But it was never a festive house again. All the high lights in that home picture which was set between Skiddaw and the Derwent-water were blurred. Wordsworth, striding across the hills by Dunmail Rise, on one of his rare visits, reports that Southey is all distraught; can talk of nothing but his books; and presently--counting only by months--it appears that he will not even talk of these--will talk of nothing. His handwriting, which had been neat--of which he had been proud--went all awry in a great scrawl obliquely athwart the page. For a year or two he is in this lost trail; mumbling, but not talking; seeing things--yet as one who sees not; clinging to those loved books of his--fondling them; passing up and down the library to find this or the other volume that had been carefully cherished--taking them from their shelves; putting his lips to them--then replacing them;--a year or more of this automatic life--the light in him all quenched. He died in 1843, and was buried in the pretty church-yard of Crosthwaite, a short mile away from his old home. Within the church is a beautiful recumbent figure of the poet, which every traveller should see. _Crabb Robinson._ I had occasion to name Crabb Robinson[7] as one of the party accompanying Southey on his last visit to the Continent. Robinson was a man whom it is well to know something of, by reason of his Boswellian _Reminiscences_, and because--though of comparatively humble origin--he grew to be an excellent type of the well-bred, well-read club-man of his day--knowing everybody who was worth knowing, from Mrs. Siddons to Walter Scott, and talking about everybody who was worth talking of, from Louis Phillippe to Mrs. Barbauld.