southey's comment on this is "The consciousness of genius
is always accompanied with this diffidence; it is a sacred, solitary
feeling."

His schooling was not long; and while it lasted part of Henry's time was
employed in carrying his father's deliveries of chops and rumps to the
prosperous of Nottingham. At fourteen his parents made an effort to
start him in line for business by placing him in a stocking factory. The
work was wholly uncongenial, and shortly afterward he was employed in
the office of a busy firm of lawyers. He spent twelve hours a day in the
office and then an hour more in the evening was put upon Latin and
Greek. Even such recreation hours as the miserable youth found were
dismally employed in declining nouns and conjugating verbs. In a little
garret at the top of the house he began to collect his books; even his
supper of bread and milk was carried up to him there, for he refused to
eat with his family for fear of interrupting his studies. It is a
deplorable picture: the fumes of the hearty butcher's evening meal
ascend the stair in vain, Henry is reading "Blackstone" and "The Wealth
of Nations." If it were Udolpho or Conan Doyle that held him, there were
some excuse. The sad life of Henry is the truest indictment of overstudy
that I know. No one, after reading Southey's memoir, will overload his
brain again.