d 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.

At the age of fifteen we find the boy writing to his older brother
Neville: "I have made a firm resolution never to spend above one hour at
this amusement [novel reading]. I have been obliged to enter into this
resolution in consequence of a vitiated taste acquired by reading
romances." He is human enough to add, however, that "after long and
fatiguing researches in 'Blackstone' or 'Coke,' 'Tom Jones' or 'Robinson
Crusoe' afford a pleasing and necessary relaxation. Of 'Robinson Crusoe'
I shall observe that it is allowed to be the best novel for youth in the
English language."

The older brother to whom these comments were addressed was living in
London, apparently a fairly successful man of business. Henry permitted
himself to indulge his pedagogical and ministerial instincts for the
benefit and improvement of his kinsman. They seem to have carried on a
mutual recrimination in their letters: Neville was inclined to belittle
the divine calling of poets in their teens; while Henry deplored his
brother's unwillingness to write at length and upon serious and
"instructive" topics. Alas, the ill-starred young man had a mania for
self-improvement. If our great-grandparents were all like that what an
age it had been for the Scranton correspondence courses! "What is
requisite to make one's correspondence valuable?" asks Henry. "I answer,
_sound sense_." (The italics are his own.) "You have better natural
abilities than many youth," he tells his light-hearted brother, "but it
is with regret I see that you will not give yourself the trouble of
writing a good letter. My friend, you never found any art, however
trivial, that did not require some application at first." He begs the
astounded Neville to fill his letters with his opinions of the books he
reads. "You have no idea how beneficial this would be to yourself." Does
one not know immediately that Henry is destined to an early grave?

Henry's native sweetness was further impaired by a number