In this way his first aspirations after authorship naturally took the dramatic form; and he did not hesitate to express his opinion on the subject with great confidence and complacency. “It is the easiest thing in the world to write a play,” observed he one day, at this period, to a female friend of his aunt, with whom he happened to be on a journey. “Is it, indeed?” she said, not a little surprised. “Yes,” replied Southey; “for you have only to think what you would say if you were in the place of the characters, and make them say it.” Acting on this not very correct principle, he not only produced pieces himself, but endeavored to persuade his puerile associates to do likewise. In the latter attempt he, of course, found his zealous efforts altogether futile, but experienced much consolation from the pride derived by his gentle mother, when she discovered that her boy was so highly gifted. These were not the days of popular literature; and the worthy draper’s dusty shelf did not present to his son’s keen appetite for knowledge any very various or interesting collection of books; but Southey about this time had the good fortune to meet with Spenser’s “Faëry Queen,” which charmed him much with its sweetness. He was soon, however, removed once more from under the paternal roof into more congenial company. His aunt, Miss Tyler, took a small house near Bristol; and he was once more handed over to her care. A brother of the restless spinster also went to live with her――a strange, half-witted man, whose enormous consumption of ale and tobacco astonished his young kinsman, and brought on himself a premature old age. He had a strong affection for Southey, and loved well to have a game at marbles with him when an opportunity presented itself; though apparently, he was better pleased to smoke a pipe and drink beer in the shady arbor during summer, or by the kitchen chimney in colder and less agreeable seasons. Some of his wise, old-world saws, his nephew did not soon forget.