Not a few of his books were dead, and to live among these was like living among the tombs; “Behold, this also is vanity,” Southey makes confession. But when Sir Thomas questions, “Has it proved to you ‘vexation of spirit’ also?” the Cumberland mountain-dweller breaks forth: “Oh no! for never can any man’s life have been passed more in accord with his own inclinations, nor more answerably to his desires. Excepting that peace which, through God’s infinite mercy, is derived from a higher source, it is to literature, humanly speaking, that I am beholden, not only for the means of subsistence, but for every blessing which I enjoy; health of mind and activity of mind, contentment, cheerfulness, continual employment, and therefore continual pleasure. _Suavissima vita indies sentire se fieri meliorem_; and this, as Bacon has said and Clarendon repeated, is the benefit that a studious man enjoys in retirement.” Such a grave gladness underlay all Southey’s frolic moods, and in union with a clear-sighted acceptance of the conditions of human happiness—its inevitable shocks, its transitory nature as far as it belongs to man’s life on earth—made up part of his habitual temper. Southey coursed from page to page with a greyhound’s speed; a tiny _s_ pencilled in the margin served to indicate what might be required for future use. Neatness he had learnt from Miss Tyler long ago; and by experience he acquired his method. On a slip of paper which served as marker he would note the pages to which he needed to return. In the course of a few hours he had classified and arranged everything in a book which it was likely he would ever want. A reference to the less important passages sufficed; those of special interest were transcribed by his wife, or one of his daughters, or more frequently by Southey himself; finally, these transcripts were brought together in packets under such headings as would make it easy to discover any portion of their contents. Such was his ordinary manner of eviscerating an author, but it was otherwise with the writers of his affection. On some—such as Jackson and Jeremy Taylor—“he _fed_,” as he expressed it, “slowly and carefully, dwelling on the page, and taking in its contents, deeply and deliberately, like an epicure with his wine ‘searching the subtle flavour.’” Such chosen writers remained for all times and seasons faithful and cherished friends:— “With them I take delight in weal, And seek relief in woe; And while I understand and feel How much to them I owe, My cheeks have often been bedewed With tears of thankful gratitude.”