^^'^i^^^^^ 
 
ROBERT SOUTHEY 
 
 THE STOR Y OF HIS LIFE WRITTEN 
 IN HIS LETTERS 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 JOHN DENNIS 
 
 AUTHOR OF " STUDIES IN ENGLISH LITERATURE," " HEROES OF 
 
 LITERATURE — ENGLISH POETS " ; AND EDITOR 
 
 OF " ENGLISH SONNETS— A SELECTION." 
 
 BOSTON 
 D LOTHROP COMPANY 
 
 Franklin and Hawlev Streets 
 
Copyright, 1887, by 
 D. LOTHROP COMPANY. 
 
 
 Electrotvped by 
 C. J. Peters and Son, Boston. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 A SHORT preface will explain the purpose of 
 this volume. It is simply a compilation, but I 
 may be allowed to say that it has not been put 
 together in order to make a book, but to do honor 
 to one of the best men this century has pro- 
 duced. 
 
 The present generation does not know Southey 
 as he ought to be known, and I hope that this 
 story of his life, written in his own words and 
 linked together with a few editorial hooks and 
 eyes, may be the means of reviving the memory 
 of a great name. The naiTative, it is needless to 
 say, may be read at length in the Rev. Cuthbert 
 C. Southey's life and correspondence of his father, 
 in six volumes. The four volumes of letters 
 edited by Southey's son-in-law, the Rev. John 
 Wood Warter, are also of great interest, although 
 Mr. Warter, gleaning after Southey's biographer, 
 was necessarily more limited in his choice. These 
 volumes have been freely used by the compiler, 
 with the consent and good wishes of the Rev. 
 Cuthbert Southey and of Miss Warter, the poet's 
 granddaughter. The admirers of Southey, and 
 
 3 
 
 ivillisyj 
 
 :> 
 
4 PREFACE. 
 
 every one who wishes to know him intimately, 
 should turn to these records for the minute fea- 
 tures of character which my outline portrait will 
 not supply. Professor Dowden's charming mono- 
 graph in English Men of Letters is known to most 
 readers, and so also, it may be hoped, is the sig- 
 nificant " Correspondence of Robert Southey and 
 Caroline Bowles," which Mr. Dowden has edited. 
 To that volume I must especially draw attention, 
 not only for the delight it will afford, but also be- 
 cause it supplies, to quote the editor's words, "an 
 interesting chapter in Southey's life — one essen- 
 tial to its completeness — the chapter which tells 
 of the most important friendship of his elder 
 years." 
 
 It will be seen that apart from his works there 
 are abundant materials for forming a correct 
 judgment of Southey ; indeed, few men of letters 
 can be known so well. In this age, however, lit- 
 erature is too often swamped by books, and 
 readers are apt to treat authors as obsolete whose 
 works are not in circulation at the library. I 
 hope notwithstanding that this attempt to present 
 a cabinet portrait of Southey may lead the present 
 generation of readers to give the honor he deserves 
 to an illustrious English worthy. 
 
 It must be understood that such portions only 
 of the letters are given as serve to illustrate the 
 writer's character, and that, while careful not to 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 convey a wrong impression of his meaning, I have 
 not thought it necessary to indicate where omis- 
 sions occur. 
 
 I have to thank the proprietors of the JVational 
 Review, through whose courtesy I reprint the in- 
 troductory essay, which originally appeared in 
 that periodical. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PACK 
 
 Preface 3 
 
 Introduction 9 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Early EecoUections — Bath— Miss Tj'ler — First Impressions of 
 the Theatre — Days at Bedmiiister —Reads Shakespere, aad 
 Beaumont and Fletcher — Writes Rhymes — Schools and 
 Scliooi-masters 33 
 
 CHAPTER H. 
 
 The Autobiograpliy, continued — His Father's Library — Tasso, 
 Ariosto, and Spenser — School-Days in Bristol — Epic 
 Dreams 58 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 Autobiography, continued — Miss Tyler's Eccentricities— First 
 Visit to London — Westminster School — Botch Haves — 
 Story of a Bully .' . . 71 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 School Friendships — Four Years at Westminster — Is Privately 
 Expelled — Goes to Oxford — Plans of Life — Friendship 
 with Colerid<re — Pantisocrac_v — Rupture with his Aunt — 
 Marriage — Voyage to Portugal 85 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Resides near Bristol and in Hampshire — Loses Health, and re- 
 visits Portugal — In Bristol again — First Visit to Keswick 
 
 — Obtains a Secretaryship — Resigns his post, and returns 
 
 to Bristol — Coleridge — Scott and Modern Ballads . . . 114 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 Loses his first Child — Keswick — Life among the ^lountains — 
 Advice to Coleridge — Visits London — Learns Dutch — 
 Jl/ar?oc published —V^isits Scott and Scotland — Edits Kirke 
 White's Jiemuins 146 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Declining to write for the Edinburgh Rcrieiv — Friendship with 
 Landor — Sale of his Works — Contributes to the Quarlerhi 
 
 — Death of a Child . . . 19'J 
 
 7 
 
8 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER Vm. 
 
 Southey's Pepuniary Prospects — The Anniinl Rcr/isicr — Madoc 
 
 — Acquaintance with Shelley — Life of Nelson — KecoUee- 
 tions of Oxford — His Children 227 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Poet-Laureate — Estimate of Wordsworth — Lord Byron — 
 Southey as an Plistorian — Battle of Waterloo Celebrated 
 upon Skiddaw — Visits Bel<,num 230 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Death of Herbert Southey — The Father's Sorrow — Memories 
 of School and College — 7'Ae Jij-cii rsion — Condition of the 
 Lower Classes— 1 he Church of England aud the Method- 
 ists 268 
 
 CHAPTER Xr. 
 
 Southey declines a Position on The Tunes — Tour in Switzer- 
 land — The Life of Wesleij — Declines an Appointment in 
 Edinbur{i:h — Wilberforce at Keswick — Edmund Seward — 
 Walter Scott — Histonj of Brazil — Cvahhe's Tales ... 287 
 
 CHAPTER XH. 
 
 Southey at Oxford — Old Friendships — Advice to his Daughters 
 
 — Visits Holland — Is laid up at Levden — A Dutch Poet 
 and his Wife— Advice to a Student — Jacob Cats .... 310 
 
 CHAPTER XHI. 
 
 Holland — Declines a Seat in Parliament — Death of a Daugh- 
 ter — Letter to his Children — Death of his Uncle — Favorite 
 Authors — A Dutch Bookseller — James Barry — The Evan- 
 gelical Party — Literary Style 341 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Visits London — Letter to Lord Brougham — Joanna Baillie — 
 The Howitts — National Education — University Education 
 
 — White Slavery — The Church of England 372 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Publication of The Doctor — Marriage of Edith Southey — Henry 
 Taylor — Mrs. Southey's Loss of Reason — Declines a Baron- 
 etage — Letter to Sir R. Peel — An Additional Pension — 
 The Wordsworth Family — The Life of Vow per .... 394 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Visits Cottle, Savage Landor, and the Poet Bowles — Old Haunts 
 and Old Friends — The Literary Profession — Cliarles Lamb 
 
 — Death of Mrs. Southey — Letter to his Son — Tour in 
 France — Bertha Southey's Marriage — Marries Miss Bowles 
 
 — Failing Powers and Death 417 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 There are some names in literature which the 
 lover of books never mentions without atFection 
 or reverence. They recall to him gifts of wisdom 
 or of poetic beauty that have permanently en- 
 riched his life ; they are the names of his best 
 friends, the choice companions of solitary hours, 
 whose presence is alike acceptable in times of joy 
 and sorrow. 
 
 No one has described the invigorating and 
 soothing power of books more happily than 
 Southey ; and, with two or three exceptions, there 
 is, perhaps, no man of letters of this century 
 whose name is worthier of esteem. Yet the 
 reader who acknowledges this allegiance may con- 
 fess at the same time that a measured feeling of 
 admiration is the utmost he can give to Southey's 
 poetry. His epics are not among the books he 
 reads upon sleepless nights ; neither will he take 
 them with him on a voyage, as Southey took 
 Gebii'. Open any copy you may find of Madoc, 
 Thalaba, or Roderick, and it will probably be as 
 clean and fresh as the books of Leviticus and 
 Chronicles in an otherwise well thumbed Bible. 
 
 9 
 
10 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The poet writes with the utmost purity of style, 
 with great fertility of invention, with an elevation 
 of tone worthy of a man who respects the art he 
 practises, and with a frequent picturesqueness of 
 detail which wins acknowledgment from the 
 most exacting critic. His vast stores of knowl- 
 edge are poured forth abundantly ; but what he 
 wants, or seems to want, is that incommunicable 
 and divine gift which separates the inspired poet 
 from the consummate artificer in verse. 
 
 Poetry made Southey happy, and he thought 
 that it would make him immortal. The happiness 
 was enjoyed to the full, but the ten volumes of 
 his verse have not as yet received the recognition 
 which their author anticipated. We are inter- 
 ested in learning that William Taylor, of Norwich, 
 called 3Iadoc the best English poem that had left 
 the press since Paradise Lost; that Walter Scott 
 read it through four times ; that it kept Fox up 
 until after midnight ; that Landor said of Roder- 
 ick, " there is no poem in existence that I shall 
 read so often " ; and that even Byron pronounced 
 it "the first poem of the time." And in our day 
 we hear with curiosity how Dean Stanley upheld 
 against all comers the poetical merits of Thalaba 
 and Keliama. People read these criticisms and 
 opinions, but they do not read the poems ; and, as 
 a poet, Southey is chiefly known to the present 
 generation by his fantastic ballads and by a 
 
INTRODUCTION. 11 
 
 few personal lyrics which, like the Holly Tree 
 and the stanzas written in his library, touch all 
 hearts. 
 
 That Southey fails in our own day to win the 
 public ear may not be wholly due to a deficiency 
 of poetical inspiration. It was not altogether 
 owing to that cause, if we ma}^ judge from much 
 of the verse then popular, that he failed during 
 his life-time to gain fame and wealth from his 
 poetry. His sober method in such poems as 
 Madoc and BodericJc was not suited to the taste 
 of an age that craved for rambling stories in 
 verse, and gushed over Lalla Rookh and the 
 Loves of the Angels. In the first quarter of this 
 century — a period which, if we except the Shakes- 
 perian era, is unsurpassed in our literature for 
 wealth of poetical creation — neither Coleridge nor 
 Wordsworth, Shelley nor Keats, gained the popu- 
 larity that puts money in the purse. Scott 
 — whose success no one grudges, for he was 
 great all round, and as good as he was great — 
 knew perfectly well that the Lady of the Lake — 
 his most successful though by no means his finest 
 poem — was immeasurably inferior to the noblest 
 productions of Wordsworth or of Colerido-e. 
 True poet though he was in his own vein, he could 
 not, in verse at least, rise to their level. Yet 
 Scott, and even Moore, reaped a golden harvest 
 while Wordsworth was complaining that poetry 
 
12 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 did not yield him enough to pay for his shoe- 
 leather, and Southey that it was "the worst 
 article in the market." How popular Byron 
 became is a story too familiar to be repeated ; but 
 the student of English poetry has long ago dis- 
 covered that Byron's fame during his life-time was 
 not chiefly due to the intrinsically poetical quali- 
 ties of his verse. 
 
 In the last year of the last century appeared 
 Campbell's Pleasures of Hope. The Pleasures of 
 Memory, published about seven years previously, 
 had already passed through ten editions, and 
 from Rogers the young Scottish poet seems to 
 have caught his inspiration. It made him famous 
 at once ; yet it is diflScult to say what attraction 
 readers found in a poem full of inaccuracies and 
 platitudes, and in which, as Hazlitt wittily says, 
 " the decomposition of prose is substituted for the 
 composition of poetry." Campbell's youthful 
 success, however, afibrds a striking illustration of 
 the obvious fact that in '' the realms of gold " im- 
 mediate popularity is no proof of sterling worth. 
 That he has secured a permanent place in litera- 
 ture is due to his noble gift as a lyric poet. His 
 inspiriting battle-pieces have in them the true 
 ring, and just as Campbell was wont to shout out 
 Scott's fine ballad of Cadyow Castle on the North 
 Bridge at Edinburgh until, as he said, the whole 
 fraternity of coachmen knew him by his voice, so 
 
INTRODUCTION. 13 
 
 will many a man recall the youthful enthusiasm 
 and impetuosity with which he recited in his walks 
 such poems as the Battle of the Baltic and Ye 
 Mari7iers of England. Yet the fact remains that 
 Campbell's extraordinary reputation at the outset 
 of his career was due to a poem that is compara- 
 tively worthless. 
 
 Time is the one trustworthy critic whose ver- 
 dict is unimpeachable, and the way time has 
 treated a number of poets who flourished between 
 the years 1800 and 1825, might almost lead us to 
 accept the judgment of Mr. Bagehot that " the 
 pursuit of fume seems more absurd and trifling 
 than most pursuits." Yet it is not unreasonable 
 that fame should be dear to the poet, although not 
 the main object he pursues. The true poet sings 
 because he must, and is moved less by ambition 
 than b}^ delight. The joy of his art was felt to 
 the full by Southey, who said in his younger days 
 that he would rather leave off eating than poetiz- 
 ing. Even in those days of passionate enthusiasm 
 there was a mechanical regularity in his verse- 
 making which belies the common theory of inspi- 
 ration. The clerkly virtue of punctuality is not 
 one Avith which the Muse is credited ; and a poet 
 cannot make demands upon her at specified hours 
 as he can upon his cook, with the certainty of a 
 response. In later life, as all the world knows, 
 Southey wrote a good deal of rubbish, for he was 
 
14 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Poet Laureate at a time when Court poetry was 
 required by the yard. It is a pity that, having 
 done its work, the greater portion of this verse 
 cannot be buried with the royal personages whom 
 it praised. 
 
 In middle age Southey came to the conviction 
 that his name was likely to live chiefly as a prose- 
 writer. Unfortunately, his best years and ener- 
 gies were largely consumed upon labor which, 
 however admirable of its kind, must be regarded 
 as ephemeral. As he said himself, he had many 
 mouths to feed, and all from an inkstand. Like 
 Dr. Johnson, therefore, and in a spirit that 
 "makes the action fine," he did a quantity of 
 what is called hack-work. Such work is not 
 more of a disg^race to an author than it is to a 
 phj^sician to prescribe in simple cases that need no 
 skill, or to a celebrated barrister to take briefs 
 which would not test the ability of the youngest 
 member of the Bar. The man who chooses a 
 profession must live by it, and it is surely as 
 pleasant and honorable to live by Quarterly 
 Review articles as by the sale of ostrich-feathers 
 or of mineral waters. 
 
 He re<rretted, of course, the want of full leisure 
 to complete the great History of Portugal which 
 he fondly hoped would put the coping-stone to his 
 fame, and he anticipated that future ages would 
 honor him as the historian of Brazil. I suspect 
 
INTRODUCTION. 15 
 
 he was mistaken in both cases, and it is quite pos- 
 sible that the work which Southey left in MS. and 
 incomplete would share, though the theme is a 
 noble one, the neglect and oblivion of the three 
 quarto volumes that form the History of Brazil. 
 Sad to say also, his History of the Peninsular War 
 is so completely superseded by Napier's that no 
 publisher ventures to produce a new edition of a 
 work which was the fruit of unwearied research, 
 and for style has won the high applause of critics 
 from Coleridge to Mr. John Morley. With all 
 his literary sagacity, and he had it in large meas- 
 ure, Southey was unfortunate in the choice of 
 popular subjects. He believed that whatever 
 interested him would also interest the public, 
 and his greatest success, the Life of JVelson, may 
 be said to have been achieved by accident, as it 
 grew out of an article in the Quarterly. Biogra- 
 phy is Southey's forte ; on this ground he is a 
 master, and there is a virility and charm about 
 such books as the Lives of Nelson, Wesley, and 
 Cowper which, for many a day to come, should 
 keep their reputation fresh. Professor Dowden, 
 whose estimate of the poet is too well appreciated 
 to need my praise, is not, I think, quite happy in 
 the remark that there is no style fitter for con- 
 tinuous narrative than the pedestrian style of 
 Southey. Although the context shows that this 
 is not Mr. Dowden's meaning, a pedestrian style 
 
16 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 implies a steady, uniform, and unmodulated style, 
 b}^ the help of which a writer jogs along the foot- 
 path way safely and surely, with no risk of stum- 
 bling, but also with no capacity of rising with his 
 theme. This is not the characteristic of Southey's 
 style, which is at once sinewy and flexible, easy 
 and melodious, a st^de in marked contrast to that 
 in vogue among popular writers of the age — to 
 the alliterative rhetoric of Macaulay and to the 
 richer, but frequently grotesque, composition of 
 Carlyle. Southey, like Dryden, is one of the 
 manliest of waiters. He is totally devoid of 
 affectation ; he has no mannerism, and expresses 
 himself simply because he thinks clearly. It has 
 been well said that the inner temper of a man is 
 reflected in his written prose. You may see in 
 it whether he loves rhetoric more than truth, 
 whether he cares more for himself than for his 
 subject. The poet Gray observed that good writ- 
 ing not only required great parts, but the very 
 best of those parts ; and if, as Carlyle said, and 
 as Mr. Froude maintains, style is not like a coat 
 that can be put ofi*, but like the skin, an essential 
 part of the living organization, then does the har- 
 monious, idiomatic style of Southey indicate a 
 nature unafl*ected, well balanced, and serene. In 
 his case, Boileau's saying, Le style c^est lliomme^ 
 may be accepted without reserve. 
 
 So thoroughly, indeed, did he understand the 
 
INTRODUCTION. 17 
 
 art of good Avriting, that it would be more accu- 
 rate to say he did not consider it an art at all. 
 "There may be secrets in painting," he wrote to 
 Allan Cunningham, "but there are none in style. 
 When I have been asked the foohsh question Avhat 
 a young man should do who wishes to acquire a 
 good style, my answer has been that he should 
 never think about it, but say what he has to say 
 as perspicuously as he can and as briefly as he 
 can, and then the style will take care of itself." 
 Again, to a friend he said, " People talk of my 
 style ! I have only endeavored to write plain 
 English, and to put my thoughts into language 
 which every one can understand." 
 
 It is needless, however, to remark that clearness 
 of expression, though invaluable in style, is not 
 the secret of its success. Something depends 
 upon the ear, as Southey elsewhere admits, and 
 more upon the fulness and richness of an author's 
 mind — upon his sincerity of purpose and upon 
 his perception of the niceties of language. 
 Southey wrote from a full mind ; it does not 
 follow that " plain English " would be of service 
 to an empty one. His prose- writings, no doubt, 
 exhibit the weakness, as well as strength, of 
 his nature. He acknowledged that he could not 
 stand severe thought. There are subjects about 
 which he knew little and wrote feebly ; there are 
 opinions scattered through his volumes at which 
 
18 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 we are forced to smile. When he prophesies he 
 fails, just as Cobden fails, and as Mr. Bright 
 fails ; and when he touches on spiritual experi- 
 ences that arouse no corresponding emotion in his 
 own heart, there is an evident want of sympathy 
 and breadth. Few more delightful books exist 
 in the language, and none more honest, than his 
 Life of Wesleij. This " darling book," the favor- 
 ite of his library, was more often in his hands, 
 Coleridge wrote, than any other, and he added 
 that it would not be uninteresting to the author to 
 know that to this work, and to the Life of Baxter, 
 he was used to resort whenever sickness or lan- 
 guor made him feel the want of an old friend. 
 But Coleridge was keenly alive to the biographer's 
 inability to distinguish, in the great religious 
 movement of the eighteenth century, between 
 what was unquestionable fanaticism, and what, 
 however mysterious, had the warrant of Apostolic 
 teaching. In his admirable narrative, Southey is, 
 therefore, occasionally an uncertain guide, and his 
 judgment fails to lessen — sometimes, indeed, it 
 increases — the difficulties raised by his facts. 
 But the reader, whether dissenting from the 
 writer's opinions or not, feels, and rightly, an 
 unhesitating confidence in the truthfulness of his 
 statements. He is ever the most faithful of 
 biographers. 
 Probably the book that gave its author the 
 
INTRODUCTION. 19 
 
 greatest pleasure was The Doctor, that medley of 
 grotesque fancies and out-of-the-way learning, of 
 boyish humor and of the serene wisdom of age. 
 It was the play-book of leisure hours, with which 
 he amused himself more than he amuses his 
 readers. Most of them, I think, find it irritat- 
 ing, and no one, probably, has the courage to read 
 it steadily from end to end. " The Doctor,'' said 
 Caroline Bowles, " makes me laugh and cry, 
 pleased and provoked, and out of all patience, in 
 a breath" — a friendly criticism, and, on the 
 whole, perhaps, a just one, of a book which 
 Henry Nelson Coleridge considered "singularly 
 thoughtful and diverting." 
 
 No English man of letters, save Dr. Johnson, 
 has done so much to give dignity to the profession 
 of literature as Southey, and I do not think there 
 is a word in Coleridge's magnificent eulogium of 
 his friend to which exception can be taken. His 
 devotion to literature was the noblest of dedica- 
 tions, adopted without rashness, for he knew his 
 strength, and pursued with unMtering consistency 
 and courage. And he had his reward. " Except- 
 ing that peace," he wrote, " which through God's 
 infinite mercy is derived from a higher source, it 
 is to literature, humanly speaking, that I am be- 
 holden, not only for the means of subsistence, but 
 for every blessing which I enjoy ; health of mind 
 and activity of mind, contentment, cheerfulness, 
 
20 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 continual employment, and, therefore, continual 
 pleasure." And while describing himself as one 
 of the lightest-hearted men on the face of the 
 wide world, he adds that if Gilford (then presid- 
 ing over the Qnarterhj) could " see him by his 
 fireside, he would see a man working hard and 
 getting little — a bare maintenance, and hardly 
 that — writing poems and history for posterity 
 with his whole heart and soul ; one daily progres- 
 sive in learning ; not so learned as he is poor, not 
 so poor as proud, not so proud as happy." 
 
 After all, the attraction many of us feel for 
 Southey is caused less by his genius as a writer 
 than by his personal character ; and his life will 
 be found more worthy of study than the finest 
 of his works. The materials that exist for a 
 thorough acquaintance Avith him are abundant ; 
 but in order to know and estimate Southey, all 
 other sources of information are of small account 
 in comparison with his own letters. I do not 
 know whether to wonder most at their quantity or 
 quality. It was, perhaps, inevitable that what- 
 ever he wrote should be well written, but how he 
 found time for such a persistent course of letter- 
 writing is a marvel. " A letter," he said, " is like 
 a fresh billet of wood upon the fire, which, if it 
 be not needed for immediate warmth, is always 
 agreeable for its exhilarating effects. I, who 
 spend so many hours alone, love to pass a por- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 21 
 
 tion of them in conversing thus with those whom 
 I love." 
 
 It must have been a goodly portion, and in 
 these letters the heart of the man is revealed. 
 We see in them his well nigh unrivalled energy in 
 the pursuit of knowledge ; the delight in books 
 which caused him, though a poor man, to accumu- 
 late a library of 14,000 volumes ; a playful buoy- 
 ancy of spirit, mingled with a pathetic melancholy, 
 that led him to write of himself as old before he 
 was fifty ; a dislike of London as strong as the 
 aftection of Johnson and of Lamb for the mighty 
 city; a soml)re vieAV of political affairs which, if 
 not always reasonable, was invariably sincere ; a 
 generous appreciation of other poets and authors 
 — no one, for instance, has written of Words- 
 worth with warmer praise — and a noble enthu- 
 siasm of friendship for which no sacrifice was too 
 great, and which no absence or change could 
 weaken. And more than this may be read in the 
 copious utterances of Southey's correspondence, 
 for we gain from it a bright picture of the domes- 
 tic happiness in his mountain home at Keswick 
 which made that home, through many long and 
 toilsome years, a scene of unclouded delight. 
 Writing of the glorious scenery around him, he 
 said he did not talk much about it, but added, 
 "These lakes and mountains give me a deep joy 
 for which I suspect nothing elsewhere can compen- 
 
22 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 sate." In the large room on the first floor of 
 Greta Hall, surrounded on all sides hy books, 
 " the harvest of many generations," the work of his 
 life was done ; and when he went to the window 
 there was " the lake and the circle of the moun- 
 tains, and the illimitable sky." 
 
 No student could be more unlike the popular 
 notion of the mere book-worm and literary drudge 
 than Southey. With a head on his shoulders that 
 was the envy of Byron, and " the most spirited 
 countenance that ever human form was graced 
 with"; tall, firmly knit, and blessed with sound 
 health and great muscular strength, in physique 
 as in character, manliness was his most striking 
 characteristic. But this manliness was combined 
 with a susceptibility and tenderness that tried his 
 stronjx heart to the uttermost. If he was the 
 happiest of men, he was also the most sensitive, a 
 singularity which struck Carlyle, who, on seeing 
 him in his old age, wondered how, with such a 
 nervous system, he had not been torn to pieces 
 long since. " He must have somewhere," he 
 wrote, "a great deal of methodic virtue in him ; I 
 suppose, too, his heart is thoroughly honest, which 
 kelps considerably." It was methodic virtue of an 
 uncommon order, it was an honesty of heart rarely 
 to be met with, that bound Southey's days together 
 in natural piety. Although never until old age. a 
 year in advance of his liabilities, he contracted no 
 
INTRODUCTION. 23 
 
 debt he could not pay, and took voluntary bur- 
 dens on his shoulders that would have crushed a 
 weaker man. His lavish generosity was not due 
 to impulse ; it was a part of his life, and exhibited 
 at every stage of it. To help a relative or friend, 
 or a deserving person who was neither, he would 
 give money with the utmost cheerfulness, and 
 time also, which was more valuable still ; aRd as 
 we read how ready he was at all times to accept 
 fresh burdens of charity, how magnanimous he 
 was, and how affectionate, we are not surprised 
 that Sara Coleridge, who lived all her maiden life 
 under his roof, should have said that, while in- 
 debted chiefly to Wordsworth in matters of intel- 
 lect, " in those which concerned the heart and the 
 moral being " she was more deeply indebted to the 
 character and daily conduct of her uncle Southey. 
 Yet there are moments, and one of them may be 
 after reading his letters to Shelley, when the 
 reader is disposed to think the Laureate too fault- 
 less, and that he would have sympathized more 
 with the elder brother in the parable than with 
 the prodigal son. 
 
 Very noteworthy, in a retired student like 
 Southey, was his capacity, to which I have alluded 
 already, for making friends and keeping them. 
 The friends of his youth were the friends of his 
 old age, and Wordsworth, Coleridge, Laml), and 
 Walter Scott not only honored the author but 
 
24 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 loved the man. Landor, too, clung to Southey 
 with the passionate ardor of his nature, and, im- 
 pulsive though he was, never faltered in his affec- 
 tion. " To be deprived of reading your works," 
 he wrote from Como, " and of seeing you for so 
 many years, is infinitely the greatest loss I sus- 
 tain in losing my country." And in a letter at 
 once nobly frank and sympathetic, written when 
 Southey was in trouble, and had been long silent, 
 he says, in language which from another pen 
 would sound like exaggeration : " Believe me, 
 Southey — and of all men living I will be the very 
 last to deceive and flatter you — I have never one 
 moment ceased to love and revere you as the most 
 amiable and best of mortals, and your fame has 
 always been as precious to me as it could ever be 
 to yourself." What a wealth of fellowship was 
 here ! but, strange to say, this affectionate inti- 
 macy with the choicest intellects of his age is 
 regarded by a living writer as evidence that 
 Southey, like Davenant, with whom he is com- 
 pared, sheltered himself "so snugly under the 
 friendship of great men, that to this day criticism 
 shrinks from dragging him forth into the glare of 
 noon," Having the wit, we are told, to see, in 
 1800, that Wordsworth and Coleridge would 
 reign over English poetry in 1830, " he came over 
 to their camp with equal frankness and adroit- 
 ness," and " imposed himself upon his own gener- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 25 
 
 ation by the force of his character, by the abun- 
 dance of his writings, and by the tact with which 
 he attached himself to that party which was des- 
 tined to popularity in the immediate future." * 
 
 The imputation, it will be seen, is a slur upon 
 Southey's character. He was not only "no poet 
 in the true sense," but an impostor, who traded on 
 the friendship of distinguished authors. It is 
 difficult to reply to a charge, in my judgment, so 
 utterly without foundation ; and had it come from 
 a nameless writer, readers who know Southey 
 would probably laugh for one moment at the per- 
 versity of the statement, and forget it the next. 
 But literature is not without a debt to the editor 
 of Gray, and Mr. Gosse is usually so sympathetic 
 a critic, that when he makes an assertion such as 
 this, it cannot be passed over without notice. 
 
 The statement that Southey's verse secured to 
 the author, as Davenant's verse had previously 
 secured to him, a large audience "recruited even 
 from the literary class itself," need not be con-, 
 tested, but to Mr. Gosse's assertion that, for the 
 moment, Thalaha and the Curse of Keliama im- 
 pressed the majority of readers, I reply that there 
 is no proof of this success in the circulation of 
 those poems. Unfortunately for Southey's pocket, 
 it was quite otherwise, and, while some of his 
 
 * " From tjhakespere to Pope," by Edmund Gosse, pp. 155- 
 159. 
 
26 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 contemporaries reaped thousands at their poetical 
 harvest, he did not, except in one instance, gain 
 hundreds. This is not all. Southey's literary 
 independence and disregard of contemporary 
 praise or ])lame is a prominent feature of his 
 character, and the assertion that he contrived to 
 shelter himself snugly under the friendship of 
 others is, I venture to assert, absolutely errone- 
 ous. The high estimate of his own powers, 
 to which j\Ir. Gosse alludes, is a trait incon- 
 sistent with such conduct, but the strons-est refu- 
 tation of a charge which, were it true, would 
 make Southey contemptible, will be found in the 
 whole story of his life as unfolded in his letters. 
 
 Southey, as every one knows, in his estimate of 
 public affairs belonged to the minority. He had 
 no faith in " self-government by count of heads " ; 
 he did not believe that change was necessarily 
 progress, nor that revolution was reform. Like 
 most of us, he had his prejudices, and expressed 
 them sometimes in unguarded language. One of 
 the most brilliant and popular of modern wri- 
 ters has stated his opinion that, as a politician, 
 Southey lacked judgment, and critics have been 
 content to take Macaulay's word for it. They 
 could not choose a worse authority. I do not say 
 that the famous essayist of the Edinburgh Reviev) 
 was wilfully unfair, l)ut he was unable to forget 
 that Southey belonged to the opposite camp, and 
 
INTRODUCTION . 2 7 
 
 had been for years the ablest writer for the Quar- 
 terly. The belief that Southey's poems stand 
 far higher than his prose works is one which 
 Macaulay is probably singular in holding ; but his 
 adverse estimate of several of the Laureate's 
 political statements may, perhaps, be justified. 
 At the same time the general impression he tries 
 to convey of Southey is marked by the exaggera- 
 tion which so often stultifies his criticism. In the 
 anxiety to be brilliant, truth is too frequently sac- 
 rificed to antithesis. 
 
 It may be admitted that, in some respects, 
 Southey was a Tory of the old school. lie 
 objected to Catholic Emancipation, and to Parlia- 
 mentary Reform, and, according to the principal 
 journal of the period, showed his lack of judg- 
 ment by saying that Reform would lead to a new 
 disposal of Church property, and to the spoliation 
 of the Irish Church. He thought as, by a curious 
 turn of the tables, Radicals think now, that the 
 diseases of society can to a large extent be reme- 
 died by State interference. Like Mr. Ruskin, his 
 views on social questions were not those of the 
 political economist ; and it must be admitted that 
 he held objections to some branches of science, as 
 unreasonable as the poet Cowper's contempt for 
 geology. On the other hand, Southey was in 
 many respects a reformer in advance of his age. 
 He favored national education ; he wrote, in the 
 
28 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 early years of the century, against the absurd 
 injustice of the laws of copyright ; he was one 
 of the first advocates for the establishment of 
 Protestant Sisters of Mercy, and for a better order 
 of hospital nurses ; he joined Lord Ashley in his 
 efforts to remove the abuses of the factory system, 
 and to protect children ; he objected to the need- 
 less severity of the criminal laws ; he urged in 
 strenuous language the diminution of public 
 houses ; he advocated a well organized system of 
 emigration, as well as the most liberal treatment 
 of the Colonies. Other instances of his zeal 
 in the cause of social reform are recorded by 
 Southey's son, who adds, and I think rightl}', that 
 his father was one of the chief pioneers of most 
 of the great improvements taking place in our 
 time. 
 
 Lord Macaulay — who, l>y the admission of his 
 nephew, was a " determined and fiery partisan" — 
 writes of Southey's intolerance and bitterness 
 towards opponents ; and Hazlitt, of all men ! has 
 echoed the same opinion. It is not necessary to 
 defend him in this respect. He had strong feel- 
 ings, and no doubt expressed them with a vehe- 
 mence not always justifiable. But it was enough 
 for him to meet an opponent to forget all points 
 of difference, and in his heart of hearts he was 
 among the most charitable of men. "Political 
 questions,'" he wrote to Sir Henry Taylor, " will 
 
INTRODUCTION. 29 
 
 never excite any difference between us in the 
 slightest degree. I have lived all my life in the 
 nearest and dearest intimacy with persons who 
 were most opposed to me in such things" ; and to 
 another correspondent he saj'^s : " I have an in- 
 stinctive horror of bigotry. When Dissenters 
 talk of the Establishment, they make me feel like 
 a High Churchman ; and when I get among High 
 Churchmen I am ready to take refuge in Dis- 
 sent." 
 
 His happiest hours were spent with the great 
 spirits in his library in a communion free from the 
 discord of controversy. Some of his friends, 
 especially Wordsworth, who had no bookish feel- 
 ing about him, thought that Southey's love of 
 books made him indifferent to other things. No 
 doubt it was his tendency to live most joyously in 
 his library — just as it was Wordsworth's ten- 
 dency, although he could read a poem now and 
 then which he had not written, to disregard all 
 books save his own volumes : and it must be 
 admitted that as life advanced, and the evening 
 shadows fell upon him, Southey clung more than 
 ever to his favorite authors. "Books," he wrote 
 to Caroline Bowles, "are all but everything to me. 
 I live with them and by them, and might almost 
 say for them and in them." This was in 1830, 
 when, to use Mr. Dowden's fine expression, he 
 was " stepping downwards from the heights of 
 
30 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 life " ; but the correspondence with Miss Bowles 
 is itself sufficient to show that a o-i-owinoi: passion 
 for books neither lessened the warmth of his 
 friendship nor his readiness to do good to 
 others. 
 
 Looking over what I have written, I feel how 
 impossible it is to represent the finest features of 
 Southey's character in a sketch so slight and 
 shadowy. JSIore than forty years have gone by 
 since he was laid to rest in Crosthwaite Church- 
 yard, and, familiar though the name still is, the 
 man is passing from remembrance. One of the 
 poets of a younger generation, who knew him best 
 and loved him most, died recently, ripe in years 
 and tame, and, apart from Southey's son, there are 
 noAV few men living who can speak of him with the 
 affection of personal friends. Sir Henry Taylor, 
 in a passage that has been often quoted, has ex- 
 pressed his conviction that, Avhile there were 
 greater poets in his generation, and men of a 
 deeper philosophic faculty, yet that for genial 
 piety, moral strength, the magnitude and variety 
 of his powers, the field he covered in literature, 
 and the beauty of his life, it may be said of 
 Southey "justly, and with no straining of the 
 truth, that of all his contemporaries he was the 
 greatest man." 
 
 It may l)e so, but comparisons are rarely satis- 
 factory, and are always likely to provoke opposi- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 31 
 
 tion. This, however, can be said, without any 
 feeling of hesitation, that the more intimate we 
 grow with Southey's daily life, the deeper is our 
 admiration of its consistency and heroism. And 
 this life of unflinching fealty to duty was pre-emi- 
 nently a happy life. All his deepest affections 
 were centred in his home, and, while the home 
 circle remained unbroken, to live laborious days 
 was no pressure on his buoyant spirit. And his 
 mirthfulness was not owing to that want of reflec- 
 tion which leads a man to be satisfied with the 
 sunshine of the hour. He looked Death in the 
 face and did not fear him, believing in the "shall 
 be hereafter." " I do not know," he writes, " that 
 person who is happier than myself and who has 
 more reason to be happy, and never was man 
 more habitually cheerful ; but this belief is the root 
 which gives life to all and holds all fast." Life, 
 said Pope, when the first heats are over, is all 
 down hill. It Avas not altogether so with Southey, 
 but, as the days went on, domestic sorrow tried 
 his afiectionate nature to the uttermost, and three 
 years before he died silence and darkness covered 
 that large heart and eager intellect. Could it have 
 been with a poet's prescience of coming evil that 
 Landor sent to his friend the well remembered 
 lines which are among the most touchino; he ever 
 wrote ? — 
 
32 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The dance of youtli, O Soutliey, runs not round, 
 
 But closes at the bottom of the room 
 
 Amid the falling dust and deepening gloom, 
 
 Where the weary sit them down, 
 
 And Beauty too imbraids, and waits a lovelier crown. 
 
 We hurry to the river we must cross, 
 And swifter downward every footstep wends ; 
 Happy, who reach it ere they coimt the loss 
 Of lialf their faculties and half their friends. 
 
ROBERT SOUTHET 
 
 THE STORY OF HIS LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Early Recollections — Bath — Miss Tyler — First Impressions of the 
 Theatre — Days at Bedmiuster — Heads Shakespcre and Beau- 
 mont and Fletcher — Writes Rhymes — Schools and School- 
 masters. 
 
 [At the age of 46 Southey wrote a series of let- 
 ters to his friend John May, recalling his early 
 life. Beyond the days of youth his recollections 
 do not extend. He suggests, indeed, in the first 
 letter that he may not have the leisure or the 
 courage to i)ursue the story to the end, adding, 
 " Courage, I mean, to live again in remembrance 
 with the dead, so much as I must needs do in re- 
 tracing the course of my life." It is this feeling 
 which has brought many an autobiography abruptly 
 to the end. Yet he confesses that his life had 
 been one of sunshine and that he was still looking 
 forward with hope. With a few necessary words 
 of introduction, some of these autol)iographical let- 
 ters shall be given in a condensed form. The poet's 
 father, who had more taste for field sports than for 
 trade, was a linen-draper at Bristol. In 1772 he 
 
 33 
 
34 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 married Margaret Hill, whose half-sister, Miss 
 Tyler, figures conspicuously in Southey's early 
 years. Robert was born on the 12th of August, 
 1774, and when he made his appearance, "my 
 mother, asking if it was a boy, was answered by 
 her nurse, in a tone as little favorable to me as the 
 opinion was flattering, ' Ay, a great ugly boy,' and , 
 she added when she told me this, ' God forgive 
 me ! — when I saw what a great red creature it 
 was, covered with rolls of fat, I thought I should 
 never be able to love him ! ' " A great part of 
 Robert's earliest childhood was spent at Bath, in 
 the house of his eccentric aunt. Miss Tyler,] 
 
 Here my time was chiefly passed from the age 
 of two till six. I had many indulgences, but more 
 privations, and those of an injurious kind ; want 
 of playmates, want of exercise, never being 
 allowed to do anything in which by possibility I 
 might dirt myself; late hours in company, that is 
 to say, late hours for a child, which I reckon 
 among the privations (having always had the 
 healthiest propensity for going to bed betimes) ; 
 late hours of rising, which were less painful per- 
 haps, but in other respects worse. My aunt 
 chose that I should sleep with her, and this sub- 
 jected me to a double evil. She used to have her 
 bed warmed, and during the months while this 
 practice was in season I was always put into 
 Molly's bed first, for fear of an accident from the 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 35 
 
 warming-pan, and removed when my aunt went 
 to bed, so that I was regularly wakened out of a 
 sound sleep. This, however, Avas not half so bad 
 us beinof oblio^ed to lie till nine, and not unfre- 
 quently till ten in the morning, and not daring to 
 make the sliohtest movement which could disturb 
 her during the hours that I lay awake, and long- 
 ing to be set free. These were, indeed, early and 
 severe lessons of patience. jNIy poor little wits 
 were upon the alert at those tedious hours of com- 
 pulsory idleness, fancying figures and combinations 
 of form in the curtains, wondering at the motes 
 in the slant sunbeam, and watchins: the liaht from 
 the crevices of the window-shutters, till it served 
 me at last by its progressive motion to measure 
 the lapse of time. Thoroughly injudicious as my 
 education under Miss Tyler was, no part of it 
 was so irksome as this. 
 
 Miss Tyler had a numerous acquaintance, such 
 as her person and talents (\vhich were of no ordi- 
 nary kind) were likely to attract. The circle of 
 her Herefordshire acquaintance, extending as far 
 as the sphere of the three music meetings in the 
 three dioceses of Hereford, Worcester, and Glou- 
 cester, she became intimate with the family of 
 Mr. Raikes, printer and proprietor of the Glouces- 
 ter Journal. One of his sons introduced Sunday 
 Schools into this kingdom; others became India 
 Directors, Bank Directors, etc., in the career of 
 
36 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY S LIFE. 
 
 mercantile prosperity. His daughter, who was 
 my aunt's friend, married Francis Newberry of 
 St. Paul's Churchyard, son of that Francis New- 
 berry who published Goody Two-shoes, Giles 
 Gingerbread, and other such delectable histories 
 in sixpenny books for children, splendidly bound 
 in the flowered and gilt Dutch paper of former 
 days. As soon as I could read, which was very 
 early, Mr. Newberry presented me with a whole 
 set of these liooks, more than twenty in number : 
 I dare say they were in Miss Tyler's possession 
 at her death, and in perfect preservation, for she 
 taught me (and I thank her for it) never to spoil 
 or injure anything. This was a rich present, and 
 may have been more" instrumental than I am aware 
 of in giving me that love of books, and that de- 
 cided determination to literature, as the one thing 
 desirable, which manifested itself from my child- 
 hood, and which no circumstances in after life ever 
 slackened or abated. 
 
 Miss Tyler Avas exceedingly fond of theatrical 
 representations, and there was no subject of which 
 I heard so much from my earliest childhood. It 
 even brought upon me once a most severe repre- 
 hension for innocently applying to the church a 
 phrase which, I then learnt to my cost, belonget 
 only to the playhouse, and saying one Sunday, on 
 our return from morning service, that it had been 
 a. very full house. When I was taken to the the- 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 37 
 
 atre for the first time, I can perfectly well remem- 
 ber my surprise at not finding the pit literally a 
 deep hole, into which I had often puzzled niA'self 
 to think how or why any persons could possibly 
 go. You may judge by this how very young I 
 must have been. I recollect nothing more of the 
 first visit, except that the play was The Fathers^ a 
 comedy of Fielding's, which was acted not more 
 than one season, and the farce was Coxlieath 
 Camp. This recollection, however, by the help 
 of that useful book the BiograjiJiia Dramatica, 
 fixes the date to 1778, when I was four years 
 old. 
 
 I was introduced to the theatre before it was 
 possible for me to comprehend the nature of the 
 drama, so as to derive any pleasure from it, ex- 
 cept as a mere show. What was going on upon 
 the stage, as far as I understood it, appeared real 
 to me ; and I have been told that one night, when 
 The Critic was represented, and I heard that Sir 
 Walter Raleigh's head was to be cut off*, I hid 
 mine in Miss Mary Delamere's lap, and could not 
 be persuaded to look up, till I was assured the 
 dreaded scene was over. 
 
 Miss Tyler, whose ascendency over my mother 
 was always that of an imperious elder sister, 
 would not suffer me to be breeched till I was six 
 years old, though I was tall of my age. I had a 
 fantastic costume of nankeen for highdays and 
 
38 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 holy days, trimmed with green fringe ; it was 
 called a vest and tunic, or a jam. When at last I 
 changed my dress, it was for coat, waistcoat, and 
 breeches of foresters' green ; at that time there 
 was no intermediate form of apparel in use. I 
 was then sent as a day scholar to a school on the 
 top of St. Michael's or jNIile Hill, which was then 
 esteemed the best in Bristol, kept by Mr. Foot, 
 a dissenting minister of the comnmnity called 
 General Baptists, in contradistinction to the Par- 
 ticular or Calvinistic Baptists. He was an old 
 man, and if the school had ever been a good one, 
 it had wofully deteriorated. I was one of the 
 least boys there, I believe the very least, and 
 certainly both as Avilling and as apt to learn as 
 any teacher could have desired : yet it was the 
 only school where I was ever treated with severity. 
 Lessons in the grammar, which I did not compre- 
 hend, and yet could have learnt well enough by 
 rote under gentle discipline and a good-natured 
 teacher, were frightened out of my head, and then 
 I was shut up during playtime in a closet at the 
 top of the stairs, where there w^as just light 
 enough through some bars to see my lesson by. 
 Once he caned me cruel 1}% — the only time that 
 any master ever laid his hand upon me, — and I 
 aiH sure he deserved a beating much more than I 
 did. There was a great deal of tyranny in the 
 school, from the worst of which I was exempted, 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 39 
 
 because I went home in the evening ; but I stood 
 in great fear of the l)ig l)oys, and saw much more 
 of the evil side of human nature than I should 
 ever have learnt in the course of domestic educa- 
 tion. 
 
 [When the boy had stayed there twelve months, 
 the master died, and he was removed to a school 
 at Corston, a village nine miles from Bristol.] 
 
 Here one year of my life was past with little 
 profit, and with a good deal of suffering. There 
 could not be a worse school in all respects. 
 Thomas Flower, the master, was a remarkable 
 man, worthy of a better station in life, but utterly 
 unfit for that in which he was placed. Plis whole 
 delight was in mathematics and astronomy, and he 
 had constructed an orrery upon so large a scale 
 that it filled a room. What a misery it must have 
 been for such a man to teach a set of stupid boys, 
 year after year, the rudiments of arithmetic. 
 And a misery he seemed to feel it. When he 
 came into his desk, even there he was thinking of 
 the stars, and looked as if he were out of humor, 
 not from ill-nature, but because his calculations 
 were interrupted. But for the most part he left 
 the school to the care of his son Charley, a person 
 who was always called by that familiar diminutive, 
 and whose consequence you may appreciate ac- 
 cordingly. Writing and arithmetic were all they 
 professed to teach; but twice in the week a 
 
40 THE STOEY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 Frenchman came from Bristol to instruct in Latin 
 the small number of bo^'s "who learnt it, of Avhom 
 I was one. 
 
 Though I had a full share of discomfort at Cors- 
 ton, I recollect nothing there so painful as that of 
 being kept up every night till a certain hour, 
 when I was dying with sleepiness. Sometimes I 
 stole away to bed ; but it was not easy to do this, 
 and I found that it Avas not desirable, because the 
 other boys played tricks upon me when they 
 came. But I dreaded nothing so nmcli as Sunday 
 evening in winter : Ave were then assembled in the 
 hall, to hear the master read a sermon, or a por- 
 tion of Stackhouse's Ilistorj^ of the Bible. Here 
 I sat at the end of a long form, in sight but not 
 within feeling of the fire, my feet cold, my eyelids 
 heavy as lead, and yet not daring to close them, 
 kept awake by fear alone, in total inaction, and 
 under the operation of a lecture more soporific 
 than the strongest sleeping dose. Heaven help 
 the wits of those good people who think that 
 children are to be edified by having sermons read 
 to them ! 
 
 [On the death of the boy's grandmother. Miss 
 Tyler took up her abode at Bedminster, a house 
 near Bristol, and there for a while Eobert was 
 sent, the Corston school having broken up, not 
 without good reason.] 
 
 I have so many vivid feelings connected with 
 
THE STOEY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 41 
 
 this house at Bedminster, that if it had not been 
 in a vile neighborhood, I believe my heart would 
 have been set upon purchasing it, and fixing my 
 abode there where the happiest days of my child- 
 hood Avere spent. My grandfather built it (about 
 the year 1740, I suppose), and had made it what 
 was then thought a thoroughly commodious and 
 ofood house for one in his rank of life. It stood in 
 a lane, some two or three hundred yards from the 
 great western road. You ascended by several 
 semicircular steps into what Avas called the fore 
 court, but was in fact a flower-garden, with a 
 broad pavement from the gate to the porch. That 
 porch was in great part lined, as well as covered, 
 with white jessamine ; and many a time have I sat 
 there with my poor sisters, threading the fallen 
 blossoms upon grass stalks. It opened into a 
 little hall, paved with diamond-shaped flags. On 
 the right hand was the parlor, Avhich had a brown 
 or black boarded floor, covered with a Lisbon 
 mat, and a handsome timepiece over the fireplace ; 
 on the left was the best kitchen, in which the 
 family lived. The best kitchen is an apartment 
 that belongs to other days, and is now no longer 
 to be seen, except in houses which, having re- 
 mained unaltered for the last half century, are 
 inhabited by persons a degree lower in society 
 than their former possessors. The one which I 
 am now callino- to mind after an interval of more 
 
42 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 than forty years, was a cheerful room, with an 
 air of such country comfort about it, that my little 
 heart was always gladdened when I entered it 
 during my grandmother's life. It had a stone 
 floor, which I believe was the chief distinction 
 between a best kitchen and a parlor. The furni- 
 ture consisted of a clock, a large oval oak table 
 with two flaps (over which two or three fowling- 
 pieces had their place) , a round tea-table of cherry 
 wood, Windsor chairs of the same, and two large 
 armed ones of that easy make (of all makes it is 
 the easiest), in one of which my grandmother 
 always sat. On one side of the flreplace the 
 china was displayed in a bufiet — that is, a cup- 
 board witli glass doors ; on the other were closets 
 for articles less ornamental, but more in use. 
 The room was wainscoted and ornamented with 
 some old maps, and with a long looking-glass over 
 the chimney-piece, and a tall one between the 
 windows, both in white frames. The windows 
 opened into the fore-court, and were as cheerful 
 and fragrant in the season of flowers as roses and 
 jessamine, which grew luxuriantly without, could 
 make them. There was a passage between this 
 apartment and the kitchen, long enough to admit 
 of a large airy pantry, and a larder on the left 
 hand, the windows of both opening into the bar- 
 ton,* as did those of the kitchen ; on the right 
 * An enclosed place, or inner yard. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LITE. 43 
 
 was a cloor into the back court. There was a 
 rack in the kitchen well furnished with bacon, and 
 a mistletoe bush always suspended from the mid- 
 dle of the ceilinof. 
 
 It was very seldom, indeed, that my grand- 
 mother went to Bristol. I scarcely recollect ever 
 to have seen her there. The extent of her walks 
 was to church, which she never missed, unless the 
 weather absolutely confined her to the house. She 
 was not able to attend the evening service also, on 
 account of the distance ; but in the morning she 
 was constant, and always in good time ; for if she 
 were not there before the absolution, she used to 
 say that she might as well have remained at home. 
 At other times she rarely went out of her own 
 premises. Neighbors of her own rank there 
 were none within her reach ; her husband's ac- 
 quaintance had mostly died off, and she had made 
 no new ones since his death. Her greatest happi- 
 ness was to have my mother there with some of 
 the young fry; and we, on our part, had no 
 pleasure so great as that of a visit to Bedminster. 
 It was, indeed, for my mother, as well as for us, 
 an advantage beyond all price to have this quiet 
 country home at so easy a distance, abounding as 
 it did with all country comforts. Bedminster 
 itself was an ugly, dirt}^ poor, populous village, 
 many of the inhabitants being colliers. But the 
 coal pits were in a different part of the parish, 
 
44 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 and the house was at a sufficient distance from all 
 annoyances. If there was no beauty of situation, 
 there was complete retirement, and perfect com- 
 fort. The view was merely to a field and cottage 
 on the other side the lane, on a rising ground 
 belonging to the property. But the little Avorld 
 within was our own. And to me it was quite a 
 diflerent world from that in which I lived at other 
 times. My father's house was in one of the busi- 
 est and noisiest streets of Bristol, and of course 
 had no outlets. At Bath I was under perpetual 
 restraint. But here I had all wholesome liberty, 
 all wholesome indulgence, all wholesome enjoy- 
 ments ; and the delight which I there learned to 
 take in rural sights and sounds, has grown up 
 with me and continues unabated to this day. 
 
 My chief anmsement was in the garden, where 
 I found endless entertainment in the flowers and 
 in observing insects. I had little propensity to 
 any boyish sports, and less expertness in them. 
 My uncles Edward and William used to reproach 
 me with this sometimes, saying they never saw 
 such a boy. One school-boy's art, however, they 
 taught me, which I have never read of, nor seen 
 practised elsewhere ; it was that of converting a 
 marble into a black witch, and thereby making it 
 lucky. You know that if a marble be put in the 
 fire, it makes a good detonating ball. I have sac- 
 rificed many a one so, to frighten the cook. But 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 45 
 
 if the marble be wrapped up in brown paper (per- 
 haps any paper may answer the purpose as well) 
 with some suet or dripping round about it, it will 
 not explode while the fat is burning, and when 
 you take it out of the grate it is as black as jet. 
 
 But if I was unapt at ordinary sports, a bota- 
 nist or entomologist would have found me a will- 
 ing pupil in those years ; and if I had fallen in 
 with one, I might perhaps, at this very day, have 
 been classifying mosses, and writing upon the 
 natural history of snails or cockchafers, instead of 
 recording the events of the Peninsular War. I 
 knew every variety of grass blossom that the 
 fields produced, and in what situations to look for 
 each. I discovered that snails seal themselves up 
 in their shells during the winter; and that ants 
 make their way into the cockchafer through an 
 aperture in the breast, and eat out its inside while 
 it is yet alive. This gave me a great dislike to 
 the ants, which even the delightful papers about 
 them in The Guardian did not overcome. Two 
 curious facts concerning these insects, which fell 
 under m}^ own observation in those days, are 
 worthy of being noted. They spoilt the produce 
 of some of our best currant trees one year. The 
 trees were trained against a wall, the ants walked 
 over them continually and in great num1)ers (I 
 cannot tell why, but probably after the aphides, 
 which, as Kirby and Spence tell us, they regularly 
 
46 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 milk), and thus they imparted so rank a smell to 
 the fruit that it could not be eaten. The ants 
 were very numerous that season, and this occa- 
 sioned a just and necessary war upon them. 
 They had made a highway through the porch, 
 alono^ the interstices of the flao^stones. The riofht 
 of path, as you may suppose, was not acquiesced 
 in ; and when this road was as full as Cheapside at 
 noonday, boiling Avater was poured upon it. The 
 bodies, however, all disappeared in a few hours, 
 carried away, as we supposed, by their comrades. 
 But we know that some insects are marvellously 
 retentive of life ; and this circumstance has some- 
 times tempted me to suspect that an ant may 
 derive no more injury from being boiled than a 
 fly from being l)ottled in Madeira, or a snail from 
 having its head cut off, or from lying seven years 
 in a collector's cabinet. Of the latter fact (which 
 was already authenticated) my neighbor, Mr. 
 Fryer of Ormathwaite, had proof the other day. 
 There are three flowers which, to this day, 
 always remind me of Bedminster. The Syringa 
 or Roman Jessamine, which covered an arbor in 
 the fore-court, and another at the bottom of the 
 kitchen-garden ; the everlasting pea, which grew 
 most luxuriantly under the best kitchen windows ; 
 and the evening primrose : my grandmother loved 
 to watch the opening of this singularly delicate 
 flower — a flower, indeed, which in purity and 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 47 
 
 delicacy seems to me to exceed all others. She 
 called it '' mortality," because these beauties pass 
 away so soon, and because in the briefness of its 
 continuance (living only for a night) it reminded 
 her of human life. 
 
 My grandmother died in 1782, and either in the 
 latter end of that year, or the ensuing January, I 
 was placed at poor old Williams',* whom, as 
 that expression indicates, I remember with feelings 
 of good will. I had commenced poet before this, 
 at how early an age I cannot call to mind ; but I 
 very well recollect that my first composition, both 
 in manner and sentiment, might have been deemed 
 a very hopeful imitation of the Bellman's verses. 
 The discovery, however, that I could write rhymes 
 gave me great pleasure, wdiich was in no slight 
 degree heightened when I perceived that my 
 mother was not only pleased with what I had pro- 
 duced, but proud of it. Miss Tyler had intended, 
 as far as she was concerned, to give me a system- 
 atic education, and for this purpose (as she after- 
 wards told me) purchased a translation of 
 Rousseau's Emilius. That s^^stem being happily 
 even more impracticable than Mr. Edgeworth's, I 
 was lucky enough to escape from any experiment 
 of this kind, and there good fortune provided for 
 me, better than any method could have done. 
 
 * Williams kept a school in Bristol; Southey was a day 
 boarder. — [Ed. 
 
48 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 Nothing could be more propitious for nie, consid- 
 ering my aptitudes and tendency of mind, than 
 Miss Tyler's predilection, I might almost call it 
 passion, for the theatre. Owing to this, Shakes- 
 pere was in my hands as soon as I could read ; 
 and it was long before I had any other knowledge 
 of the history of England than what I gathered 
 from his plays. Indeed, when first I read the 
 plain matter of fact, the difierence which appeared 
 then puzzled and did not please me ; and for some 
 time I preferred Shakespere's authority to the his- 
 torian's. 
 
 It is curious that Titus Andronicus was at 
 first ray favorite play, partly, I suppose, because 
 there was nothing in the characters above my com- 
 prehension ; but the chief reason must have been 
 that tales of horror make a deep impression upon 
 children, as they do upon the vulgar, for whom, 
 as their ballads prove, no tragedy can be too 
 bloody — they excite astonishment rather than 
 pity. I went through Beaumont and Fletcher 
 also, before I was eight years old; circumstances 
 enalile me to recollect the time accurately. Beau- 
 mont and Fletcher were great theatrical names, 
 and therefore there was no scruple about letting 
 me peruse their works. What harm, indeed, could 
 they do me at that age ? I read them merely foi 
 the interest which the stories afibrded, and under- 
 stood the worse parts as little as I did the better. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 49 
 
 But I acquired imperceptibly from such reading 
 familiarity with the diction, and ear for the 
 blank verse of our great masters. In general I 
 gave myself no trouble with what I did not under- 
 stand ; the story was intelligible, and that was 
 enouoh. But the knis^ht of the Burninsf Pestle 
 perplexed me terribly ; burlesque of this kind is 
 the last thing that a child can comprehend. It set 
 me longing, however, for Pahnerin of England^ 
 and that longing was never gratified till I read it 
 in the original Portuguese. My favorite play 
 upon the stage was Oymbeline, and next to that, 
 As You Like It. They are both romantic 
 dramas ; and no one had ever a more decided turn 
 for music or for numbers than I had for romance. 
 You will wonder that this education should not 
 have made me a dramatic writer. I had seen 
 more plays before I was seven years old than I 
 have ever seen since I was twenty, and heard more 
 conversation about the theatre than any other sub- 
 ject. Miss Tyler had given up her house at 
 Walcot before I went to Corston ; and when I 
 visited her from school, she was herself a guest 
 with Miss Palmer and her sister Mrs. Bartlett, 
 whose property was vested in the Bath and Bristol 
 theatres. Their house was in Galloway's Build- 
 ings, from whence a covered passage led to the 
 playhouse, and they very rarely missed a night's 
 performance. I was too old to be put to bed 
 
50 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 before the performance began, and it was better 
 that I should be taken than left with the servants ; 
 therefore I was always of the party ; and it is im- 
 possible to describe the thorough delight which I 
 received from this habitual indulgence. No after 
 enjoyment could equal or approach it ; I was sen- 
 sible of no defects either in the dramas or in the 
 representation : better acting indeed could nowhere 
 have been found ; Mrs. Siddons was the heroine, 
 Dimond and Murray would have done credit to 
 any stage, and among the comic actors were Edwin 
 and Blanchard — and Blisset, Avho, though never 
 known to a London audience, was, of all comic 
 actors whom I have ever seen, the most perfect. 
 But I was happily insensible to that difference 
 between good and bad acting which, in riper years, 
 takes off so much from the pleasure of dramatic 
 representation ; everything answered the height 
 of my expectations and desires. And I saw it in 
 perfect comfort, in a small theatre, from the front 
 row of a box, not too far from the centre. The 
 Bath theatre was said to be the most comfortable 
 in England ; and no expense was spared in the 
 scenery and decorations. 
 
 My aunt, who hoarded everything, except 
 money, preserved the play-bills, and had a collec- 
 tion of them which Dr. Burney might have envied. 
 As she rarely or never suffered me to be out-of- 
 doors, lest I should dirt my clothes, these play- 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 51 
 
 bills were one of the substitutes devised for my 
 amusement instead of healthy and natural sports. 
 I was encouraged to prick them with a pin, letter 
 by letter : and for want of anything better, became 
 as fond of this employment as women sometimes 
 are of netting or any ornamental work. I learnt 
 to do it with great precision, pricking the larger 
 types by their outline, so that when they were 
 held up to the window they were bordered with 
 spots of light. The object was to illuminate the 
 whole bill in this manner. I have done it to hun- 
 dreds ; and yet I can well remember the sort of 
 dissatisfied and damping feeling which the sight 
 of one of these bills would give me, a day or two 
 after it had been finished and laid by. It was 
 like an illumination when half the lamps are gone 
 out. This amusement gave my writing-masters no 
 little trouble ; for, in spite of all their lessons, I 
 held a pen as I had been used to hold the pin. 
 
 Miss Tyler was considered as an amateur and 
 patroness of the stage. She was well acquainted 
 with Henderson, but of him I have no recollection. 
 He left Bath, I believe, just as my play-going 
 days began. Edwin, I remember, gave me an 
 ivory windmill, when I was about four years old; 
 and there was no family with wdiich she was more 
 intimate than Dimond's. She w^as thrown also 
 into the company of dramatic writers at Mr. Pal- 
 mer's, who resided then about a mile from Bath, 
 
52 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 on the Upper Bristol Road, at a house called West 
 Hall. Here she became acquainted with Coleman 
 and Sheridan, and Cumberland and Holcroft : but 
 I did not see any of them in those years ; and the 
 two former, indeed, never. Sophia Lee was Mrs. 
 Palmer's most intimate friend ; she was then in 
 high reputation for the first volume of TJie Recess, 
 and for the Chapter of Accidents. You will not 
 wonder that hearing, as I continually did, of living 
 authors, and seeing in what estimation they were 
 held, I formed a great notion of the dignity at- 
 tached to their profession. Perhaps in no other 
 circle could this effect so surely have been pro- 
 duced as* in a dramatic one, where ephemeral 
 productions excite an intense interest while they 
 last. Superior as I thought actors to all other 
 men, it was not long before I perceived that au- 
 thors were still a higher class. 
 
 Though I have not become a dramatist, my 
 earliest dreams of authorship were, as might be 
 anticipated, from such circumstances, of a dra- 
 matic form, and the notion which I had formed of 
 dramatic composition was not inaccurate. " It is 
 the easiest thing in the world to write a play ! " 
 said I to Miss Palmer, as we were in a carriage on 
 Redcliffe Hill one day, returning from Bristol to 
 Bedminster. " Is it, my dear ? " was her reply. 
 "Yes," I continued, "for you know you have only 
 to think what you would say if you were in the 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 53 
 
 place of the characters, and to make them say it." 
 This brings to mind some milucky illustrations 
 which I made use of about the same time to the 
 same lady, with the view of enforcing what I con- 
 ceived to be jjood and considerate advice. Miss 
 Palmer was on a visit to my aunt at Bedminster ; 
 they had fallen out, as they sometimes would do ; 
 these bickerings produced a fit of sullenness in the 
 former, which was not shaken off for some days ; 
 and while it lasted, she usually sat with her apron 
 over her face. I really thought she would injure 
 her eyes by this, and told her so in great kind- 
 ness ; " for you know, Miss Palmer," said I, " that 
 everything gets out of order if it is not used. A 
 book, if it is not opened, will become damp and 
 mouldy ; and a key, if it is never turned in the 
 lock, gets rusty." Just then my aunt entered the 
 room. "Lord, Miss Tyler!" said the ofiended 
 lady, " what do you think this child has been say- 
 ing? He has been comparing my eyes to a rusty 
 key and a mouldy book." This speech, however, 
 was not without some good effect, for it restored 
 good humor. Miss Palmer was an odd woman with 
 a kind heart ; one of those persons who are not 
 respected so much as they deserve, because their 
 dispositions are better than their understanding. 
 She had a most generous and devoted attachment 
 to Miss Tyler, which was not alwaj^s requited as 
 it ought to have been. The earliest dream which 
 
54 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 I can remember, related to her ; it was singular 
 enough to impress itself indelibly upon my mem- 
 ory. I thought I was sitting with her in her 
 drawing-room (chairs, carpet, and everything are 
 now visibly present to my mind's eye) when the 
 devil was introduced as a morning visitor. Such 
 an appearance, for he was in his full costume of 
 horns, black bat-wings, tail, and cloven feet, put 
 me in ghostly and bodily fear ; but she received 
 him with perfect politeness, called him dear Mr. 
 Devil, desired the servant to put him a chair, and 
 expressed her delight at being favored with a 
 call. 
 
 There was much more promise implied in my 
 notion of how a play ought to be written than 
 would have been found in any of my attempts. 
 The first subject which I tried was the continence 
 of Scipio, suggested by a print in a pocket-book. 
 Battles were introduced in abundance ; because 
 the battle in Cymbeline was one of my favorite 
 scenes ; and because Congreve's hero in The 
 Mourning Bride finds the writmg of his father 
 in prison, I made my prince of Numantia find 
 pen, ink, and paper, that he might write to his 
 mistress. An act and a half of this nonsense ex- 
 hausted my perseverance. Another story ran for 
 a long time in my head, and I had planned the 
 characters to suit the actors on the Bath stage. 
 The fable was taken from a collection of tales, 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 55 
 
 every circumstance of which has completely faded 
 from my recollection, except that the scene of the 
 story in question was laid in Italy, and the time, 
 I think, about Justinian's reign. The book must 
 have been at least thirty or forty years old then, 
 and I should recognize it if it ever fell in my 
 way. While this dramatic passion continued, I 
 wished ray friends to partake of it ; and soon after 
 I went to Williams' school, persuaded one of my 
 school-fellows to write a tragedy. Ballard was 
 his name, the son of a surgeon at Portbury, a 
 good-natured fellow, with a round face which I 
 have not seen for seven or eight-and-thirty years, 
 and yet fancy that I could recognize it now, and 
 should be right glad to see it. He liked the 
 suggestion, and agreed to it very readily, but he 
 could not tell what to write about, I irave him a 
 story. But then another difficulty was discovered ; 
 he could not devise names for the personages of 
 the drama. I gave him a most heroic assortment 
 of propria qum marihus et foeminis. He had now 
 got his Dramatis Personce, but he could not tell 
 what to make them say, and then I gave up the 
 business. I made the same attempt with another 
 school-fellow, and with no better success. It 
 seemed to me very odd that they should not be 
 able to write plays as well as to do their les- 
 sons. 
 
 Of all my schoolmasters Williams is the one 
 
56 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 whom I remember with the kindliest feelings. 
 His Welsh blood was too easily roused ; and his 
 spirit was soured by the great decline of his 
 school. His numbers in its best days had been 
 from seventy to a hundred ; now they did not 
 reach forty, when the times were dearer by all the 
 difference which the American "War had occa- 
 sioned, and his terms could not be raised in pro- 
 portion to the increased price of everything, 
 because schools had multiplied. When his ill 
 circumstances pressed upon him, he gave way, 
 perhaps more readily, to impulses of anger; be- 
 cause anger, like drunkenness, suspends the sense 
 of care, and an irascible emotion is felt as a relief 
 from painful thoughts. His old wig, like a bank 
 of morning clouds in the east, used to indicate a 
 stormy day. At better times both the wig and 
 the countenance Avould have beseemed a higher 
 station ; and his anger was the more fris-htful be- 
 cause at those better times there was an expression 
 of good humor and animation in his features which 
 was singularly pleasing, and I believe denoted his 
 genuine character. 
 
 And here let me state the deliberate opinion 
 upon the contested subject of public or private 
 education, which I have formed from what I have 
 experienced and heard and observed. A juster 
 estimate of one's self is acquired at school than 
 can be formed in the course of domestic instruc- 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 57 
 
 tion, and what is of much more consequence, a 
 better intuition into the characters of others than 
 there is any chance of learning in after life. I 
 have said that this is of more consequence than 
 one's self estimate ; because the error upon that 
 score which domestic education tends to produce 
 is on the right side — that of diffidence and 
 humility. These advantages a day scholar ob- 
 tains, and he avoids great part of the evils which 
 are to be set against them. He cannot, indeed, 
 wholly escape pollution ; but he is far less exposed 
 to it than if he were a boarder. He suffers noth- 
 ing from t3'^ranny, which is carried to excess in 
 schools ; nor has he much opportunity of acquir- 
 ing or indulging malicious and tyrannical propen- 
 sities himself. Above all, his religious habits, 
 which it is almost impossible to retain at school, are 
 safe. I would gladly send a son to a good school 
 by day ; but rather than board him at the best, 
 I would, at whatever inconvenience, educate him 
 myself. What I have said applies to public 
 schools as well as private ; of the advantages which 
 the former possess I shall have occasion to speak 
 hereafter. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 The Autobiography, continued — His Father's Library — Tasso, Ari- 
 osto, and Spenser — School-Days in Bristol — Epic Dreams. 
 
 My home, for the first two years while I went 
 to Williams' school, was at my fathers, except 
 that during the holydays I was with Miss Tyler, 
 either Avhen she had lodgings at Bath, or was 
 visitins: Miss Palmer there. The first sum- 
 mer holydays I passed with her at Weymouth, 
 whither she was invited to join her friend Mrs. 
 Dolignon. 
 
 This lady, whom I remember with the utmost 
 reverence and affection, was a widow with two 
 children, Louisa, wdio was three or four years 
 older than me, and John, who was just my age. 
 Her maiden name was Delamare, she and her hus- 
 band being both of refugee race, — an extraction of 
 which I should be far more proud than if my fam- 
 ily name w^ere to be found in the Roll of Battle 
 A1)bey. I have heard that Mr. Dolignon, in some 
 delirium, died by his own hand, and this perhaps 
 may have broken her spirits, and given a subdued 
 and somewhat pensive manner to one who was 
 naturally among the gentlest, meekest, kindest of 
 
 58 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 59 
 
 human beings. She had known me at Bath in 
 my earliest childhood ; I had the good fortune 
 then to obtain a place in her afiections, and that 
 place I retained, even when she thought it neces- 
 sary to estrange me from her family. 
 
 Landor, who paints always with the finest 
 touch of truth, whether he is describing external 
 or internal nature, makes his Charoba disappointed 
 at the first sight of the sea : — 
 
 " She coldly said, her long-lashed eyes abased, 
 Is this the mighty ocean? — Is this all? " 
 
 and this he designs as characteristic of a " soul dis- 
 contented with capacity." When I went on deck 
 in the Corunna packet the first morning, and for 
 the first time found myself out of sight of land, 
 the first feeling was certainly one of disappoint- 
 ment as w^ell as surprise, at seeing myself in the 
 centre of so small a circle. But the impression 
 which the sea made upon me when I first saw it at 
 Weymouth was very different ; probably because 
 not having, like Charoba, thought of its immen- 
 sity, I was at once made sensible of it. The sea 
 seen from the shore is still to me the most impres- 
 sive of all objects, except the starry heavens ; and 
 if I could live over any hours of my boyhood 
 again, it should be those which I then spent upon 
 the beach at Weymouth. 
 
 The first book which I ever possessed beyond 
 
60 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 the size of INIr. Newberty's gilt regiment, was 
 given me soon after this visit by Mrs. Dolignon. 
 It was Hoole's translation of the Gerusalemme 
 Liherata. She had heard me speak of it with a 
 delight and interest above my years. My curi- 
 osity to read the poem had been strongly excited 
 by the stories of Olindo and Sophronia, and of 
 the Enchanted Forest as versified by Mrs. Rowe. 
 I read them in the volume of her Letters, and 
 despaired at the time of ever reading more of the 
 poem till I should be a man, from a whimsical 
 notion that as the subject related to Jerusalem, 
 the original must be in Hebrew. No one in my 
 father's house could set me right upon this point ; 
 but going one day with my mother into a shop, 
 one side of which was fitted up with a circulating 
 library, containing not more than three or four 
 hundred volumes, almost all novels, I there laid 
 my hand upon Hoole's version, a little before my 
 visit to Weymouth. The copy which Mrs. Dolig- 
 non sent me is now in my sight, upon the shelf, 
 and in excellent preservation, considering that 
 when a school-boy I perused it so often that I had 
 no small portion of it by heart. Forty years have 
 tarnished the gilding upon its back ; but they 
 have not effaced my remembrance of the joy with 
 which I received it, and the delight which I found 
 in its repeated perusal. 
 
 During the years that I resided in Wine Street, 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 61 
 
 I was upon a short allowance of books. My 
 father read nothing except Felix Farley's Bristol 
 Journal. A small glass cupboard over the desk 
 in the back parlor held his wine-glasses and all his 
 library. It consisted of the Spectator, three or 
 four volumes of the Oxford Magazine, one of the 
 Freeholder, and one of the Town and Country; 
 these he had taken in during the Wilkes and 
 Liberty epidemic. My brother Tom and I spoilt 
 them by coloring, that is bedaubing, the prints ; 
 but I owe to them some knowledge of the political 
 wit, warfare, and scandal of those days ; and 
 from one of them that excellent poem The Old 
 Batchelor was cut out, which I reprinted in the 
 Annual Anthology. The other books were Pom- 
 fret's Poems, The Death of Abel, Aaron Hill's 
 translation of Merope, with The Jealous Wife, 
 and Edgar and Emmeline, in one volume ; Julius 
 Caesar, The Toy Shop, All for Love, and a Pam- 
 phlet upon the Quack Doctors of George II. 's 
 Days, in another ; The Vestal Virgins, The Duke 
 of Lerma, and The Indian Queen, in a third. To 
 these my mother had added The Guardian, and the 
 happy copy of Mrs. Howe's Letters which intro- 
 duced me to Torquato Tasso. 
 
 The holidays made amends for this penury, and 
 Bull's Circulating Library was then to me what 
 the Bodleian would be now. Hoole, in his notes, 
 frequently referred to the Orlando Furioso. I 
 
62 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 saw some volumes thus lettered on Bull's counter, 
 and my heart leaped for joy. They proved to be 
 the original ; but the shopman, ]\Ir. Cruett (a 
 most obliging man he was), immediately put the 
 translation into my hand, and I do not think any 
 accession of fortune could now give me so much 
 delight as I then derived from that vile version of 
 Hoole's. There, in the notes, I first saw the 
 name of Spenser, and some stanzas of the Faery 
 Queen. Accordingly, when 1 returned the last 
 volume, I asked if that work was in the library. 
 My friend Cruett replied that they had it, but it 
 was written in old English, and I should not be 
 able to understand it. This did not appear to me 
 so much a necessary consequence as he supposed, 
 and I therefore requested he would let me look at 
 it. It was the quarto edition of '17, in three vol- 
 umes, with large prints folded in the middle, 
 equally worthless (like all the prints of that age) 
 in design and execution. There was nothing in 
 the language to impede, for the ear set me right 
 where the uncouth spelling (orthography it cannot 
 be called) might have puzzled the eye; and the 
 few words which are really obsolete, were suffi- 
 ciently explained by the context. No young lady 
 of the present generation falls to a new novel of 
 Sir Walter Scott's with keener relish than I did 
 that morning to the Faery Queen. If I had then 
 been asked wherefore it gave me so much more 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 63 
 
 ])leasure than ever Ariosto had done, I could not 
 have answered the question. I now know that it 
 was very much owing to the magic of its verse ; 
 the contrast betw^een the flat couplets of a rhymester 
 like Hoole, and the fullest and finest of all stanzas 
 written by one who was perfect master of his art. 
 But this was not all. Ariosto too often plays 
 with his subject ; Spenser is always in earnest. 
 The delicious landscapes which he luxuriates in 
 describing brought everything before my eyes. 
 I could fancy such scenes as his lakes and forests, 
 gardens and fountains presented ; and I felt, 
 though I did not understand, the truth and purity 
 of his feelings, and that love of the beautiful and 
 the good which pervades his poetry. 
 
 When Miss Tyler had lived about {imong her 
 friends as long as it was convenient for them to 
 entertain her, and longer in lodo-ino^s than was 
 convenient for herself, she began to think of 
 looking out for a house at Bristol ; and, owing to 
 some odd circumstances, I was the means of find- 
 ing one which precisely suited her. Mrs. Wrax- 
 all, the widow of a lawyer, had heard, I know not 
 how, that I was a promising boy, very much 
 addicted to books, and she sent to my mother 
 requesting that I might drink tea with her one 
 evening. The old lady was mad as a ]\Iarch hare 
 after a religious fashion. Her behavior to me was 
 very kind ; but as soon as tea was over, she bade 
 
64 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 me kneel down, and doAvn she knelt herself, and 
 prayed for me b}'- the hour to my awful astonish- 
 ment. When this was done she gave me a little 
 book called Early Piety, and a coarse edition of 
 the Paradise Lost, and said she was going to leave 
 Bristol. It struck me immediately that the house 
 which she was about to quit was such a one as my 
 aunt wanted. I said so ; and Mrs. Wraxall im- 
 mediately answered, "Tell her that if she likes it, 
 she shall have the remainder of my lease." The 
 matter was settled in a few days, for this was an 
 advantasfeous oifer. The house at that time would 
 have been cheap at £20 a year, and there was an 
 unexpired term of five years upon it at only £11 
 This old lady was mother to Sir Nathaniel Wrax- 
 all, who had been bred up, and perhaps born, in 
 that habitation. 
 
 The pleasantest of my school years were those 
 which I passed at Williams'. What I learnt 
 there, indeed, was worth little ; it was just such 
 a knowledge of Latin as a boy of quick parts and 
 not without diligence will acquire under bad 
 teaching. When I had gone through the Meta- 
 morphoses, Williams declared his intention of 
 takino- me from the usher and instructing me in 
 Virgil himself, no other of his pupils having pro- 
 ceeded so far. But the old man, I suppose, dis- 
 covered that the little classical knowledge which 
 he ever possessed had passed away as irrevocably 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 65 
 
 as his youth, and I continued under the usher's 
 care, who kept me in the Eclogues so long that I 
 was heartily sick of them, and I believe have never 
 looked in them from that time. Over and over 
 again did that fellow make me read them ; proba- 
 bly because he thought the book was to be gone 
 through in order, and was afraid to expose him- 
 self in the Georgics. No attempt was made to 
 ground me m prosody ; and as this defect in my 
 education was never remedied (for when I went to 
 Westminster I was too forward in other things to 
 be placed low enough in the school for regular 
 training in this), I am at this day as liable to 
 make a false quantity as any Scotchman. 
 
 "Williams, who read well himself and prided 
 himself upon it, was one day very much offended 
 with my reading, and asked me scornfully who 
 taught me to read. I answered, my aunt. 
 "Then," said he, "give my compliments to your 
 aunt ; and tell her that my old horse, that has 
 been dead these twenty years, could have taught 
 you as well." I delivered the message faithfully, 
 to her o;reat indio;nation. It was never forfjotten 
 or forgiven, and perhaps it accelerated the very 
 proper resolution of removing me. My uncle 
 made known his intention of placing me at West- 
 minster. His connection with Christ Church 
 naturally led him to prefer that to any other 
 school, in the hope that I should get into college, 
 
66 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 and so he elected off to a studentship. But as I 
 was in feel)le heaUh, and, moreover, had heen 
 hitherto very ill taught, it was deemed advisahle 
 that I shoukl he placed for twelve months under a 
 clergyman competent to prepare me for a public 
 school. 
 
 [He was sent as a day scholar to Mr. Lewis, 
 a clergyman in Bristol.] 
 
 I profited by this year's tuition less than I 
 should have done at a good school. It is not easy 
 to remedy the ill etfects of bad teaching ; and the 
 farther the pupil has advanced in it, the greater 
 must be the difficulty of bringing him into a bet- 
 ter way. Lewis, too, had been accustomed to 
 the mechanical movements of a large school, and 
 was at a loss how to proceed with a boy who 
 stood alone. I began Greek under him, made 
 nonsense-verses, read the Electa ex Ovidio et 
 Tibullo and Horace's Odes, advanced a little in 
 writing Latin, and composed English themes. 
 
 C'est le premier pas qui coute. I was in as 
 great tribulation when I had the first theme to 
 write as Avhen Williams required me to produce a 
 letter. The text of course had been given me ; 
 but how to begin, what to say, or how to say it, 
 I knew not. No one who had witnessed my per- 
 plexity upon this occasion would have supposed 
 how much was afterwards to l)e spun from these 
 poor brains. My aunt at last, in compassion. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 67 
 
 wrote the theme for me. Lewis questioned me if 
 it was my own, and I told him the truth. He 
 then encouraged me sensibly enough ; put me in 
 the way of composing the commonplaces of which 
 themes are manufactured (indeed, he caused me 
 to transcribe some rules for themes, makinii' a res;- 
 ular receipt as for a pudding) ; and he had no 
 reason afterwards to complain of any want of apti- 
 tude in his scholar, for when I had learnt that it 
 was not more difficult to write in prose than in 
 verse, the ink dribbled as daintily from my pen as 
 ever it did from John Bunyan's. 
 
 It was still more fortunate that there was none 
 to direct me in my favorite pursuit, certain as it 
 is that any instructor would have interfered with 
 the natural and healthy growth of that poetical 
 spirit which was taking its own course. That 
 spirit was like a plant which required no forcing 
 nor artificial culture ; only air and sunshine, and 
 the rains and the dews of heaven. I do not re- 
 member in any part of my life to have been so 
 conscious of intellectual improvement as I was 
 during the year and half before I was placed at 
 Westminster : an improvement derived not from 
 books or instruction, but from constantly exer- 
 cising myself in English verse ; and from the 
 development of mind which that exercise pro- 
 duced, I can distinctly trace my progress by help 
 of a list, made thirty years ago, of all my compo- 
 
68 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 sitions in verse, which were then in existence, or 
 which I had at that time destroyed. 
 
 Early as my hopes had been directed toward 
 the drama, they received a more decided and 
 more fortunate direction from the frequent peru- 
 sal of Tasso, Ariosto, and Spenser. I had read 
 also Mickle's Lusiad and Pope's Homer. If you 
 add to these an extensive acquaintance with the 
 novels of the day, and with the Arabian and 
 mock-Aral)ian tales, the whole works of Josephus 
 (taken in by me with my pocket-money in three- 
 score sixpenny numbers, which I now possess), 
 such acquaintance with Greek and Roman history 
 as a school-boy picks up from his lessons and from 
 Goldsmith's abridged histories, and such acquaint- 
 ance with their fables as may be learnt from Ovid, 
 from the old Pantheon, and above all from the 
 end of Littleton's Dictionary, you will have a fair 
 account of the stock upon which I began. But 
 Shakespere and Beaumont and Fletcher must 
 not be forgotten ; nor Sidney's Arcadia ; nor 
 Howlerfs Poems, for Chatterton's history was 
 fresh in remembrance, and that story, which 
 would have affected one of my disposition any 
 where, acted upon me with all the force of local 
 associations. 
 
 The first of my Epic dreams was created by 
 Ariosto. I meant to graft a story upon the Or- 
 lando Fmnoso, not knowing how often this had 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 69 
 
 been done by Italian and Spanish imitators. Ar- 
 cadia was to have been the title and the scene ; 
 thither I meant to carry the Moors under Mar- 
 silius after their overthrow in France, and there 
 to have overthrown them again by a hero of my 
 own, named Alphonso, who had caught the 
 Hippogriff. This must have been when I was 
 between nine and ten, for some verses of it were 
 written on the covers of my Phaedrus. They were 
 in the heroic couplet. Among my aunt's books 
 was the first volume of Bysshe's Ai^t of Poetry y 
 which, worthless as it is, taught me at that age 
 the principle upon which blank verse is con- 
 structed, and thereby did me good service at a 
 good time. I soon learnt to prefer that metre, 
 not because it was easier than rhyme (which was 
 easy enough), but because I felt in it a greater 
 freedom and range of language, because I was 
 sensible that in rhyming I sometimes used expres- 
 sions, for the sake of the rhyme, which were far- 
 fetched, and certainly would not have occurred 
 without that cause. 
 
 There was one point in which these premature 
 attempts afforded a hopeful omen, and that Avas in 
 the diligence and industry with which I endeav- 
 ored to acquire all the historical information 
 within my reach, relating to the subject in hand. 
 Forty years ago, I could have given a better 
 account of the birth and parentage of Egbert, and 
 
70 THE STOEY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 the state of the Heptarchy during his youth, than 
 I could do now without referring to books ; and 
 when Cassibehm was ni}'^ hero, I was as well ac- 
 quainted with the division of the island among the 
 ancient tribes, as I am now with the relative situa- 
 tion of its counties. It was, perhaps, fortunate 
 that these pursuits were unassisted and solitary. 
 By thus working a way for mj'self, I acquired a 
 habit and a love for investiijation, and nothing 
 appeared uninteresting which gave me any of the 
 information I wanted. The pleasure which I 
 took in such researches, and in composition, ren- 
 dered me in a great degree independent of other 
 amusements ; and no systematic education could 
 have fitted me for my present course of life so 
 well as the circumstances which allowed me thus 
 to feel and follow my own impulses. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 Autobiography, continued — ]\Iiss Tyler's Eccentricities — First Visit 
 to London — Westminster School — Botch Hayes — Story of a 
 Bully. 
 
 July 17, 1824. 
 
 Few boys were ever less qualified for the disci- 
 pline of a pul)lic school than I was, when it was 
 determined to place me at Westminster ; for if 
 my school education had been ill conducted, the 
 life which I led with Miss Tyler tended in every 
 respect still more to unfit me for the new scenes, 
 the new world almost it might be called, on which 
 I was about to enter. 
 
 When my aunt settled at Bristol, she brought 
 with her a proud contempt for Bristol society. 
 In fact, she had scarcely any acquaintance there, 
 and seldom saw any company, except when some 
 of her Bath friends came to Clifton for the sum- 
 mer ; or when the players took up their abode in 
 the city, for then Mr. Dimond used to visit her. 
 He was a most gentlemanly and respectable man, 
 as well as a good actor. Great is the delight 
 which I have had in seeing him perform, and 
 hardly less was that which I have felt in listening 
 to his conversation. The days when he dined 
 with us were almost our only gala days. At such 
 times, and when she went out. Miss Tyler's 
 
 71 
 
72 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 appearance and manners were those of a woman 
 who had been bred in the best society and was 
 equal to it ; but if any stranger or visitor had 
 caught her in her ordinary apparel, she would 
 have been as much confused as Diana when Ac- 
 tion came upon her bathing-place, and almost 
 with as much reason, for she was always in a bed- 
 gown and in rags. Most people, I suspect, have 
 a weakness for old shoes ; ease and comfort and 
 one's own fireside are connected with them ; in 
 fact, we never feel any regard for shoes till they 
 attain to the privileges of age, and then they be- 
 come almost as much a part of the wearer as his 
 corns. This sort of feeling my aunt extended to 
 old clothes of every kind ; the older and the 
 raggeder they grew, the more unwilling she was 
 to cast them off. But she was scrupulously clean 
 in them ; indeed, the principle upon which her 
 whole household economy was directed was that 
 of keeping the house clean, and taking more pre- 
 cautions against dust than would have been need- 
 ful against the plague in an infected city. She 
 labored under a perpetual dusto-j)hobia , and a 
 comical disease it was ; but whether I have been 
 most amused or annoyed by it, it would be diffi- 
 cult to say. I had, however, in its consequences, 
 an early lesson how fearfully the mind may be 
 enslaved by indulging its own peculiarities and 
 whimsies, innocent as they may appear at first. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 73 
 
 The discomfort which Miss Tyler's passion for 
 cleanliness produced to herself, as well as to her 
 little household, was truly curious : to herself, 
 indeed, it was a perpetual torment ; to the two 
 servants a perpetual vexation, and so it would 
 have been to me if nature had not blest me with 
 an innate hilarity of spirit wdiich nothing but real 
 affliction can overcome. That the better rooms 
 might be kept clean, she took possession of the 
 kitchen, sending the servants to one which was 
 underground; and in this little, dark, confined 
 place, with a rough stone floor, and a skylight 
 (for it must not be supposed that it was a best 
 kitchen, which was always, as it was intended to 
 be, a comfortable sitting-room ; this was more 
 like a scullery), we always took our meals, and 
 generally lived. The best room w^as never opened 
 but for company ; except now and then on a fine 
 day to be aired and dusted, if dust could be de- 
 tected there. In the other parlor, I was allowed 
 sometimes to read, and she wrote her letters, for 
 she had many correspondents ; and Ave sat there 
 sometimes in summer, when a fire was not needed, 
 for fire produced ashes, and ashes occasioned dust, 
 and dust, visible or invisible, was the plague of 
 her life. I have seen her order the teakettle to 
 be emptied and refilled, because some one had 
 passed across the hearth while it was on the fire 
 preparing for her breakfast. She had indulged 
 
74 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 these humors till she had formed for herself no- 
 tions of uncleanness almost as irrational and 
 inconvenient as those of the Hindoos. She had a 
 cup once buried for six weeks, to purify it from 
 the lips of one Avhom she accounted unclean ; all 
 who were not her favorites were included in that 
 class. A chair in which an unclean person had 
 sat was put out in the garden to be aired ; and I 
 never saw her more annoyed than on one occasion 
 when a man, Avho called upon business, seated 
 himself in her own chair : how the cushion was 
 ever ai^ain to l)e rendered fit for her use, she knew 
 not ! On such occasions, her fine features assumed 
 a character either fierce or tragic ; her expressions 
 were vehement even to irreverence ; and her ges- 
 ticulations those of the deepest and wildest dis- 
 tress, — hands and e^^es uplifted, as if she was in 
 hopeless misery, or in a paroxysm of mental 
 anguish. 
 
 As there are none who like to be upon ill terms 
 with themselves, most people find out some device 
 whereby they may be reconciled to their own 
 faults ; and in this propensity it is that much of 
 the irreligion in the world, and much of its fiilse 
 philosophy, have originated. My aunt used fre- 
 quentl}^ to say that all good-natured people were 
 fools. Hers was a violent temper, rather than an 
 ill one ; there was a great deal of kindness in it, 
 though it was under no restraint. She was at 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHS y'S LIFE. 75 
 
 once tyrannicul and indulgent to her servants, and 
 they usually remained a long while in her service, 
 partly I believe from fear, and partly from liking : 
 from liking, because she sent them often to the 
 play (which is probably to persons in that condi- 
 tion, as it is to children, the most delightful of all 
 amusements), and because she conversed with 
 them much more than is usual for any one in her 
 rank of life. Her habits were so peculiar, that 
 the servants became in a certain degree her confi- 
 dants : she therefore was afraid to change them, 
 and they, even when they wished to leave her, 
 were afraid to express the wish, knowing that she 
 would regard it as a grievous ofience, and dread- 
 ing the storm of anger which it would bring down. 
 Two servants in m}' remembrance left her for the 
 sake of marrying ; and, although they had both 
 lived with her many years, she never forgave 
 either, nor ever spoke of them without some ex- 
 pression of bitterness. I believe no daughter was 
 ever more afraid of disclosing a clandestine mar- 
 riage to a severe parent, than both these women 
 were of making their intention known to their 
 mistress, such was the ascendancy that she pos- 
 sessed over them. She had reconciled herself to 
 the indulgence of her ungoverned anger, by sup- 
 posing that a bad temper was naturally connected 
 with a good understanding and a commanding 
 
 DO O 
 
 mind. 
 
76 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 The influence which she possessed over my 
 mother was the ascendancy of a determined and 
 violent spirit over a gentle and yielding one. 
 There was a difierence of twelve years between 
 their ages, and the authority which Miss Tyler 
 had first exerted as an elder sister she never re- 
 laxed. My mother was one of those few persons 
 (for a few such there are) who think too humbly 
 of themselves. Her only fault (I verily believe 
 she had no other) was that of yielding suljmis- 
 sively to this imperious sister, to the sacrifice of 
 her own inclination and judgment and sense of 
 what was right. She had grown up in awe and 
 admiration of her, as one who moved in a superior 
 rank, and who, with the advantage of a fine form 
 and beautiful person, possessed that also of a 
 superior and cultivated understanding : withal, 
 she loved her with a true sisterly aflection which 
 nothing could diminish, clearly as she saw her 
 faults, and severely as at last she suffered by 
 them. But never did I know one person so 
 entirely subjected by another, and never have I 
 regretted anything more deeply than that subjec- 
 tion, which most certainly in its consequences 
 shortened her life. 
 
 If my mother had not been disfigured by the 
 smallpox, the two sisters would have strikingly 
 resembled each other, except in complexion, my 
 mother being remarkably fair. The expression, 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 77 
 
 however, of the two countenances, was as oppo- 
 site as the features were alike, and the difference 
 in disposition was not less marked. Take her for 
 all in all, I do not believe that any human being 
 ever brought into the world, and carried through 
 it, a larger portion of original goodness than my 
 dear mother. Every one who knew her loved 
 her, for she seemed made to be happy herself, and 
 to make every one happy within her little sphere. 
 Her understanding was as good as her heart : it is 
 from her I have inherited that alertness of mind, 
 and quickness of apprehension, without which it 
 would have been impossible for me to have under- 
 taken half of what I have performed. God never 
 blessed a human creature with a more cheerful 
 disposition, a more generous spirit, a sweeter 
 temper, or a tenderer heart. I remember that 
 when first I understood what death was, and began 
 to think of it, the most fearful thought it induced 
 was that of losing my mother ; it seemed to me 
 more than I could bear, and I used to hope that I 
 mio-ht die before her. Nature is merciful to us. 
 We learn gradually that we are to die, — a knowl- 
 edge which, if it came suddenly upon us in riper 
 age, would be more than the mind could endure. 
 We are gradually prepared for our departure by 
 seeing the objects of our earliest and deepest 
 affections go before us ; and even if no keener 
 afflictions are dispensed to wean us from this 
 
78 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 world, and remove our tenderest thoughts and 
 dearest hopes to another, mere age brings with it 
 a weariness of life, and death becomes to the old 
 as natural and desirable as sleep to a tired child. 
 
 My father's house being within ten minutes' 
 walk of Terril Street (or rather run, for I usually 
 galloped along the bye-ways), few days passed 
 on which I did not look in there. Miss Tyler 
 never entered the door, l)ecause there was an en- 
 mity between her and Thomas Southey. She had 
 given just occasion to it. They hated each other 
 cordially now, and took no pains to conceal it. 
 My visits at home, therefore, were short, and I 
 was seldom allowed to dine or pass the evening 
 there. My brother Tom was at school ; the dif- 
 ference of age between us made us at that time 
 not very suitable companions when we were to- 
 jrether. There was not a sinijle bov of mv own age, 
 or near it, in any of the few families with whom 
 either my mother or aunt Avas acquainted ; and 
 my only friend and companion was my aunt's 
 servant boy, Shadrach Weeks, her maid's brother. 
 Shad, as we called him, was just my own age, and 
 had been taken into her service soon after she set- 
 tled in Bristol. He Avas a good-natured, active, 
 handy lad, and became very nmch attached to me, 
 and I to him. At this hour, if he be living, and 
 were to meet me, I am sure he would greet me 
 with a hearty shake by the hand ; and, be it where 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 79 
 
 it might, I should return the saUitation. We used 
 to work together in the garden, play trap in the 
 fields, make kites and fly them, try our hands at 
 carpentry, and, which was the greatest of all in- 
 dulgences, go into the country to bring home 
 primrose, violet, and cowslip roots ; and some- 
 times to St. Vincent's Rocks, or rather the heights 
 about a mile and a half farther down the river, to 
 search for the bee and fly orchis. Some book had 
 taught me that these rare flowers Avere to be 
 found there ; and I sought for them year after 
 year with such persevering industry, for the un- 
 w^orthy purpose of keeping them in pots at home 
 (where they uniformly pined and died) , that I am 
 afraid botanists who came after me may have 
 looked for them there in vain. Perhaps I have 
 never had a keener enjoyment of natural scenery 
 than when roaming about the rocks and woods on 
 the side of the Avon with Shad and our poor 
 spaniel Phillis. Indeed, there are few scenes in 
 the island finer of their kind ; and no other where 
 merchant vessels of the largest size may be seen 
 sailing between such rocks and woods — the shores 
 being upon a scale of sufficient magnitude to sup- 
 ply all that the picturesque requires, and not upon 
 so large a one as to make the ships appear com- 
 paratively insignificant. 
 
 Had it not been for this companion, there 
 would have been nothins; to counteract the eflemi- 
 
80 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 nating and debilitating tendency of the habits to 
 Avhich my aunt's peculiarities subjected me. 
 Pricking play-bills had been the pastime which 
 she encouraged as long as I could be prevailed 
 on to pursue it ; and afterwards she encouraged 
 me to cut paper into fantastic patterns. But I 
 learnt a better use of ray hands in Shad's com- 
 pany ; and we became such proficients in carpen- 
 try that, before I went to Westminster, we set 
 about the enterprise of making and fitting up a 
 theatre for puppets. 
 
 The business of placing me at Westminster 
 afforded my aunt an excuse for going to London ; 
 Miss Palmer was easily persuaded to accompany 
 her and to hire a carriage for the season, and we 
 set off in February, 1788. I had never before 
 been a mile from Bath in that direction, and when 
 my childish thoughts ever wandered into the 
 terra incognita which I was one day to explore, 
 this had been the road to it, simply because all 
 the other outlets from that city were familiar to 
 me. We slept at Marlborough the first night ; 
 at Reading the second, and on the third day we 
 reached Salt Hill. Tom and Charles Palmer 
 were summoned from Eton to meet their aunt 
 there, and we remained a day for the purpose of 
 seeing Windsor, which I have never seen since. 
 Lodffinofs had been eno;ao;ed in a small house in 
 Pall Mall, for no situation that was less fashiona- 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 81 
 
 ble would content Miss Tyler, and she had a reck- 
 less prodigality at fits and starts, the effects of 
 which could not be counteracted by the parsimony 
 and even penuriousness of her usual habits. Mr. 
 Palmer was at that time comptroller of the Post 
 Office, holding the situation which he had so well 
 deserved, and from which he was not lonsf after- 
 wards most injuriously displaced. We visited 
 him, and the Newberrys, and Mrs. Dolignon, and 
 went often to the theatres : and my aunt appeared 
 to be as happy as if she were not incurring ex- 
 penses which she had no means of discharging. 
 My father had given her thirty pounds for the 
 journey, a sum amply sufficient for taking me to 
 school and leaving me there, and, moreover, as 
 much as he could afford ; but she had resolved 
 upon passing the season in town, as careless 
 of all consequences as if she had been blind to 
 them. 
 
 About six weeks elapsed before I was depos- 
 ited at my place of destination. London I very 
 much disliked : I was too young to take any 
 pleasure in the companies to which I was intro- 
 duced as an inconvenient appendage of my aunt's ; 
 nor did I feel half the interest at the theatres, 
 splendid as they were, which I had been wont to 
 take at Bath and Bristol, where every actor's 
 face was familiar to me, and every movement of 
 the countenance could be perceived. I wished 
 
82 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 for Shad, and the carpentiy, and poor Phillis, and 
 our rambles among the woods and rocks. At 
 length, upon the first of April (of all ominous 
 days that could be chosen), Mr. Palmer took me 
 in his carriage to Dean's Yard, introduced me to 
 Dr. Smith, entered my name with him, and, upon 
 his recommendation, placed me at the boarding- 
 house, then called Otly's, from its late mistress, 
 but kept by Mrs. Farren ; and left me there, with 
 Samuel Hayes, the usher of the house, and of the 
 fifth form, for my tutor. 
 
 Botch Hayes, as he Avas denominated, for the 
 manner in which he mended his pupils' verses, 
 was a man who, having some skill and much 
 facility in versifying, Avalked for man}' years over 
 the Seatonian race-ground at Cambridge, and en- 
 joyed the produce of j\Ir. Seaton's Kislingbury 
 estate without a competitor. He was, moreover, 
 what Oldys describes Nahum Tate to have been, 
 — "a free, good-natured, fuddling companion"; 
 to all which qualities his countenance bore wit- 
 ness. Hayes it was who edited the sermons which 
 Dr. Johnson is supposed to have written for his 
 friend Dr. Taylor. 
 
 I was quartered in the room with , Avho 
 
 afterwards married that sweet creature, Lady 
 
 , and never was woman of a dove-like nature 
 
 more unsuitably mated, for , when in an- 
 ger, was perfectly frantic. His face was as fine as 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 83 
 
 a countenance could be which expressed so ungov- 
 ernable and dangerous a temper ; the finest red 
 and white, dark eyes and brows, and black curl- 
 ing hair ; but the expression was rather that of a 
 savage than of a civilized being, and no savage 
 could be more violent. He had seasons of good- 
 nature, and at the worst was rather to be dreaded 
 than disliked ; for he was plainly not master of 
 himself. But I had cause to dread him ; for he 
 once attempted to hold me by the leg out of the 
 window ; it was the tirst floor, and over a stone 
 area : had I not struggled in time, and clung to 
 the frame w^ith both hands, my life would prob- 
 ably have been sacrificed to this freak of tempo- 
 rary madness. He used to pour water into my 
 ear when I was abed and asleep, fling the porter- 
 pot or the poker at me, and in many ways exer- 
 cised such a capricious and dangerous tyranny, 
 merely by right of the strongest (for he was not 
 high enough in the school to fag me), that at last 
 I requested Mr. Hayes to remove me into another 
 chamber. Thither he followed me ; and, at a 
 very late hour one night, came in wrapt in a sheet, 
 and thinking to frighten me by personating a 
 ghost, in wdiich character he threw himself upon 
 the bed, and rolled upon me. Not knowing who 
 it was, but certain that it was flesh and blood, I 
 seized him by the throat, and w^e made noise 
 enough to bring up the usher of the house, and 
 
84 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 occasion an inquiry, which ended in requiring 
 
 's word that he never would again molest 
 
 me. 
 
 He kept his word faithfully, and left school a 
 few months afterwards, when he was about seven- 
 teen or eighteen, and apparently full grown, — a 
 singularly fine and striking youth ; indeed, one of 
 those figures which you always remember vividly. 
 I heard nothing of him till the Irish rebellion : he 
 served in the army there ; and there was a story, 
 which got into the newspapers, of his meeting a 
 man upon the road, and putting him to death 
 without judge or jury, upon suspicion of his 
 being a rebel. It was, no doubt, an act of mad- 
 ness. I know not whether any proceedings took 
 place (indeed, in those dreadful times, anything 
 was passed over) ; but he died soon afterwards, 
 happily for himself, and all who were connected 
 with him. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 School Frienilships — Four Years at Westminster — Is Privately Ex- 
 pelled — Goes to Oxford — Plans of Life — Friendship with Cole- 
 ridge — Pantisocracy — Rupture with his Aunt — Marriage — 
 Voyage to Portugal — Returns to England — Legal Studies and 
 literary Pursuits — Edits Chatterton. 
 
 [The autobiography comes abruptly to a close 
 before the end of Southey's school life at West- 
 minster, and he does not mention that he made 
 two friendships there, with C. W. W. Wynn and 
 Grosvenor Bedford, that were destined to be per- 
 manent. An article against flogging, written in a 
 school publication, was treated far too seriously by 
 the head master, and Southey, as his son states, 
 was compelled to leave the school. It was in the 
 spring of 1792 that he returned to his aunt's 
 house at Bristol. "I left Westminster," he wrote 
 afterwards, " in a perilous state — a heart full of 
 poetry and feeling, a head full of Eousseau and 
 Werther, and my religious principles shaken by 
 Gibbon ; many circumstances tended to give me 
 a wrong bias, none to lead me right except adver- 
 sity, the wholesomest of all discipline." With this 
 he soon became acquainted, for his father shortly 
 died with his affairs in utter disorder, but Southey, 
 thanks to his good uncle, the Rev. Herbert Hill, 
 Chaplain to the British Factory at Lisbon, was 
 
 85 
 
86 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 enabled, in 1793, to go up to Balliol College, 
 Oxford, Avhere he pursued his own vocation of 
 poet Avith more ardor than the university curricu- 
 lum. The 3'outhful letters of the Oxford student 
 are not interesting as letters, but a few passages 
 must he quoted from them in order to maintain 
 the thread of the story. "I have plans," he 
 writes, " lying by me enough for many years or 
 many lives " ; 3'et he aspired to nothing beyond 
 £200 a year and the comforts of domestic life, and 
 observes again and again that he has no ambition. 
 He felt he could not conscientiously take holy 
 orders, as his uncle wished, and already hankered 
 after an ideal home in America.] 
 
 To Horace Bedford. 
 
 ^ Bristol, November 13, 1793. 
 
 It was the favorite intention of Cowley to re- 
 tire with books to a cottage in America, and seek 
 that happiness in solitude which he could not find 
 in society. ]\Iy as3dum there w'ould be sought for 
 different reasons (and no prospect in life gives me 
 half the pleasure this visionary one affords) ; I 
 should be pleased to reside in a country where 
 men's abilities would ensure respect ; Avhere 
 society was upon a proper footing, and man was 
 considered as more valuable than monej^ ; and 
 where I could till the earth, and provide by honest 
 industry the meat which my w ife would dress with 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 87 
 
 pleasing care — redeunt spectacula mane — reason 
 comes with the end of the paper. 
 
 To G^rovesnor Bedford. 
 
 Bath, Dec. 14, 1793. 
 
 What is to become of me at ordination Heaven 
 only knows ! After keeping the straight path so 
 lono; the Test Act will be a stumblinir-block to 
 honesty ; so chance and Providence must take 
 care of that, and I Mill fortify myself against 
 chance. The wants of man are so very few that 
 they must be attainable somewhere, and, whether 
 here or in America, matters little ; I have long 
 learned to look upon the world as my country. 
 
 Now, if you are in the mood for a reverie, 
 only fmcy me in America ; imagine my ground 
 uncultivated since the creation, and see me wield- 
 ing the axe, now to cut down the tree, and now 
 the snakes that nestled in it. Then see me Sfrub- 
 bing up the roots, and building a nice snug little 
 dairy with them : three rooms in my cottage, and 
 my only companion some poor negro whom I had 
 bought on purpose to emancipate. After a hard 
 day's toil, see me sleep upon rushes, and, in very 
 bad weather, take out my casette and write to you, 
 for you shall positively write to me in America. 
 Do not imagine I shall leave rhvraing or philoso- 
 phizing, so thus your friend will realize the romance 
 of Cowley, and even outdo the seclusion of Eous- 
 
00 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY S LIFE. 
 
 seau ; till at last comes an ill-looking Indian with 
 a tomahawk, and scalps me, — a most melancholy 
 proof that society is very bad, and that I shall 
 have done very little to improve it ! 
 
 [Southey's reveries were never the growth of 
 idleness. While dreaming of America, he was 
 writing Joan of Arc, and a great deal besides. 
 In his hrst year at Oxford he writes ; — ] 
 
 To Horace Bedford. 
 
 Dec. 22, 1793. 
 I have accomplished a most arduous task, 
 transcribing all my verses that appear worth the 
 trouble, except letters ; of these I took one list, 
 — another of my pile of stuff and nonsense, — 
 and a third of what I have burnt and lost ; upon 
 an average, 10,000 verses are burnt and lost, the 
 same number preserved, and 15,000 Avorthless. 
 Consider that all my letters * are excluded, and 
 you may judge what waste of paper I have occa- 
 sioned. Three years yet remain before I can be- 
 come anyways settled in life, and during that 
 interval my object must be to pass each hour in 
 employment. The million would say I must 
 study divinity ; the bishops would give me folios 
 to peruse, little dreaming that to me every blade 
 of grass and every atom of matter is worth all the 
 Fathers. I can bear a retrospect ; but when I 
 * Many of these are said to have been in verse. 
 
THE STOKY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 89 
 
 look forward to taking orders, a thousand dread- 
 ful ideas crowd at once upon my mind. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 January, 1794. 
 I purpose studying physic : innumerable and 
 insuperable objections appeared to divinity : surely 
 the profession I have chosen affords at least as 
 many opportunities of benefiting mankind. In 
 this country a liberal education precludes the man 
 of no fortune from independence in the humbler 
 lines of life ; he may either turn soldier or embrace 
 one of three professions, in all of which there is 
 too much quackery. Very soon shall I commence 
 my anatomical and chemical studies. When well 
 grounded in these, I hope to study under Cruik- 
 shank to perfect myself in anatomy, attend the 
 clinical lectures, and then commence — Doctor 
 Southey ! ! ! 
 
 To the same. 
 
 May 28, 1794. 
 You know my objection to orders, and the obsta- 
 cles to any other profession : it is now my wish 
 to be in the same office with you. Do, my dear 
 Grosvenor, give me some information upon this 
 topic. I speak to you without apologizing ; you 
 will serve me if you can, and tell me if you cannot : 
 it would be a great object to be in the same office 
 
90 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIEE. 
 
 with you. In this plan of life the only difficulty is 
 obtaining such a place, and for this my hopes rest 
 on AVynn find you ; in case of success, I shall J03'- 
 fuU}^ bid adieu to Oxford, settle myself in some 
 economical way of life, and, when I know my sit- 
 uation, unite myself to a woman Avhom I have long 
 esteemed as a sister, and for whom I now indulge 
 a warmer sentiment. AVrite to me soon. I am 
 sanguine in my expectations if you can procure 
 my admission. Promotion is a secondary concern, 
 though of that I have hopes. My pen Avill be my 
 chief dependence. In this situation, where a 
 small income relieves from want, interest will 
 urge me to write, but independence secures me 
 from writing so as to injure my reputation. Even 
 the prospect of settling honestly in life has relieved 
 my mind from a load of anxiet}'. 
 
 In this plan of life everything appears within 
 the bounds of probability ; the hours devoted to 
 official attendance, even if entirely taken up by 
 business, would pass with the idea that I was 
 doing my duty, and honestly earning ni}' subsis- 
 tence. If they should not be fully occupied, I 
 can pursue my own studies ; and should I be for- 
 tunate enough to be in the same office with you,* 
 it would be equally agreeable to both. What 
 situation can be pleasanter than that Avhich places 
 me Avith all my dearest friends ? 
 
 * Bedford had a post in the Exchequer. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 91 
 
 [Once more his purposes were changed. In the 
 summer of 1794 Coleridge visited Oxford, and 
 the two young poets, full of the .ardor of youth 
 and the intoxication of ijenius, found at once 
 many bonds of sympathy. Both of them cher- 
 ished with fervor the dream of Pantisocracy, and 
 the ties between the two were destined to become 
 still more closely linked. Already Southey was 
 engaged to Edith Fricker ; his friend Lovell mar- 
 ried another sister, and now Coleridge, on his 
 introduction to the famil}', became attracted by the 
 eldest. These remarks are necessary to explain 
 the allusions of the following letters.] 
 
 Writing to his brother Thomas, a midshipman, 
 in September, 1794, he says : In March we depart 
 for America ; Lovell, his wife, brother, and two 
 of his sisters ; all the Frickers ; my mother. Miss 
 Peggy, and brothers ; Heath, apothecary, etc. ; 
 G. Burnett, S. T. Coleridge, Robert Allen, and 
 Robert Southey. Of so many we are certain, and 
 expect more. Whatever knowledge of navigation 
 you can obtain will be useful, as we shall be on the 
 bank of a navigable river, and appoint you admiral 
 of a cock-boat. My aunt knows nothing as yet of 
 my intended plan ; it will surprise her, l)ut not 
 very agreeably. Everything is in a very fair train, 
 and all parties eager to embark. What do your 
 common blue trowsers cost? Let rae know% as I 
 
92 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 shall get two or three puirs for my working winter 
 dress, and as many jackets, either blue or gray : so 
 my wardrobe will consist of two good coats, two 
 cloth jackets, four linen ones, six brown Holland 
 pantaloons, and two nankeen ditto for dress. My 
 mother says I am mad ; if so, she is bit by me, 
 for she wishes to go as much as I do. Coleridge 
 was with us nearly five weeks, and made good use 
 of his time. We preached Pantisocracy and 
 Aspheterism everywhere. These, Tom, are two 
 new words, the first signifying the equal govern- 
 ment of all, and the other the generalization of 
 individual property ; words well understood in the 
 city of Bristol. We are busy in getting our plan 
 and principles ready to distribute privately. The 
 thoughts of the day, and the visions of the night, 
 all centre in America. Time lags heavily along 
 till jNIarch, but we have done wonders since you 
 left me. I hope to see you in January ; it will 
 then be time for you to take leave of the navy, and 
 become acquainted with all our brethren, the 
 pantisocrats. You will have no objection to par- 
 ake of a wedding dinner in February. 
 
 To the same. 
 
 Bath, October 19, 1794. 
 Here's a row ! here's a kick up ! here's a 
 pretty commence ! we have have had a revolution 
 in the College Green, and I have been turned out 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 93 
 
 of doors in a wet night. Lo and behold, even 
 like mine own brother, I was penniless : it was 
 late in the evening ; the wind blew and the rain 
 fell, and I had walked from Bath in the morning. 
 Luckily my father's old great coat was at Lovell's. 
 I clapt it on, swallowed a glass of brandy, and 
 set oflf; I met an old drunken man three miles 
 off, and was obliged to drag him all the way to 
 Bath, nine miles ! Oh, Patience, Patience, thou 
 hast often helped poor Kobert Southey, but never 
 didst thou stand him in more need than on Friday, 
 the 17th of October, 1794. 
 
 Well, Tom, here I am. ISIy aunt has de- 
 clared she will never see my face again, or open a 
 letter of my writing. — So be it ; I do my duty, 
 and will continue to do it, be the consequences 
 what they may. You are unpleasantly situated, 
 so is my mother, so were Ave all till this grand 
 scheme of Pantisocracy flashed upon our minds, 
 and now all is perfectly delightful. My aunt 
 abuses poor Lovell most unmercifully, and 
 attributes the whole scheme to him ; you know it 
 was concerted between Burnett and me. But of 
 all the whole catalogue of enormities, nothing en- 
 rages my aunt so much as my intended marriage 
 with Mrs. Lovell's sister Edith ; this will hardly 
 take place till we arrive in America ; it rouses all 
 the whole army of prejudices in my aunt's 
 breast. 
 
94 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 February, 1795. 
 My clays are disquieted, and the dreams of the 
 night only retrace the past to bewilder me in 
 vague visions of the future. America is still the 
 place to which our ultimate views tend ; but it 
 Avill be years before we can go. As for Wales, it 
 is not practicable. The point is, where can I 
 best subsist? London is certainly the place for 
 all w^ho, like me, are on the w^orld. London 
 must be the place : if I and Coleridge can only 
 get a tixed salary of £100 a year between us, our 
 own industry shall supply the rest. I will write 
 up to The Telegraph : they offered me a re- 
 porter's place, but nightly employments are out 
 of the question. My troublesome guest, called 
 honesty, prevents my Avriting in The True Briton. 
 God knows I want not to thrust myself forward as 
 a partisan : peace and domestic life are the highest 
 blessings I could implore. Enough ! this state of 
 suspense must soon be over : I am worn and 
 wasted with anxiety ; and, if not at rest in a short 
 time, shall be disabled from exertion, and sink to a 
 long repose. Poor Edith ! Almighty God pro- 
 tect her ! 
 
 To Thomas Southey. 
 
 March 21, 1795. 
 
 I am giving a course of Historical Lectures, 
 at Bristol, teaching what is right by showing what 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LITE. 95 
 
 is MTong ; my compan}^ of course, is sought by 
 all Avho love good republicans and odd characters. 
 Coleridge and I are daily engaged. John Scott 
 has got me a place of a guinea and a half per 
 week, for writing in some new work called The 
 Citizen^ of what kind I know not, save that it 
 accords with my principles : of this I daily expect 
 to hear more. 
 
 If Coleridge and I can get £150 a year be- 
 tween us, we purpose marrying, and retiring into 
 the country, as our literary business can be carried 
 on there, and practising agriculture till we can 
 raise money for America — still the grand object 
 in view. 
 
 So I have cut my cable, and am drifting on the 
 ocean of life — the wind is fair and the port of 
 happiness I hope in view. It is possible that I 
 may be called upon to publish my Historical Lec- 
 tures ; this I shall be unwilling to do, as they are 
 only splendid declamation, 
 
 [Meanwhile, much to Coleridge's indignation, 
 the scheme of Pantisocracy was abandoned. 
 Southey's uncle Hill wished him to take orders, 
 but " the gate was perjury," and he told Bedford 
 that he intended to study the law, and reside in 
 the neighborhood of London " as near your road 
 as possible." It will be seen that the wishes of 
 the uncle on whom he was dependent changed his 
 plans.] 
 
96 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 2b Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 Oct. 23, 1795, 
 And where, Grosvenor, do you suppose the 
 fates have condemned me for the next six months ? 
 — to Spain and Portugal! Indeed, my heart is 
 very heavy. I would have refused, but I was 
 weary of incessantly refusing all my mother's 
 wishes, and it is only one mode of wearing out a 
 period that must be unpleasant to me anywhere. 
 
 I now know neither when I go, nor where, ex- 
 cept that we cross to Cprufia, and thence by land 
 to Lisbon. Cottle is delighted with the idea of a 
 volume of travels. My Edith persuades me to go, 
 and then weeps that I am going, though she would 
 not permit me to stay. It is well that my mind 
 is never unemployed. I have about 900 lines, and 
 half a preface yet to compose, and this I am re- 
 solved to finish by Wednesday night next. It is 
 more than probable that I shall go in a fortnight. 
 When I am returned I shall be glad that I have 
 been. The knowledge of two languages is worth 
 acquiring, and perhaps the climate may agree with 
 me, and counteract a certain habit of skeletoniza- 
 tion, that though I do not apprehend it will 
 hasten me to the worms, will, if it continues, cer- 
 tainly cheat them of their supper. 
 
 [On the 14th November, 1795, the day fixed for 
 the uncle and nephew to leave England, Southey 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 97 
 
 was united at Redclifie church, Bristol, to Edith 
 iFricker. Immediately after the ceremony they 
 j^arted. "My mother," says the Rev. C. Cuth- 
 bert Southey, " wore her wedding-ring hung round 
 her neck, and preserved her maiden name until 
 the report of the marriage had spread abroad."] 
 
 To JosejiU Cottle. 
 
 Falmouth, Dec. 8, 1795. 
 I have learnt from Lovell the news from Bris- 
 tol, public as Mell as private, and both of an inter- 
 esting nature. My marriage is become public. 
 You know my only motive for wishing it other- 
 wise, and must know that its publicity can give 
 me no concern. I have done my duty. Perhaps 
 you may hardly think my motives for marrying 
 sufficiently strong. One, and that to me of great 
 weight, I believe was never mentioned to you. 
 There might have arisen feelings of an unpleas- 
 ant nature, at the idea of receiving support from 
 one not legally a husband ; and (do not show 
 this to Edith) should I perish by shipwreck, or 
 any casualty, I have relations whose prejudices 
 would then yield to the anguish of affection, and 
 who would love and cherish, and yield all possible 
 consolation to my widow. Of such an evil there 
 is but possibility: but against possibility it was 
 my duty to guard. 
 
98 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 Falmouth. 
 Well, Grosvenor, here I am, waiting for a 
 wind. Your letter arrived a few hours before 
 me. Edith you Avill see and know and love ; 
 but her virtues are of the domestic order, and 
 you will love her in proportion as you know 
 her. I hate 3'our daffy down-dilly women, aye, and 
 men too ; — the violet is ungaudy in the appear- 
 ance, though a sweeter flower perfumes not the 
 evening gale. 'Tis equally her wish to see you. 
 Oh ! Grosvenor, when I think of our winter even- 
 ings that will arrive, and then look at myself 
 arra3'ed for a voyage in an inn parlor ! I scarcely 
 know whether the tear that starts into my eye 
 proceeds from anticipated pleasure or present 
 melanchoh'. I am never comfortable at an inn ; 
 boughten hospitalities are two ill connected ideas. 
 Grosvenor, I half shudder to think that a plank 
 only will divide the husband of Edith from the 
 unfathomed ocean ! and did I believe its efficacy, 
 could burn a hecatomb to Neptune with as much 
 devotion as ever burned or smoked in Phteacia. 
 
 [It will be seen from the next letter that the 
 lover and husband was absent from England six 
 months.] 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 99 
 
 To the same. 
 
 Portsmouth, May 15, 1796. 
 
 Thanks be to God, I am in England ! 
 
 Bedford, you may conceive the luxury of that 
 ejaculation, if you know the miseries of a sea 
 voyage ; even the stoic who loves nothing, and the 
 merchant whose trade-tainted heart loves nothing 
 but wealth, would echo it. Judge you with what 
 delight Robert Southey leapt on tei'ra firma. To- 
 night I go to Southampton ; to-morrow will past 
 pains become pleasant. Now, Grosvenor, is hap- 
 piness a sojourner on earth, or must man be cat-a- 
 ninetailed by care, until he shields himself in a 
 shroud? My future destiny will not decide the 
 problem, for I find a thousand pleasures, and a 
 thousand pains, of which nine-tenths of the world 
 know nothing. Come to Bristol, be with me there 
 as long as ^ou can. I almost add, advise me 
 there, but your advice will come too late. 
 
 I am sorry you could ask if you did wrong in 
 showing Wynn my letter. I have not a thought 
 secret from him. jNIy passage was very good, and 
 I must be the best-tempered fellow in Great 
 Britain, for the devil a drop of gall is there left in 
 my bile bag. I intend a hymn to the Dii Penates. 
 Write to me directly, and direct to Cottle. I 
 have, as yet, no where to choose my place of rest. 
 I shall soon have enough to place me above want, 
 and till that arrives, shall support myself in ease 
 
100 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 and comfort like a silkworm by spinning my own 
 brains. 
 
 [For some months, Southey and his wafe lived in 
 lodgings at Bristol. During the poet's absence, 
 his brother-in-law Lovell had died. Ultimately 
 the widow found a home w^ith Southey and after- 
 wards with his son.] 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 May 27, 1796. 
 
 Poor Lovell ! I am in hopes of raising some- 
 thing for his widow by publishing his best pieces, 
 if only enough to buy her a har[)sichord. The 
 poems will make a five-shilling volume, which I 
 preface, and to which I shall prefix an ejoistle to 
 Mary Lovell. Will you procure fne some sul)- 
 scribers? Many a melancholy reflection obtrudes. 
 What I am doing for him you, Bedford, may one 
 day perform for me. How short my part in life 
 may be He only knows who assigned it ; I nmst 
 be only anxious to discharge it well. 
 
 How does time mellow down our opinions ! 
 Little of that ardent enthusiasm which so lately 
 fevered my whole character remains. 
 
 [The enthusiasm, which had died down in May, 
 re-appeared in June.] 
 
 Is it not a pity, Grosvenor, that I should not 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 101 
 
 execute my intention of writing more verses than 
 Lope dc Vega, more tragedies than Dr^xlen, and 
 more epic poems than Blackmore? The more I 
 write, the more I have to write. I have a Helicon 
 kind of dropsy upon me, and crescit indulgens 
 sihi. The quantity of verses I wrote at Brixton is 
 astonishing ; my mind was never more employed : 
 I killed wasps, and was very happy. And so I 
 will again, Grosvenor, though employed on other 
 themes ; and if ever man was happy because he 
 resolved to be so, I will. 
 
 To the same. 
 
 June 26, 1796. 
 My letters occupy more of my time and less 
 of my mind than I could wish. Conceive Gara- 
 gantua eating wood straw])erries one at a time, or 
 green peas, or the old dish — pap with a fork, and 
 you will have some idea how my mind feels in 
 dwelling on desultory topics. Joan of Arc was a 
 whole, — it was something to think of every mo- 
 ment of solitude, and to dream of at night ; my 
 heart was in the poem ; I threw my own feelings 
 into it in my own language, aye, and out of one 
 part of it and another, you may tind my own 
 character. Seriously, Grosvenor, to go on with 
 Madoc is almost necessary to my happiness ; I had 
 rather leave off eating than poetizing ; but these 
 things must be ; — I will feed upon law and 
 digest it, or it shall choke me. 
 
102 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 To the same. 
 
 July 31, 1T96. 
 Wynn wishes me to live near Lincoln's Inn, 
 because, in a year's time, it will be necessary for 
 me to be with a special pleader ; but I wish to 
 live on the other side of Westminster Bridge, 
 because it will be much more necessary to be 
 within an evening's walk of Brixton.* To all 
 serious studies I bid adieu when I enter upon my 
 London lodgings. The law will neither amuse 
 me, nor ameliorate me, nor instruct me ; but the 
 moment it gives me a comfortable independence 
 — and I have but few wants — then farewell to 
 London. I will get me some little house near the 
 sea, and near a country town, for the sake of the 
 post and the bookseller ; and you shall pass as 
 much of the summer with me as you can, and I 
 will see you in the winter, — that is, if you do 
 not come and live by me ; and then we will keep 
 mastiffs like Carlisle, and make the prettiest the- 
 ories, and invent the best systems for mankind ; 
 aye, and become great philanthropists, when we 
 associate only among ourselves and the fraternity 
 of dogs, cats, and cabbages ; for as for poultry, I 
 do not like eating what I have fed, and as for 
 pigs, they are too like the multitude. There, in 
 the cultivation of poetry and potatoes, I will be 
 
 * Where Bedford lived. In a summer house in his garden 
 Southey had written a large portion of Joan of Arc. — Ed. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 103 
 
 innocently employed, not but I mean to aspire to 
 higher things ; aye, Grosvenor, I will make cider 
 and mead, and try more experiments upon wine 
 than a London vintner; and perhaps, Grosvenor, 
 the first Christmas day you pass with me after I 
 am so settled, we may make a Christmas fire of all 
 my law books. Amen, so be it. 
 
 I hope to get out my Letters by Michaelmas- 
 day,* and the Poems will be ready in six weeks 
 after that time. That done, farewell to Bristol, 
 my native place, my home for two and twenty 
 years, where from many causes I have endured 
 much misery, but where I have been very 
 happy. 
 
 No man ever retained a more perfect knowl- 
 edge of the history of his own mind than I have 
 done. I can trace the development of my char- 
 acter from infancy, — for developed it has been, 
 not changed. I look forward to the writing of 
 this history as the most pleasing and most useful 
 employment I shall ever undertake. 
 
 * Letters from Spain and Portugal, published by Cottle, 
 1797. "My aunt," Southey writes, "told Peggy jliis cousin, 
 Margaret Hill] it was pretty well in me to write a book about 
 Portugal who had not been there six months; for her part, she 
 had been there twelve months, and yet she could not write a 
 book about it — so apt are we to measure knowledge by time. 
 I employed my time there in constant attention, seeing every- 
 thing and asking questions, — and never went to bed without 
 writing down the information I had acquired during the day." 
 — Ed. 
 
104 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 Bristol, Oct. 1796. 
 
 I know not even the day of the month, l)ut 
 October is somewhat advanced, and this is Friday 
 evening. AVhy did I not write sooner? Excuses 
 are bad things. I have much to employ me, 
 though I can always make a little leisure. If you 
 were married, Grosvenor, 3'ou would know the 
 luxury of sitting indolently by the fireside ; at 
 present you only half know it. There is a state 
 of complete mental torpor, very delightful, when 
 the mind admits no sensation but that of mere 
 existence ; such a sensation I suppose plants to 
 possess, made more vivid by the dews and gentle 
 rains. To indulge in fanciful systems is a harm- 
 less solitary amusement, and 1 expect many a 
 pleasant hour will be thus worn away, Grosvenor, 
 when we meet. The devil never meddles with 
 me in my unemployed moments ; my day-dreams 
 are of a pleasanter nature. I should be the hap- 
 piest man in the world, if I possessed enough to 
 live with comfort in the country ; but in this 
 world we must sacrifice the best part of our lives 
 to acquire that wealth, which generally arrives 
 when the time of enjoying it is past. 
 
 I ardently wish for children ; yet, if God shall 
 
 bless me with any, I shall be unhappy to see them 
 
 poisoned by the air of London. 
 
 .?- 
 
 " Sir, — I do thank God foi- it, — I do bate 
 Most heartily that city." 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTH EY'S LIFE. 105 
 
 So said John Donne ; * 'tis a favorite quotation 
 of mine. My spirits always sinlc when I approach 
 it. Green fields are my delight. I am not only 
 better in health, but even in heart, in the country. 
 A fine day exhilarates my heart; if it rains, I 
 behold the grass assume a richer verdure as it 
 drinks the moisture : everything that I behold is 
 very good, except man ; and in London I see 
 nothing but man and his works. A country cler- 
 gyman, with a tolerable income, is surely in a 
 very enviable situation. 
 
 You love the sea. Whenever I pitch my tent, 
 it shall be by it. When will that be? Is it not a 
 villanous thing that poetry will not support a 
 man, when the jargon of the law enriches so 
 many? I had rather write an epic poem than 
 read a brief. 
 
 Have you read St. Pierre? If not, read that 
 most delightful work, and you will love the 
 author as much as I do. 
 
 I am as sleepy an animal as ever. The rain 
 beats hard, the fire burns bright, 'tis but eight 
 o'clock, and I have already begun yawning. 
 Good night, Grosvenor, lest I set you to sleep. 
 My father always went to bed at nine o'clock. I 
 have inherited his punctuality and his drowsi- 
 ness. 
 
 * Donne's words are, "Sir, though I thank God for it, I do 
 hate perfectly all this town." — Satire i. — Ed. 
 
106 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 To the same. 
 
 Nov. 21, 1796. 
 When do I come to London? A plain ques- 
 tion. I cannot tell, is as plain an answer. My 
 book will be out before Christmas, and I shall then 
 have no further business in Bristol ; yet, Bedford, 
 this is not saying w^hen I shall leave it. The best 
 answer is, as soon as I can, and the sooner the 
 better. I want to be there. I want to feel my- 
 self settled, and God knows when that will be, 
 for the settlement of a lodging is but a comfort- 
 less one. To complete comfort, a house to one's 
 self is necessary. . . . However, I expect to be 
 as comfortable as it is possible to be in that cursed 
 city, "that huge and hateful sepulchre of men." 
 I detest cities, and had rather live in the fens of 
 Lincolnshire or on Salisbury Plain than in the 
 best situation London could furnish. The neigh- 
 borhood of you and Wynn can alone render it 
 tolerable. I fear the air will wither me up, like 
 one of the miserable myrtles at a town parlor win- 
 dow. It is strange, but I never approach London 
 without feeling my heart sink within me ; an un- 
 conquerable heaviness oppresses me in its atmos- 
 phere, and all its associated ideas are painful. 
 With a little house in the country, and a bare 
 independence, how much more useful should I be, 
 and how much more happy ! It is not talking 
 nonsense when I say that the London air is as bad 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 107 
 
 for the mind as for the bodj^ for the mind is a 
 chameleon that receives its colors from surround- 
 ing objects. 
 
 My future studies, too. Now, I never read a 
 book without learning something, and never write 
 a line of poetry without cultivating some feeling 
 of benevolence and honesty ; but the law is a 
 horrid jargon — a quibbling collection of volu- 
 minous nonsense ; but this I must wade through, 
 — aye, and I will wade through, — and when I 
 shall have got enough to live in the country, you 
 and I will make my first Christmas fire of all my 
 law books. Oh, Grosvenor, what a blessed bon- 
 fire ! 
 
 [Southey remained in Bristol until the close of 
 1796 and then went to London resolved to begin 
 in good earnest the study of the law. This, says 
 his son, "he was now enabled to do through the 
 true friendship of Mr. C. W. W. Wynn, from 
 whom he received for some years from this time 
 an annuity of £160, the prompt fulfilment of a 
 promise made during their years of college inti- 
 macy." In February he writes to his wife, " Now, 
 my dear Edith, am I of Gray's Inn ; where I 
 this day paid twelve pounds fifteen shillings for 
 admission. Edith, you must come to me. I am 
 not merely uncomfortable, I am unhappy without 
 you. I rise in the morning without expecting 
 
108 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 pleasure from the da}', and I lie down at night 
 without one wish for the morning." The follow- 
 ing characteristic letter to Joseph Cottle was writ- 
 ten about the same time.] 
 
 London, Feb., 1797. 
 
 I am now entered on a new way of life, which 
 will lead me to independence. You know that I 
 neither lightly undertake any scheme, nor lightly 
 abandon what I have undertaken. I am happy 
 because I have no wants, and because the inde- 
 pendence I labor to obtain, and of attaining which 
 my expectations can hardly be disappointed, will 
 leave me nothing to wish. I am indel^ted to you, 
 Cottle, for the comforts of my latter time. In my 
 present situation I feel a pleasure in saying thus 
 much. 
 
 As to my literary pursuits, after some consid- 
 eration I have resolved to postpone every other 
 till I have concluded 3Iadoc. This must be the 
 greatest of all my works. The structure is com- 
 plete in my mind ; and my mind is likewise stored 
 with appropriate images. Should I dela^' it these 
 images may become fainter, and perhaps age does 
 not improve the poet. 
 
 Thank God ! Edith comes on Monday next. 
 I say thank God ! for I have never, since my 
 return, been absent from her so long before, and 
 sincerely hope and intend never to be so again. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 109 
 
 On Tuesday we shall be settled ; and on Wednes- 
 day my legal studies begin in the morning, and I 
 shall begin with Madoc in the evening. Of this it 
 is needless to caution you to say nothing, as I 
 must have the character of a lawyer ; and, though 
 I can and will unite the two pursuits, no one 
 would credit the possibility of the union. In two 
 years the poem shall be finished, and the many 
 years it must lie by will aiford ample time for cor- 
 rection. I have declined being -a memlier of a 
 Literar}' Club which meets weekly, and of which 
 I had been elected a member. Surely a man does 
 not do his duty who leaves his wife to evenings of 
 solitude, and I feel duty and happiness to be in- 
 separable. I am happier at hoiue than any other 
 society can possibly make me. 
 
 [In April Southey informs his brother that as he 
 has no business in London till November, except 
 to eat one dinner at Gray's Inn in June, he intends 
 to spend the summer and autumn by the sea. 
 Ultimately the young couple pitched their tent at 
 Burton, in Hampshire, where, it will be seen, 
 Southey made some notable friendships.] 
 
 I have two reasons for preferring a residence 
 near the sea. I love to pickle myself in that 
 grand brine-tub ; and I wish to catch its morning, 
 evening, and mid-day appearance for poetry, with 
 
110 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 the effect of every change of weather. Fancy 
 will do much ; but the poet ought to be an accu- 
 rate ol^server of nature ; and I shall watch the 
 clouds, and the rising and setting sun, and the 
 sea-birds, with no inattentive eye. I have reme- 
 died one of my deficiencies, too, since a boy, and 
 learnt to swim enough to like the exercise. This 
 I began at Oxford, and practised a good deal in 
 the summer of 1795. My last dip was in the 
 Atlantic Ocean, at the foot of the Arrabida Moun- 
 tain — a glorious spot. I have no idea of sub- 
 limity exceeding it. . . . Have you ever met Avith 
 Mary Wollstonecraft's letters from Sweden and 
 Norway? She has made me in love with a cold 
 climate, and frost and snoNv, with a northern 
 moonlight. Now I am turned lawyer, I shall have 
 no more books to send 3'ou, except, indeed, 
 second editions, when they are called for, and then 
 my alterations will be enough, perhaps, to give 
 one interested in the author some pleasure in the 
 comparison. God bless you.* 
 
 [That at 23 he was a boy still may be seen from 
 the wish expressed to Bedford : — ] 
 
 Would we were settled, aye, and for life, in 
 some little sequestered valley ! I would be content 
 
 * As this pious wish is to he found at the close of all or nearly 
 all of Southey's letters, it may for the future be "taken as 
 read." — Ed. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. Ill 
 
 never to climb over the hills that sheltered me, 
 and never to hear music or taste beverage but 
 from the stream that ran beside my door. Let 
 me have the sea, too, and now and then some 
 pieces of a wreck to supply me with firewood, and 
 remind me of commerce. This New Forest is very 
 lovely ; I should like to have a house in it, and 
 dispeople the rest, like William the Conqueror. 
 Of all land objects a forest is the finest. Gisborne 
 has written a feeble poem on the subject. The 
 feelings that fill me when I lie under one tree and 
 contemplate another in all the majesty of years 
 are neither to be defined nor expressed. They 
 pass over the mind like the clouds of the summer 
 evening — too fine and too fleeting for memory to 
 detain. 
 
 To John May* 
 
 Burton, July 11, 1797. 
 The sister and niece of Chatterton are now 
 wholly destitute ; on this occasion I appear as 
 editor of all his works for their relief; this is a 
 heinous sin against the world's opinion, for a 
 young lawyer, but it would have been a real 
 crime to have refused it. We have a black scene 
 to lay before the public : these poor women have 
 been left in want, while a set of scoundrels have 
 been reaping hundreds from the writings of Chat- 
 
 * Southey met May at Lisbon, and a friendship was then 
 formed between thein which proved of life-long duration. — Ed. 
 
112 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 terton. I hope now to make the catastrophe to 
 the history of the poor boy of Bristol ; you shall 
 see the proposals as soon as they are printed. 
 Cottle has been with me a few da3's, and we have 
 •irranged everything relative to this business ; he 
 is the publisher, and means to get the paper at 
 prime cost, and not receive the usual profit from 
 what he sells. The accounts will be published, 
 and we hope and expect to place Mrs. Newton in 
 comfort during the last years of her life. 
 
 Cottle brought with him the new edition of 
 Coleridge's poems : they are dedicated to his 
 brother George in one of the most beautiful poems 
 I ever read. It contains all the poems of Lloyd 
 and Lamb, and I know no volume that can be 
 compared to it. You know not how infinitely my 
 happiness is increased by residing in the country. 
 I have not a wish beyond the quietness I enjoy ; 
 everj'thing is tranquil and beautiful ; but some- 
 times I look forward with regret to the time 
 when I must return to a city which I so heartily 
 dislike. 
 
 To the same. 
 
 July 15, 1797. 
 I sincerely thank you for 3'our letter. I am 
 inclined to think, when my uncle blamed me for 
 not doing ray utmost to relieve my fiimily, he must 
 have alluded to my repeated refusal of entering 
 orders ; a step which undoubtedly would almost 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 113 
 
 instantly have relieved them, and which occasioned 
 me great anguish and many conflicts of mind. To 
 this I have been urged by him, and by my 
 mother ; but you know what my religious opinions 
 are, and I need not ask whether I did rightly and 
 honestly in refusing. Till Christmas last, I sup- 
 ported myself wholly by the profits of my writ- 
 ings. Thus you may see that the only means I 
 have ever possessed of assisting my mother was 
 by entering the church. God knows I would ex- 
 change every intellectual gift which he has blessed 
 me with for implicit faith to have been able to do 
 this. I care not for the opinion of the world, but 
 I would willingly be thought justly of by a few 
 individuals. I labor at a study which I very 
 much dislike, to render myself independent, and 
 I work for the bookseller whenever I can aret 
 employment, that I may have to spare for others. 
 I now do all I can, perhaps I may some day be 
 enabled to do all I wish ; however, there is One 
 who will accept the will for the deed. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 Resirles near Bristol and in Hampshire — Loses Health, and Revisits 
 Portugal — In Bristol again — Fn'st Visit to Keswick — Obtains a 
 Secretaryship — Resigns his post, and returns to Bristol — Cole* 
 ridge —Scott and Model n Ballads. 
 
 [SouTHEY returned to London in the autumn, 
 and escaped from it again in the spring (1798). 
 After a visit to Norwich, and an introduction to 
 William Taylor, the poet took a house at West- 
 bury, two miles from Bristol, and resided there for 
 twelve months, giving far more attention to poetry 
 than to law. To his brother Henry he writes, in 
 July:-] 
 
 We are now tolerably settled at Martin Hall. 
 I have labored much in making it comfortable, 
 and comfortable it now is. Our sitting-room is 
 large, with three windows and two recesses — once 
 windows, but now converted into bookcases, 
 with green baize hanging half-way down the 
 books, as in the College Green. The room is 
 papered with cartridge paper, bordered with yel- 
 low Vandykes edged with black. I have a good 
 many books, but r,ot all I Avant, as man}'' of my 
 most valuable ones are lying in London. I shall 
 be very glad to get settled in a house at London, 
 where I may collect all my chattels together, and 
 
 114 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 115 
 
 move on contentedly for some dozen years in 
 my profession. You will find little difficulty 
 either in Anacreon or in Homer : the laniruao-e 
 will soon become familiar to you, and you will, I 
 hope, apply yourself to it. Gladly I should avail 
 myself of such an opportunity were it in my 
 power. It is of very great advantage to a young 
 man to be a good linguist ; he is more respected, 
 and may be more useful ; his sources of pleasure 
 are increased ; and, what in the present state of 
 the world is to be considered, in case of necessity 
 he has additional means of supporting himself. 
 The languages, Harry — which I learnt almost as 
 an amusement — have considerably contributed 
 and do contribute to my support. 
 
 [From Westbury — after eating some dinners in 
 London, for the law was not yet abandoned, — 
 Southey returned to Burton in the summer of 
 1799. In that summer too he made a tour in 
 Devonshire, and wrote from Exeter to Cottle, of a 
 poet whose name is now inseparably linked to his.] 
 
 Thalaba the Destroyer is progressive. There 
 is a poem called Gebir^ of which I know not 
 whether my review be yet printed (in the Critical), 
 but in that review you will find some of the most 
 exquisite poetry in the language. I would go a 
 hundred miles to see the anonymous author. 
 
116 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 [To Coleridge be writes : — ] 
 
 A friend of Wordsworth's has been uncom- 
 monly kind to me — Basil Montagu. He oflered 
 me his assistance as a special pleader, and said if 
 he could save me 100 guineas, it would give him 
 more than 100 guineas' worth of pleasure. I did 
 thank him, which was no easy matter; but I have 
 been told that I never thank anybody for a 
 civility, and there are very few in this world who 
 can understand silence. However, I do not ex- 
 pect to use his offer : his papers which he offered 
 me to copy will be of high service. Tell Words- 
 worth this. 
 
 I commit wilful murder on my own intellect 
 by drudging at law ; but trust the guilt is partly 
 expiated by the candle-light hours allotted to 
 Madoc. That poem advances very slowly. I am 
 convinced that the best Avay of writing is to write 
 rapidly and correct at leisure. Madoc would be 
 a better poem if written in six mouths than if six 
 years were devoted to it. However, I am satis- 
 fied with what is done, and my outline for the 
 whole is good. 
 
 [Scarcely had he settled or seemed to settle at 
 Burton than he was forced to seek for medical 
 advice at Bristol.] 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 117 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 Kingsdown, Bristol, Dec. 21, 1799. 
 Grosvenor, I think seriously of ffoinof abroad. 
 My complaint, so I am told by the opinion of 
 many medical men, is wholly a diseased sensi- 
 bility (mind you, physical sensibility), disorder- 
 ing the functions, now of the heart, now of the 
 intestines, and gradually debilitating me. Climate 
 is the obvious remedy. In my present state, to 
 attempt to undergo the confinement of legal appli- 
 cation were actual suicide. I am anxious to be 
 well, and to attempt the profession : much in it I 
 shall never do : sometimes my principles stand in 
 my way, sometimes the want of readiness which I 
 felt from the first — a want which I always know 
 in company, and never in solitude and silence. 
 Howbeit, I will make the attempt ; but, mark you, 
 if by stage writing, or any other writing, I can 
 acquire independence, I will not make the sacrifice 
 of happiness it will inevitably cost me. I love the 
 country, I love study — devotedly I love it ; but 
 in legal studies it is only the subtlety of the mind 
 that is exercised. I am not indolent ; I loathe 
 indolence ; but, indeed, reading law is laborious 
 indolence — it is thrashing straw. I have read, 
 and read, and read ; but the devil a bit can I 
 remember. I have given all possible attention, 
 and attempted to command volition. No ! the 
 eye read, the lips pronounced, I understood and 
 
118 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 re-read it ; it was very clear ; I remembered the 
 page, the sentence, — but close the book, and all 
 was gone ! Were I an independent man, even on 
 less than I now possess, I should long since have 
 made the blessed bonfire, and rejoiced that I was 
 free and contented. 
 
 I suffer a good deal from illness, and in a way 
 hardly understandable by those in health. I start 
 from sleep as if death had seized me. I am sensi- 
 ble of every pulsation, and compelled to attend to 
 the motion of my heart till that attention disturbs 
 it. The pain in my side is, I think, lessened, nor 
 do I at all think it was consumption : organic 
 affection it could not have been, else it had been 
 constant ; and a heart disease would not have 
 been perceived tliere. I must go abroad, and 
 recruit under better skies. Not to Lisbon : I will 
 see something new, and something better than the 
 Portuguese. 
 
 [To his good uncle and to Lisbon Southey went 
 in spite of his protestation, carrying his wife with 
 him. Thus he writes of the approach to the 
 capital.] 
 
 It is not possible to conceive a more magnifi- 
 cent scene than the entrance of the Tagus, and the 
 gradual appearance of the beautiful city upon its 
 banks. It is indeed a sight exceeding all it has 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 119 
 
 ever been my fortune to behold, in beauty and 
 richness and grandeur. Convents and Quiutas, 
 gray olive-yards, green orange-groves, and greener 
 vineyards ; the shore more populous every moment 
 as we advanced, and finer buildings opening upon 
 us ; the river, bright as the blue sky which illumi- 
 nated it, swarming with boats of every size and 
 shape, with sails of every imaginable variety ; in- 
 numerable ships riding at anchor far as eye could 
 reach : and the city extending along the shore, 
 and covering the hills to the farthest point of sight. 
 
 To S. T. Coleridge. 
 
 Lisbon, May day, 1800. 
 Here, then, we are, thank God ! alive, and re- 
 covering from dreadful sickness. I never suffered 
 so much at sea, and Edith was worse than I was ; 
 we scarcely ate or slept at all : but the passage 
 was very fine and short ; five days and a half 
 brought us to our port, with light winds the whole 
 of the way. The way was not, however, without 
 alarm. On Monday morning, between five and 
 six, the captain was awakened with tidings that a 
 cutter was bearing down upon us, with English 
 colors, indeed, but apparently a French vessel; 
 we made a signal, which was not answered; we 
 fired a gun, she did the same, and preparations 
 were made for action. We had another Lisbon 
 packet in company, mounting six guns ; our own 
 
120 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 force was ten ; the cutter was a match, and more, 
 for both, but we did not expect to be taken. You 
 may imagine Edith's terror, awakened on a sick 
 bed — disturbed I should have said — with these 
 tidings ! The captain advised me to surround her 
 with mattresses in the cabin, but she would not 
 believe herself in safety there, and I lodged her in 
 the cockpit, and took my station on the quarter- 
 deck with a musket. How I felt I can hardly 
 tell ; the hurry of the scene, the sight of grape- 
 shot, bar-shot, and other ingenious implements of 
 this sort, made an undistinguishable mixture of 
 feelings. The cutter bore down between us ; 
 I saw the smoke from her matches, we were so 
 near, and not a man on board had the least idea 
 but that an immediate action was to take place. 
 We hailed her ; she answered in broken English, 
 and passed on. 'Tis over ! cried somebody. Not 
 yet ! said the captain ; and we expected she was 
 coming round as about to attack our comrade ves- 
 sel. She was English, however, manned chiefly 
 from Guernsey, and this explained her Frenchified 
 language. You will easily imagine that my sen- 
 sations, at the ending of the business, were very 
 definable, — one honest simple joy that I was in a 
 w^hole skin ! I laid the musket in the chest with 
 considerably^ more pleasure than I took it out. I 
 am glad this took place ; it has shown me what it 
 is to prepare for action. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 121 
 
 Four years' absence from Lisbon have given 
 everything the varnish of novelty, and this, with 
 the revival of old asssociations, makes me pleased 
 with everything. It even amused me to renew 
 my acquaintance with the fleas, who opened the 
 campaign immediately on the arrival of a for- 
 eigner. To-day is a busy day ; we are arranging 
 away our things, and seeing visitors : these visits 
 must all be returned ; there ends the ceremony, 
 and then I may choose retirement. I hurry over 
 my letters, for the sake of feeling at leisure to 
 begin my employments. The voyage depriving 
 me of all rest, and leaving me too giddy to sleep 
 well, will, with the help of the fleas, break me in 
 well for early rising. The Avork before me is 
 almost of terrifying labor ; folio after folio to be 
 gutted, for the immense mass of collateral knowl- 
 edge which is indispensable : but I have leisure 
 and inclination.* 
 
 Thalaba will soon be finished. Rickman is my 
 plenipotentiary with the booksellers for this. 
 Pray send me your Plays. . . . Thalaba fin- 
 ished, all my poetrj^ instead of being wasted in 
 rivulets and ditches, shall flow into the great 
 Madoc Mississippi Eiver. I have with me 3'our 
 volume. Lyrical Ballads, Burns, and Gebir. 
 Read Gebir again : he grows upon me. 
 
 * He alludes to the History of Portugal, the work which em- 
 ployed so much of his time from early manhood to old age, and 
 was never destined to be completed. — Ed. 
 
122 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 My uncle's library is admirably stocked with 
 foreign books. My plan is this : immediately 
 to go through the chronicles in order, and then 
 make a skeleton of the narrative ; the timbers 
 put together, the house may be furnished at lei- 
 sure. It will be a great work, and worthy of all 
 labor. Write to me, and some long letters ; and 
 send me your Christahel and 3^our Three Graves, 
 and linish them on purpose to send them. Edith's 
 love. I reach a long arm, and shake hands with 
 you across the seas. 
 
 To Lieut. Thomas Southey. 
 
 May 3, 1800. 
 
 I am writing at a window that overlooks the 
 river — a magnificent scene; the Tower of Al- 
 meida on the opposite isthmus, and its ruined 
 castle ; and still further, where the river widens, 
 the shore of Alentejo, the distant height of 
 Cezimbra and its castle, about fifteen miles, the 
 crow's road, — and the boundary formed by the 
 Arrabida mountains; — the Tagus, so superb a 
 river, so busy and alive with its thousand-shaped 
 boats, and yet so broad as never to be crowded, 
 l3'ing smooth under this sunny heaven, like the 
 blue of burnished armor in the sun, seen where it 
 does not dazzle, and now spotted with purple isl- 
 ands by a few thin clouds. Views like this exist 
 only in climates like these ; they have a mellow- 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 123 
 
 ness, a richness, a soft and voluptuous luxuriance 
 of which no English landscape can help you to 
 form an adequate idea ; and the strong light and 
 shade varies the scene as the sun moves, now 
 hiding and now brinoino- forth crao-s, and vine- 
 yards, and churches, and habitations. I am im- 
 proving my time, and accordingly rise at five. I 
 may say this, for I have done it the only three 
 mornings we have been here, and certainly I shall 
 persevere. Filthy as Lisbon is, no infectious dis- 
 orders are known here. The streets are narrow, 
 and the houses high, the people dirty, and scantily 
 fed upon poor food, chiefly salt fish, a diet miser- 
 ably bad and indigestible ; yet with all these dis- 
 advantages they are as healthy as the inhabitants 
 of any city in the world. An American, in a 
 book upon contagion, attributes the exemption 
 from infectious diseases which Lisbon appears to 
 possess, to the number of lime-kilns in its vicinity. 
 Lime assuredly is very useful in this way ; but 
 the cause is utterly inadequate — it might indeed 
 do, were every other house a kiln. The more ob- 
 vious cause is to be found in the strong winds that 
 regularly blow every evening during the hot 
 weather, sweeping down all the windings of the 
 narrowest streets, and rolling their current down 
 every avenue. 
 
124 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 To the same. 
 
 June 6, 1800. 
 
 I go on comfortably. The weather makes me 
 lazy, and yet I have read enormously, and digested 
 much. Laziness is the influenza of the country. 
 The stone-cutter will lay his head upon the stone 
 at which he has worked, and sleep, though it be 
 hot enoui^h to broil a beefsteak. The fellows lie 
 sleeping everywhere in the streets ; they seem to 
 possess the power of sleeping when they will. 
 Everlasting noise is another characteristic of Lis- 
 bon. Their noonday fireworks, their cannonading 
 on every fool's pretext, their bells to every goat 
 in a flock and every mule in a drove, prove this ; 
 above all, their everlasting bell-ding-donging, — 
 for bell-ringing would convey the English idea of 
 music, and here it is only noise. 
 
 To the same. 
 
 June 22. 
 Fielding died and was buried here. By a sin- 
 gular fatality, four attempts have been made to 
 erect a monument, and all have miscarried. A 
 Frenchman set on foot a subscription for this pur- 
 pose, and many of the factory engaged for one, 
 two, or three moidores ; circumstances took him 
 from Lisbon, and this dropped. Another French- 
 man had a monument made at his own expense, 
 and paid for it ; there was a fine French inscrip- 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 125 
 
 tion, that, as his own countrymen had never given 
 the great Fielding a monument, it was reserved for 
 a Frenchman to honor his country by paying that 
 respect to genius : he also went away, and is now 
 followinof the French Pretender ; and his monu- 
 ment lies among masonry and rubbish, where I 
 have sought for it in vain. Then De Visme 
 undertook the affair ; and the bust of Fielding, 
 designed for this purpose, is still in the house 
 which belonged to him here. I know not what 
 made this scheme abortive. Last, the Prince of 
 Brazil went to work, and the monument was made. 
 The Lady Abbess of the New Convent wished to 
 see it ; it was sent to her ; she took a fancy to it, 
 and there it has remained ever since : and Field- 
 ing is still without a monument. 
 
 To C. W. W. Wynn. 
 
 CiNTRA, July, 1800. 
 
 I have written no line of poetry here, except 
 the four books of Thalaba, nor shall I till they are 
 corrected and sent off, and my mmd completely 
 delivered of that subject. Some credit may be 
 expected from the poem ; and if the booksellers 
 will not give me £100 for a 4to edition of 500 
 copies, or £140 for a pocket one of 1000, why, 
 they shall not have the poem. 
 
 I lono; to see the face of a friend, and huno;er 
 after the bread-and-butter comforts and green 
 
126 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 fields of England. Yet do I feel so strongly the 
 good effects of climate, — and I am now perspir- 
 ing in my shirt while I write, in the coolness of 
 Cintra, a darkened room and a wet floor, — that I 
 certainly wish my lot could be cast somewhere in 
 the south of Europe. The spot I am in is the 
 most beautiful I have ever seen or imagined. I 
 ride a jackass, a fine lazy way of travelling ; you 
 have even a boy to beat old Dapple when he is 
 slow. I eat oranges, figs, and delicious pears, — 
 drink Colares wine, a sort of half-way excellence 
 between port and claret, — read all I can lay 
 my hands on, — dream of poem after poem, and 
 play after play, — take a siesta of two hours, and 
 am as happy as if life were but one everlasting 
 to-day, and that to-morrow was not to be provided 
 for. 
 
 To John liicJcman. 
 
 Aug. 22, 1800. 
 
 I lack society sadly. The people here know 
 much of their own business, very little of the 
 country they live in, and nothing of anything else 
 except cards. My uncle, indeed, is a man of ex- 
 tensive knowledge ; and here is one family, of 
 which the master is a man of some science, and 
 where I can open my flood-gates. I want you and 
 Davy, and a newspaper, and bread-and-])utter, and 
 a srreen field for me and the horse : it would do 
 his old English heart as much good as it would 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 127 
 
 mine. But I have ample and pleasant employ- 
 ment : curiosity forever on the hunt — a situation 
 the most beautiful that I have ever seen, and a 
 climate for which Nature seems to have destined 
 me, only, blessed be God, she dropt me the other 
 side of the bay. 
 
 To Henry Southey. 
 
 Aug. 25, 1800. 
 For six weeks we have been at Cintra — a 
 spot the most beautiful that I have ever seen, and 
 which is probably unique. Eighteen miles dis- 
 tant, at Lisbon, the sun is insupportable. Here 
 we are cool, with woods and water. The wealth- 
 ier English are all here; still, however, I lack 
 societ}^ and, were it not for a self-sufficiency (like 
 the bear, who sucks his paws when the snow shuts 
 him up in his den), should be in a state of mental 
 famine. My uncle is little here ; people will die, 
 and must be buried. He is a man of extensive 
 information ; his library very well furnished, and 
 he very well acquainted with its contents. The 
 English here know very little of the country they 
 live in, and nothing of the literature. Of Ca- 
 moens they have heard, and only of Camoens. By 
 the help of my uncle I have acquired an extensive 
 knowledge, and am almost as well acquainted with 
 Portuguese literature as with that of my own 
 country. It is not worth much ; but it is not 
 
128 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 from the rose and the violet only that the bee 
 sucks honey. 
 
 You would be amused could j^ou see Edith and 
 myself on ass-back — I sitting sideways, gloriously 
 lazy, with a boy to beat my Bayardo, as well 
 adapted to me as ever that wild courser was to 
 Einaldo. In this climate there is no walking ; a 
 little exercise heats so immoderately : but their 
 cork woods or fir woods, and mountain glens, and 
 rock pyramids, and ever-flowing fountains, and 
 lemon-groves ever in flower and in fruit, want 
 only society to became a Paradise. Could I but 
 colonize Cintra with half a dozen familiars, I 
 should wish never to leave it. As it is, I am 
 comfortable, my health establishing itself, my 
 spirits everlastingly partaking the sunshine of the 
 climate ; yet I do hunger after the bread-and-but- 
 ter, and the fireside comforts, and the intellect of 
 England. 
 
 [English bread-and-butter was not tasted until 
 the following summer, 1801, wdien Southey and 
 his wife returned to England, and stayed for a 
 short time at Bristol. "He had now," his son 
 writes, " entirely abandoned all idea of continuing 
 the study of the law, and his thoughts and wishes 
 were strongly turned towards obtaining some ap- 
 pointment which would enable him to reside in a 
 southern climate. He had fixed his mind on a 
 consulship."] 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 129 
 
 To S. T. Coleridge. 
 
 Bristol, July 11, 1801. 
 You may have seen a translation of Persius, 
 by Drummond, an M. P. This man is going am- 
 bassador, first to Palermo and then to Constanti- 
 nople : if a married man can go as his secretary, 
 it is probable that I shall accompany him. I daily 
 expect to know. It is a scheme of Wynn's to 
 settle me in the South, and I am returned to look 
 about me. My salary will be small — a very 
 trifle ; but after a few years I look on to some- 
 thing better, and have fixed my mind on a consul- 
 ship. Now, if we go, you must join us as soon 
 as we are housed, and it will be marvellous if we 
 regret England. I shall have so little to do that 
 my time may be considered as wholly my own : 
 our joint amusements will easily supply us with all 
 expenses. So no more of the Azores ; for we will 
 see the Great Turk, and visit Greece, and walk 
 up the Pyramids, and ride camels in Arabia. I 
 have dreamt of nothing else these five weeks. As 
 yet everything is so uncertain, for I have received 
 no letter since we landed, that nothing can be said 
 of our intermediate movements. If we are not 
 embarked too soon, we will set off* as early as pos- 
 sible for Cumberland, unless you should think, as 
 we do, that Mahomet had better come to the 
 mountain ; that change of all externals may bene- 
 fit you ; and that, bad as Bristol weather is, it 
 
130 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 is yet infinitely pi'eferal)lc to northern cold and 
 damp. Meet we must, and will. 
 
 Time and absence make stranjje work with our 
 affections ; but mine are ever returning to rest 
 upon you. I have other and dear friends, but 
 none with whom the whole of my being is intimate 
 — with whom every thought and feeling can amal- 
 gamate. Oh ! I have yet such dreams ! Is it 
 quite clear that you and I were not meant for 
 some better star, and dropped, by mistake, into 
 this world of pounds, shillings, and pence? 
 
 [A few days later he writes again to Coleridge.] 
 
 July 25, 1800. 
 
 In about ten days we shall be ready to set for- 
 ward for Keswick ; where, if it were not for the 
 rains, and the fogs, and the frosts, I should, prob- 
 ably, be content to winter ; but the climate deters 
 me. It is uncertain when I may be sent abroad, 
 or where, except that the south of Europe is my 
 choice — the appointment hardly doubtful, and 
 the probable destination Palermo or Naples. We 
 will talk of the future, and dream of it, on the 
 lake side. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 August 19, 1801. 
 With Drummond it seems I go not, but he 
 and Wynn design to get for me — or try to get — 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 131 
 
 a better berth ; that of Secretary to some Italian 
 Legation, which is permanent, and not personally 
 attached to the minister. Amen. I love the 
 South, and the possibility highly pleases me, and 
 the prospect of advancing ray fortunes. To Eng- 
 land I have no strong tie ; the friends whom I 
 love live so widely apart that I never see two in a 
 place ; and for acquaintance, they are to be found 
 everywhere. Thus much for the future ; for the 
 present I am about to move to Coleridge, who is 
 at the Lakes; — and I am laboring, somewhat 
 blindly indeed, but all to some purpose, al)out my 
 ways and means ; for the foreign expedition that 
 has restored my health, has at the same time 
 picked my pocket ; and if I had not good spirits 
 and cheerful industry, I should be somewhat surly 
 and sad. So I am — I hope most truly and 
 ardently for the last time — pen-and-inking for 
 supplies, not from pure inclination. I am rather 
 heaping bricks and mortar than building ; hesitat- 
 ing between this plan and that plan, and preparing 
 for both. I rather think it will end in a romance, 
 in metre Thalabian, — in mj'thology Hindoo, — by 
 name Tlie Curse of KeJicnna, on which name you 
 may speculate ; and if you have any curiosity to 
 see a crude outline, the undeveloped life-germ of 
 the e^g, say so, and you shall see the story as it 
 is, and the poem as it is to be, written piece- 
 meal. 
 
132 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 Grosvenor, I perceive no change in myself, 
 nor any symptoms of change ; I differ only in 
 years from what I was, and years make less dif- 
 ference in me than in most men. All things con- 
 sidered, I feel myself a fortunate and happj" man ; 
 the future wears a better face than it has ever 
 done, and I have no reason to regret that indiffer- 
 ence to fortune which has marked the past. 
 
 [The first letter written from Keswick is dated 
 Sept. 6, 1801, and addressed to the same friend.] 
 
 You ask me questions about my future plans 
 which I cannot readily answer, only that if I got 
 a decent salary abroad, even should my health take 
 a fancy to this queer climate, I have no estate to 
 retire to at homo, and so shall have a good pru- 
 dential reason for remaining there. jNIy dreams 
 incline to Lisbon as a resting-place ; I am really 
 attached to the country, and, odd as it may seem, 
 to the people. In Lisbon they are, like all met- 
 ropolitans, roguish enough, but in the country I 
 have found them hospitable, even to kindness, 
 when I was a stranger and in want. The consul- 
 ship at Lisbon w^ould, of all possible situations, 
 best delight me, — better than a grand consulship, 
 — 'tis a good thousand a year. But when one is 
 dreaming, you know, Grosvenor — 
 
 These lakes are like rivers : but oh for the 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 133 
 
 Mondego and the Tagus ! And these mountains, 
 beautifully indeed are they shaped and grouped ; 
 but oh for the great Monchique I and for Cintra, 
 my paradise ! — the heaven on earth of my hopes ; 
 and if ever I should have a house at Cintra, as in 
 earnest sincerity I do hope I shall, will not yo\i 
 give me one twelvemonth, and eat grapes, and 
 ride donkeys, and be very happy? In truth, 
 Grosvenor, I have lived al)road too long to be 
 contented in England : I miss southern luxuries, 
 — the fruits, the wines ; I miss the sun in heaven, 
 having been upon a short allowance of sunbeams 
 these last ten days. 
 
 [And now, through his friend Rickman, who 
 was then residing in Dublin, he obtained the 
 appointment of private secretary to ]Mr. Corry, 
 Chancellor of the Exchequer for Ireland. A short 
 visit was paid to Dublin, and then, having fetched 
 his wife from Keswick, he removed to London, 
 where Mr. Corry was resident during the winter 
 season.] 
 
 To Mrs. Southeij. 
 
 Dublin, Oct., 1801. 
 It does not appear that my work will be any ways 
 difficult — copying and letter-writing, which any 
 body could do, if anybody could be confidentially 
 trusted. John Eickmau is a great man in Dublin 
 and in the eyes of the world, not one jot altered 
 
134 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 from the John Rickman of Christchurch, save only 
 that, in compliance with an extorted promise, he has 
 deprived himself of the pleasure of scratching his 
 head, by putting powder in it. He has astonished 
 the people about him. The government stationer 
 hinted to him, wdien he was giving an order, that 
 if he wanted anything in the pocket-book way, he 
 might as well put it down in the order. Out he 
 pulled his own — "Look, sir, I have bought one 
 for two shillings." His predecessor admonished 
 him not to let himself down by speaking to any 
 of the clerks. " Why, sir," said John Rickraan, 
 "I should not let myself down if I spoke to every 
 man between this and the bridge." And so he 
 goes on in his own right way. He has been 
 obliged to mount up to the third story, before he 
 could find a room small enough to sleep in ; and 
 there he led me, to show me his government bed, 
 which, because it is a government bed, contains 
 stuff enough to make a dozen ; the curtains being 
 completely double, and mattress piled upon mat- 
 tress, so that tumbling out would be a dangerous 
 fall.* The filth of the houses is intolerable, — 
 
 * Packman, according to Talfourd, was the "sturdiest of 
 jovial companions," and Charles Lamb describes him as " fullest 
 of matter with least verbosity." He was also, says Southey's 
 son, "a man of vast and varied practical knowledge upon al- 
 most all subjects, of the kindest heart, and unwearied in offices 
 of friendship." Rickman was for many years one of the clerks 
 of the House of Commons. — Ed. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 135 
 
 floors and furniture offending you with Portuguese 
 iiiistiness ; but it is a very fine city, — a magnifi- 
 cent city, — such public buildings, and the streets 
 so wide ! For these advantages Du1)lin is indebted 
 to the prodigal corruption of its own government. 
 Every member who asked money to make im- 
 provements got it ; and if he got £20,000, in 
 decency spent five for the public, and pocketed 
 the rest. These gentlemen are now being hauled 
 a little over the coals, and they have grace enough 
 to thank God the Union did not take place sooner. 
 Did I send, in my last, the noble bull that 
 Rickman heard? He was late in company, when 
 a gentleman looked at his watch, and cried, "It is 
 to-morrow morning I — I must wish you good 
 night.''^ 
 
 [It was not long before Southey resigned what 
 he called " a foolish office and a good salary," and 
 took up his residence at Bristol.] 
 
 " Here," he writes to Coleridge, " I have mean- 
 time a comfortable home, and books enough to 
 employ as much time as I can find for them ; my 
 table is covered with folios, and my History 
 advances steadily, and to my own mind well. No 
 other employment pleases me half so much ; 
 nevertheless, to other employment I am compelled 
 by the most cogent of all reasons. I have a job 
 
136 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 in hand for Longman and Rees, wliich will bring 
 me in £60, a possibility of £40, and a chance of 
 a farther £30 ; this is an al)ridgment of Amadis 
 of Gaul into three duodecimos, with an essay, — 
 anonymously and secretly : if it sell, they will 
 prol)ably proceed through the whole library of 
 romance. In poetry I have, of late, done very 
 little, some fourscore lines the outside ; still I feel 
 myself strong enough to open a campaign, and 
 this must probal)ly be done to find beds, chairs, 
 and tables for my house Avhen I get one." 
 
 To the same. 
 
 Bristol, Aug. 4, 1802. 
 
 In reply to xoxxy letter there are so many things 
 to be said that I know not where to begin. First 
 and foremost, then, about Keswick, and the pros 
 and cons for domesticating there. To live cheap, 
 — to save the crushing expense of furnishing a 
 house ; — sound, good, mercantile motives ! Then 
 come the ghosts of old Skiddaw and Great Rob- 
 inson ; — the whole eyewantonness of lakes and 
 mountains, — and a host of other feelings, which 
 eight years have modified and moulded, but which 
 have rooted like oaks, the stronger for their shak- 
 ing. But then your horrid latitude ! and inces- 
 sant rains ! . . . 
 
 We shall probably agree altogether some day 
 upon Wordsworth's Lyrical Poems. Does he not 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 137 
 
 associate more feeling with particular phrases, and 
 you also with him, than those phrases can convoy 
 to any one else? This I suspect. Who would 
 part with a ring of a dead friend's hair? and yet 
 a jeweller will give for it only the value of the 
 gold : and so must words pass for their current 
 value. 
 
 Tell me some more, as Moses * says, about 
 Keswick, for I am in a humor to be persuaded, — 
 and if I may keep a jackass there for Edith ! I 
 have a wolfskin great-coat, so hot that it is im- 
 possible to wear it here. Now, is not that a 
 reason for going where it may be useful ? 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 Nov. 28, 1802. 
 
 You have seen my Okl, and have not seen 
 what I wrote to Wynn about its manner. Every- 
 where possible the story is told in the very phrase 
 of the original chronicles, which are almost the 
 oldest works in the Castilian language. The lan- 
 guage, in itself poetical, becomes more poetical by 
 necessary compression ; if it smack of romance, 
 so does the story : in the notes, the certain will be 
 distinguished from the doubtful passages quoted, 
 and references to author and page uniformly given. 
 Thus much of this, which is no specimen of my 
 historical style : indeed, I do not think uniformity 
 * Hartley Coleridge's pet name. — Ed. 
 
138 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 of style desirable ; it should rise and fall with the 
 subject, and adapt itself to the matter. More- 
 over, in my own judgment, a little peculiarity of 
 style is desirable, because it nails down the matter 
 to the memory. You remember the facts of Livy ; 
 l)ut you remember the very phrases of Tacitus 
 and Sallust, and the phrase reminds you of the 
 matter when it would else have been forgotten. 
 This may be pushed, like everything, too far, and 
 become ridiculous ; but the principle is true. 
 
 When I am housed and Jiomed (as I shall be, 
 or hope to be, in the next spring ; not that the 
 negotiation is over yet, but I expect it will end 
 well,* and that I shall have a house in the love- 
 liest part of South Wales, in a vale between high 
 mountains ; and an onymous house too, Grosve- 
 nor, and one that is down in the map of Glamor- 
 ganshire, and its name is Maes Gwyn ; and so 
 much for that, and there's an end of my parenthe- 
 sis) , then do I purpose to enter into a grand con- 
 federacy with certain of the animal world : every 
 body has a dog, and most people have a cat : but 
 I will have, moreover, an otter, and teach him to 
 fish, for there is salmon in the river Neath (and I 
 should like a hawk, but that is only a vain hope, 
 
 * It is scarcely necessary to say that it did not end well. 
 Some additions to tlie tiouse were asked for, to wliicli, at the 
 last moment, tlie landlord objected, and the vale of Neath 
 was exchanged for Cumberland. — Ed. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 139 
 
 and a gull or an osprey to fish in the sea), and I 
 will have a snake if Edith will let me, and I w^ill 
 have a toad to catch flies, and it shall be made 
 murder to kill a spider in my domains. 
 
 To John Hickman. 
 
 Jan. 30, 1803. 
 
 I am rich in books, considered as plain and 
 poor Robert Southey, and in foreign books consid- 
 ered as an Englishman ; but, for my glutton appetite 
 and healthy digestion, my stock is Imt small, and the 
 historian feels daily and hourly the want of mate- 
 rials. I believe I must visit London for the sake 
 of the Museum, but not till the spring be far ad- 
 vanced, and warm enough to write with tolerable 
 comfort in their reading-room. My History of 
 MonacJiism cannot be complete without the Bene- 
 dictine Hlstonj of Mabillon. There is another 
 book in the Museum, "which must be noticed liter- 
 ally, or put in a note, — the Booh of the Conform- 
 ities of St. Francis and Jesus Christ! I have 
 thirteen folios of Franciscan history in the house, 
 and yet want the main one, "Wadding's Seraphic 
 Annual, which contains the original bulls. 
 
 Of the Beguines I hav^e, as yet, found neither 
 traces nor tidings, except that I have seen the 
 name certainly among the heretic list ; but my 
 monastic knowledge is very far from complete. I 
 know only the outline for the two centuries be- 
 
140 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 tween Francisco and Luther, and nothing but 
 Jesuit history from that period. 
 
 Do not suspect me of querulousness ; labor is 
 my amusement, and nothing makes me growl, but 
 that the kind of labor cannot be wholly my own 
 choice; — that I must lay aside old chronicles, 
 and review modern poems ; instead of composing 
 from a full head, that I must write like a school- 
 boy upon some idle theme on which nothing can 
 be said or ousrht to be said. I believe the best 
 thing will be as you hope, for, if I live and do 
 well, my History shall be done, and that will be a 
 fortune to a man economical from habit, and 
 moderate in his wants and wishes from feeling and 
 principle. 
 
 Coleridge is with me at present ; he talks of 
 going abroad, for, poor fellow, he suffers terril^ly 
 from this climate. You bid me come with the 
 swallows to London ! I wish I could go with the 
 swallows in their winterly migration. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 April 3, 1803. 
 
 I love old houses best, for the sake of the odd 
 closets and cupboards and good thick \vails that 
 don't let the wind blow in, and little out-of-the- 
 way polyangular rooms with great beams running 
 across the ceiling, — old heart of oak, that has 
 outlasted half a score generations ; and chimney- 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 141 
 
 pieces Avith the date of the year carved above 
 them, and huge fire-phices that warmed the shins 
 of Englishmen before the house of Hanover came 
 over. The most delightful associations that ever 
 made me feel, and think, and fall a-dreaming, are 
 excited by old buildings — not absolute ruins, but 
 in a state of decline. Even the dipt yews interest 
 me ; and if I found one in any garden that should 
 become mine, in the shape of a peacock, I should 
 be as proud to kee}) his tail well spread as the man 
 Avho first carved him. In truth, I am more dis- 
 posed to connect myself by sympathy with the 
 ages which are past, and by hope with those that 
 are to come, than to vex and irritate myself by 
 any lively interest about the existing generation. 
 
 Your letter was unusually interesting, and 
 dwells upon my mind. What you say of yourself 
 impresses upon me still more deeply the convic- 
 tion that the want of a favorite pursuit is your 
 greatest source of discomfort and discontent. It 
 is the pleasure of pursuit that makes every man 
 happy ; whether the merchant, or the sportsman, 
 or the collector, the philobibl, or the readev-o-bibl, 
 and maker-o-bibl, like me, — pursuit at once sup- 
 plies employment and hope. This is what I have 
 often preached to you, but perhaps I never told 
 you what benefit I myself have derived from reso- 
 lute employment. When Joan of Arc was in the 
 press, I had as many legitimate causes for unhap- 
 
142 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 piness as any man need have, — uncertainty for 
 the future, and immediate want in the literal and 
 plain meaning of the word. I often walked the 
 streets at dinner time for want of a dinner, when 
 I had not eighteen-pence for the ordinary, nor 
 bread and cheese at my lodgings. But do not 
 suppose that I thought of my dinner when I was 
 walking — my head was full of what I was com- 
 posing : when I lay down at night I was planning 
 my poem ; and when I rose up in the morning the 
 poem was the first thought to \vhich I was awake. 
 The scanty profits of that poem I was then antici- 
 pating in my lodging-house bills for tea, bread-and- 
 butter, and those little etceteras which amount to a 
 formidable sum when a man has no resources ; but 
 that poem, faulty as it is, has given me a Baxter's 
 shove into my right place in the world. 
 
 So much for the practical effects of Epictetus, 
 to whom I hold myself indebted for much amend- 
 ment of character. Now, — when I am not com- 
 paratively, but positively, a happy man, wishing 
 little, and wanting nothing, — my delight is the 
 certainty that, while I have health and eyesight, 
 I can never want a pursuit to interest. 
 
 To C. W. W. W^nn. 
 
 June 9, 1803. 
 I have just gone through the Scottish jBorder 
 Ballads. Walter Scott himself is a man of great 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 143 
 
 talent and genius ; but wherever he patches an old 
 poem, it is always with new bricks. Of the 
 modern liallads, his own fragment is the only good 
 one, and that is very good. I am sorry to see 
 Le3^den's good for so little. Sir Agrethorn is flat, 
 foolish, Matthewish, Gregoryish, Lewisish. I 
 have been ol)liged to coin vituperative adjectives 
 on purpose, the language not having terms enough 
 of adequate abuse. I suppose the word Flodden- 
 Field entitles it to a place here, but the scene 
 might as well have been laid in El Dorado, or 
 Tothill Fields, or the country of Prester John, for 
 anything like costume which it possesses. It is 
 odd enough that almost every passage which Scott 
 has quoted from Froissart should be among the 
 extracts which I had made. 
 
 In all these modern ballads there is a modern- 
 ism of thought and language-turns, to me very 
 perceptible and very unpleasant, the more so for 
 its mixture with antique words — polished steel 
 and rusty iron ! This is the case in all Scott's 
 ballads. His Eve of St. John is a better ballad 
 in story than any of mine, but it has this fiiult. 
 Matthew G. Lewis, Esq., M. P., sins more griev- 
 ously in this way ; he is not enough versed in old 
 English to avoid it : Scott and Leyden are, and 
 ought to have written more purely. 
 
 Scott, it seems, adopts the same system of 
 metre with me, and varies his tune in the same 
 
144 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 stanza from iambic to anapaestic ad libitum. In 
 spite of all the ti'oul)le that has been taken to tor- 
 ture Chaucer into heroic metre, I have no doubt 
 whatever that he wrote upon this system, common 
 to all the ballad writers. Coleridije asfrees with 
 me upon this. The proof is that, read him thus, 
 and he becomes everywhere harmonious ; but ex- 
 pletive syllables, en's and y's and e's, only make 
 him halt upon ten lame toes. I am now daily 
 drinking at that pure well of English undefiled, to 
 get historical manners, and to learn English and 
 poetry. 
 
 [A proposal was afloat that Southey should edit 
 a Bibliotheca Britannica, which led Coleridge to 
 indulge in one of those magniticent projects which 
 were to him so much easier than achievement.] 
 
 To S. T. Coleridge. 
 
 Aug., 1803. 
 Your plan is too good, too gigantic, quite be- 
 yond my powers. If you had my tolerable state 
 of health, and that love of steady and productive 
 employment which is now grown into a necessary 
 habit with me, if you were to execute it, and would 
 execute it, it would be, beyond all doubt, the 
 ^ most valuable work of any age or any country ; 
 but I cannot till up such an outline. No man can 
 better feel where he fails than I do ; and to rely 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 145 
 
 upon you for whole quartos ! Dear Coleridge, 
 the smile that comes with that thought is a very 
 melancholy one ; and if Edith saw me now, she 
 would think my eyes were weak again, when, in 
 truth, the humor that covers them springs from 
 another cause. 
 
 For my own comfort, and credit, and peace of 
 mind, I must have a plan which I know mj^self 
 strong enough to execute. I can take author by 
 author as they come in their series, and give his 
 life and an account of his works quite as well as 
 ever it has yet been done. I can write connecting 
 paragraphs and chapters shortly and pertinently, 
 in my way ; and in this way the labor of all my 
 associates can be more easily arranged. And, 
 after all, this is really nearer the actual design 
 of what I purport by a Bibliotheca than yours 
 would be, — a book of reference, a Avork in which 
 it may be seen what has been written upon every 
 subject in the British language : this has elsewhere 
 been done in the dictionary form ; whatever we 
 get better than that form — ponemus lucro. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Loses his first Child — Keswick — Life among- the Mountains — Advice 
 to Coleridge — Visits London — Learns Dutch —Macloc published 
 — Visits Scott and Scotland — Edits Kirlve White's Kemuins. 
 
 [The plan of the Bibliotheca was delayed, to be 
 finally abandoned, and Southey, having lost a 
 year-old baby, his first child, went for a second 
 visit to Keswick.] 
 
 To Lieutenant Southey. 
 
 Keswick, Sept. 8, 1803.* 
 Edith was very ill at Bristol. On the way we 
 stayed five days with j\Iiss Barker, in Staffordshire 
 — one of the people in the Avorld whom I like. 
 To escape from Bristol was a relief. The place 
 was haunted, and it is my wish never to see it 
 aijain. Here my spirits suflTer from the sight of 
 little Sara,-f- who is about her size. However, 
 God knows that I do not repine, and that in my 
 very soul I feel that his Avill is best. These things 
 do one good : tliey loosen, one by one, the roots 
 that rivet us to earth ; they fix and confirm our 
 faith till the thought of death becomes so insepa- 
 
 * It may be understood from this date that all letters are 
 ■written from Greta Hall unless another address is given. — Ed. 
 t Sara Coleridge. 
 
 146 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 147 
 
 rably connected with the hope of meeting those 
 whom we have lost, that death itself is no lonofcr 
 considered as an evil. 
 
 Did I tell you that, in this universal panic and 
 palsy, Longman has requested me to delay the 
 Bibliotheca? This is a relief to me. I feel freer 
 and easier. 
 
 Edward has written to me ; he was to go on 
 board the following day. I could not at that time 
 see to his fitting out as I should have done ; but 
 the boy shall not want as far as my means will go. 
 It is you and I who have fared the worst ; the 
 other two will have fewer difficulties to cope with, 
 yet perhaps they will not go on so well. Men 
 are the better for having suffered ; — of that, every 
 year's experience more and more convinces me. 
 
 Edith suffers deeply and silently. She is 
 kept awake at night by recollections, — and I am 
 harassed by dreams of the poor child's illness and 
 recovery, but this will wear away. Would that 
 you could see these lakes and mountains ! how 
 wonderful they are ! how awful in their beauty. 
 All the poet-part of me will be fed and fostered 
 here. I feel already in tune, and shall proceed to 
 my work with such a feeling of power as old 
 Samson had when he laid hold of the pillars of 
 the Temple of Dagon. 
 
148 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 To tJie same. 
 
 Oct. 29, 1803. 
 
 This place is better suited for me than you 
 imagine — it tempts me to take far more exercise 
 than I ever took elsewhere, for we have the love- 
 liest scenes possible close at hand ; and I have, 
 therefore, seldom or never felt myself in stronger 
 health. And as for good spirits, be sure I have 
 the outward and visil)le sign, however it may be 
 for the inward and spiritual grace. 
 
 jNIy main work has been Madoc. I am now 
 arrived at the old fifth liook, and at the twelfth of 
 the booklings into which it is now divided. The 
 eleven divisions finished, which bring it down 
 to the end of the old fourth l)ook, contain 2536 
 lines, — an increase on the whole of 731 ; but of 
 the whole not one line in five stands as originally 
 written. About 9000 lines will be the extent ; 
 but the farther I proceed the less alteration will 
 be needed. When I turn the half-way, I shall 
 then say to my friends, "Now, get me subscribers, 
 and I will publish Madoc." In what is done tli,ere 
 is some of my best workmanship. I shall get l)y 
 it less money than fame, and less fame than envy, 
 but the envy will be only life-long ; and when 
 that is gone and the money spent — you know the 
 old rhyme. 
 
 I must go to work for money ; and that also 
 frets me. This hand-to-mouth work is very dis- 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 149 
 
 heartening, and interferes cruelly Avith better 
 thino's, — more important they cannot be called, 
 for the bread-and-cheese is the business of the 
 first necessity. But from my History I do expect 
 permanent profit, and such a perpetual interest as 
 shall relieve me. I shall write the volume of 
 letters which you have heard me talk of, — an 
 omnium-gatherum of the odd thins^s I have seen 
 in England. 
 
 Whenever you are at a decent distance, and 
 can get leave of absence, do come. Get to Liver- 
 pool by water, or, still better, to Whitehaven. 
 You will be thoroughly delighted with the coun- 
 try. The mountains, on Thursday evening, be- 
 fore the sun was quite down, or the moon bright, 
 were all of one dead-blue color; their rifts, and 
 rocks, and swells, and scars had all disappeared — 
 the surface was perfectly uniform, nothing but the 
 outline distinct ; and this even surface of dead 
 blue, from its unnatural uniformity, made them, 
 though not transparent, appear transvious, — as 
 though they were of some soft or cloudy texture 
 through which j'ou could have passed. I never 
 saw any appearance so perfectly unreal. Some- 
 times a blazing sunset seems to steep them through 
 and through with red light ; or it is a cloudy 
 morning, and the sunshine skints down through a 
 rift in the clouds, and the pillar of light makes 
 the spot whereon it falls so emerald green that it 
 
150 THE STOKY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 looks like a little field of Paradise. At night you 
 lose the mountains, and the wind so stirs up the 
 lake that it looks like the sea by moonlight. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 Nov. 10, 1803. 
 
 I am preparing Madoc for publication, and have 
 so far advanced in the correction as to resolve 
 upon trying my fortune at a subscription. I will 
 print it for a guinea, in one quarto, if possible at 
 that price ; if not, in three small volumes. I will 
 not ])rmt my intention till the success of a sub- 
 scription has been tried privately ; that is, without 
 being published; because if it fails, I can better 
 go to a bookseller. If you can procure me some 
 names, do ; but never make 3'ourself uncomforta- 
 ble by asking. Of course, no money till the 
 delivery of the book. 
 
 It is now fifteen years since the subject first 
 came into my occiput, — and I believe Wynn was 
 made acquainted with it almost at the time : it 
 has been so much the subject of my thoughts and 
 dreams that in completing it, in sending ofl' what 
 has been so peculiarly and solely my own, there 
 is a sort of aw^fulness, and feeling as if one of the 
 purposes of my existence will then be accom- 
 plished. 
 
 I am growing old, Bedford ; not so much by 
 the family Bible, as by all external and outward 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 151 
 
 symptoms : the gray hairs have made their appear- 
 ance ; my eyes are wearing out ; my shoes, the 
 very cut of my father's, at which I used to hiugh ; 
 my hmbs not so supple as they were at Brixton in 
 '93 ; my tongue not so glib ; my heart quieter ; 
 my hopes, thoughts, and feelings, all of the com- 
 plexion of a sunny autumn evening. I have a 
 sort of presage that I shall live to finish Madoc 
 and my History. God grant it, and that then my 
 work will be done. 
 
 To Richard Duppa. 
 
 Dec. 14, 1803. 
 
 Hazlitt, whom you saw at Paris, has been 
 here ; a man of real genius. He has made a very 
 fine picture of Coleridge for Sir George Beaumont, 
 which is said to be in Titian's manner ; he has 
 also painted Wordsworth, but so dismally, though 
 Wordsworth's face is his idea of physiognomical 
 perfection, that one of his friends, on seeing it, 
 exclaimed, ' At the gallows — deeply affected by 
 his deserved fate — yet determined to die like a 
 man ' ; and if you saw the picture, you would 
 admire the criticism. We have a neighbor here 
 who also knows you — Wilkinson, a clergyman, 
 who draws, if not Avith much genius, with great 
 industry and most useful fidelity. I have learnt a 
 good deal by examining his collection of etchings. 
 
 Holcroft, I hear, has discovered, to his own 
 
152 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 exceeding delight, prophetic portraits of himself 
 and Coleridge among the damned in your Michael 
 Angela. I have found out a more flattering ante- 
 type of Coleridge's face in Duns Scotus. Come 
 3'ou yourself and judge of the resemblances. 
 Coleridge and our lakes and mountains are worth 
 a longer journey. Autumn is the best season to 
 see the country, but spring, and even winter, is 
 better than summer, for in settled fine weather 
 there are none of those goings on in heaven which 
 at other times give these scenes such an endless 
 variety. You will find this house a good station 
 for viewing the lakes ; it is, in fact, situated on 
 perhaps the very finest single spot in the Avhole 
 lake country, and we can show you things which 
 the tourists never hear of. 
 
 Edith desires to be remembered to you ; she 
 is but in indifferent health. I myself am as well 
 as I ever was. The weather has been, and is, 
 very severe, but it has not as yet hurt me ; how- 
 ever, it must be owned the white Ijears have the 
 advantage of us in England, and still more the 
 dormice. If their torpor could be introduced into 
 the human system, it would be a most rare inven- 
 tion. I should roll myself up at the end of 
 October, and give orders to be waked by the 
 chimney-sweeper on May-day. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 153 
 
 To Lieutenant Southey. 
 
 Dec. 17, 1803. 
 The more I read, the more do I find the neces- 
 sity of going to old authors for information, and 
 the sad ignorance and dishonesty of our boasted 
 historians. If God do but give me life, and 
 health, and eyesight, I will show how history 
 should be written, and exhibit such a specimen of 
 indefatigable honesty as the world has never yet 
 seen. I could make some historical triads, after 
 the manner of my old Welsh friends, of Avhich 
 the first might run thus ; The three requisites for 
 an historian — industry, judgment, genius; the 
 patience to investigate, the discrimination to se- 
 lect, the power to infer and to enliven. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 Jan. 9, 1804. 
 Of the only three visitable families within 
 reach, one is fled for the winter, and the others 
 flying. JSFHmporte^ our dog Dapper remains, and 
 he is as intimate with me as heart could wish. I 
 want my books, and nothing else ; for, blessed be 
 God, I grow day by day more independent of 
 society, and feel neither a want nor a wish for it. 
 Everything at present looks, from the window, 
 like the confectioners' shops at this season in 
 London ; and Skiddaw is the hugest of twelfth- 
 cakes : but when I go down by the lake side, it 
 
154 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LITE. 
 
 would puzzle all my comparison-compounding 
 fancy to tell you what it looks like there — the 
 million or trillion forms of beauty soon baffle all 
 description. 
 
 Coleridge is gone for Devonshire, and I was 
 going to say I am alone, but that the sight of 
 Shakspeare, and Spenser, and Milton, and the 
 Bible, on my table, and Castanheda, and Barros, 
 and Osorio at my elbow, tell me I am in the best 
 of all possible company. 
 
 To Lieutenant Southey. 
 
 Jan. 31, 1804. 
 
 They tell me that Walter Scott has reviewed 
 Amadis in the Edinburgh lievieiu ; to what pur- 
 port I know not, l)ut probably a favoralde one, if 
 it be his doing, for he is a man whose tastes ac- 
 cord with mine, and who, though we have never 
 seen each other, knows that I res})ect him, as he, 
 on his part, respects me. The same friendly office 
 has l)een performed in the Critical at last for 
 Thalaba by William Taylor ; this, too, I have not 
 seen. 
 
 Inquiries are making into the actual state of 
 the poor in England, an office has been estab- 
 lished for the purpose, and the superintendence, 
 by Rickman's recommendation, assigned to Poole, 
 Coleridge's friend, of whom you must have heard 
 me speak, — a man of extraordinary^ powers, more 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 155 
 
 akin in mind to Rickninn than any man I know. 
 This is a very grutitying circumstance to nie, to 
 see so many persons, with whom I became ac- 
 quainted ])efore the world did, rising in the world 
 to their proper stations. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 Feb. 16, 1804. 
 I have seen a sight more dreamy and wonder- 
 ful than any scenery that fancy ever yet devised 
 for Faery-land. We had walked down to the lake 
 side ; it was a delightful day, the sun shining, and 
 a few white clouds hanging motionless in the sky. 
 The opposite shore of Derwentwater consists of 
 one long mountain, which suddenly terminates in 
 an arch thus "^ — ^, and through that opening you 
 see a long valley l)etween mountains, and bounded 
 by mountain beyond mountain ; to the right of the 
 arch the heio^hts are more varied and of o-reater 
 elevation. Now, as there was not a breath of air 
 stirring, the surface of the lake was so perfectly 
 still that it became one great mirror, and all its 
 waters disappeared ; the whole line of shore was 
 represented as vividly and steadily as it existed in 
 its actual being — the arch, the vale within, the 
 single houses far within the vale, the smoke from 
 their chinmeys, the farthest hills, and the shadow 
 and substance joined at their bases so indivisibly 
 that you could make no separation even in your 
 
156 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 judgment. As I stood on the shore, heaven and 
 the clouds seemed lying under me ; I Avas looking 
 down into the sky, and the whole range of moun- 
 tains, having one line of sunnnits under my feet 
 and another above me, seemed to he suspended 
 between the firmaments. Shut your ej^es and 
 dream of a scene so unnatural and so beautiful. 
 What I have said is most strictly and scrupu- 
 lously true ; but it was one of those haf)py mo- 
 ments that can seldom occur, for the least breath 
 stirring would have shaken the whole vision and 
 at once unrealized it. I have before seen a par- 
 tial appearance, but never l)efore did, and per- 
 haps never again may, lose sight of the lake en- 
 tirely ; for it literally seemed like an abyss of sky 
 before me, not fog and clouds from a mountain, 
 but the blue heaven spotted with a few fleecy pil- 
 lows of cloud, that looked placed there for angels 
 to rest upon them. 
 
 To Lieutenant 8outhey. 
 
 Feb. 17, 1804. 
 Of my own goings on T know not that there 
 is anything which can be said. Imagine me in 
 this great study of mine from breakfast till dinner, 
 from dinner till tea, and from tea till supper, in 
 my old black coat, my corduroys alternately with 
 the long worsted pantaloons and gaiters in one, 
 and the orreen shade, and sitting at my desk, and 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 157 
 
 you have my picture and my history. I play with 
 Dapper, the dog, down-stairs, who loves me as 
 well as ever Cupid did, and the eat up-stairs plays 
 with me ; for puss, finding my room the quietest 
 in the house, has thought proper to share it with 
 me. Our weather has been so wet that I have 
 not got out-of-doors for a walk once in a month. 
 Now and then I go down to the river, which runs 
 at the bottom of the orchard, and throw stones 
 till my arms ache, and then saunter back again. 
 James Lawson, the carpenter, has made boards 
 for my papers, and a screen, like those in the 
 frame, with a little shelf to hold my ivory knife, 
 etc., and is now making a little table for Edith, 
 of which I shall probably make the most use. I 
 rouse the house to breakfast every morning, and 
 qualify myself for a boatswain's place by this 
 practice ; and thus one day passes like another, 
 and never did the days appear to pass so fast. 
 Summer will make a diflerence. 
 
 To S. T. Coleridge. 
 
 Feb. 19, 1804. 
 I know not whether I sent you some curious 
 facts respecting vivaciousness, but I have met 
 with enough to lead to important physiological 
 conclusions, and in particular to explain the suffi- 
 ciently common fact of sick persons fixing the hour 
 of their death, and living exactly to that time ; the 
 
158 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 simple solution is, that they would else have died 
 sooner. In proceeding with my history, I contin- 
 ually find something that leads to interesting spec- 
 ulation : it would, perhaps, be better if there were 
 always some one at hand to whom I could commu- 
 nicate these discoveries, and who should help me 
 to hunt down the game when started ; not that I 
 feel any wish for such society, but still it would at 
 times be useful. It is a very odd, but a marked, 
 characteristic of my mind — the yevy nose in the 
 face of my intellect — that it is either utterly idle, 
 or uselessly active, without its tools. I never 
 enter into any regular train of thought unless the 
 pen be in my hand ; they then flow as fast as did 
 the water from the rock in Horeb, l)ut without 
 that wand the source is dry. At these times con- 
 versation would be useful. However, I am ofoins: 
 on well, never better. The old cerebrum was 
 never in higher activity. I find daily more and 
 more reason to Avonder at the miserable ignorance 
 of English historians, and to grieve with a sort of 
 despondency at seeing how much that has been 
 laid up among the stores of knowledge has been 
 neglected and utterly forgotten. 
 
 To the same. 
 
 Feb., 1804. 
 I am not sorry that you gave Godwin a dress- 
 ing, and should not be sorry if he were occasion- 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 159 
 
 ally to remember it with the comfortable re- 
 flection "zVi vino Veritas"; for, in plain truth, it 
 does vex me to see you so lavish of the outward 
 and visible signs of friendship, and to know that 
 a set of fellows whom you do not care for and 
 ought not to care for, boast everywhere of your 
 intimacy, and with good reason, to the best of 
 their understanding. You have accustomed your- 
 self to talk affectionately and write affectionately to 
 your friends, till the expressions of affection flow 
 by habit in your conversation and in your letters, 
 and pass for more than they are worth ; the worst 
 of all this is that your letters will one day rise up 
 in judgment against you (for be sure that hundreds 
 which you have forgotten are hoarded up for some 
 Curll or Philips of the next generation), and you 
 will be convicted of a double-dealing, which, 
 though you do not design, you certainly do prac- 
 tise. And how that I am writing affectionately 
 more meo, I Avill let out a little more. You say 
 in 3'ours to Sara that 3^ou love and honor me ; 
 upon my soul I believe you : but if I did not 
 thoroughly believe it before, your saying so is the 
 thing of all things that would make me open my 
 eyes and look about me to see if I were not de- 
 ceived. Perhaps I am too intolerant to these kind 
 of phrases ; but, indeed, when they are true they 
 may be excused, and when they are not there is 
 no excuse for them. There is a somethino^ out- 
 
160 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 landish in saying them, more akin to a French 
 embrace than an English shake by the hand, and 
 I would have you leave off saying them to those 
 whom you actually do love, that if this should not 
 break off the habit of applying them to indifferent 
 persons, the disuse may at least make a difference. 
 Your feelino-s 2^0 naked, I cover mine with a bear- 
 skin ; I will not say that you harden yours by your 
 mode, but I am sure that mine are the warmer 
 for their clothing. It is possible or probable that 
 I err as much as you in an opposite extreme, and 
 may make enemies where you would make friends ; 
 but there is a dano-er that you may sometimes ex- 
 cite dislike in persons of whose approbation 3'ou 
 would yourself be desirous. You know me well 
 enough to know in what temper this has been 
 written, and to know that it has been some exer- 
 tion ; for the same habit which makes me prefer 
 sitting silent to offering contradiction, makes me 
 often withhold censure when, perhaps, in strict- 
 ness of moral duty, it ought to be applied. The 
 medicine might have been sweetened, perhaps ; 
 but, dear Coleridge, take the simple bitters and 
 leave the sweetmeats by themselves. 
 
 To the same. 
 
 March 12, 1804. 
 Your going abroad appeared to me so doubt- 
 ful, or, indeed, so improbable an event, that the 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 161 
 
 certainty comes on me like a surprise, and I feel 
 at once what a separation the sea makes ; when 
 ' we get bej^ond the reach of mail-coaches, then, 
 indeed, distance becomes a thing perceptible. I 
 shall often think, Coleridge, Quanto minus est 
 cwn reliquis versari quam tiii meminisse ! God 
 grant you a speedy passage, a speedy recovery, 
 and a speedy return ! I will write regularly and 
 often ; but I know by Danvers how irregularly 
 letters arrive, and at how tedious a time after 
 their date. Look in old KnoUes before you go, 
 and read the siege of Malta ; it will make you feel 
 that you are going to visit sacred ground. I can 
 hardly think of that glorious defence without tears. 
 You would rejoice with me were you now at 
 Keswick, at the tidings that a box of books is 
 safely harbored in the Mersey. It contains some 
 duplicates of the lost cargo ; among them the col- 
 lection of the oldest Spanish poems, in which is a 
 metrical romance upon the Cid. I shall some- 
 times want you for a Gothic etymology. Talk of 
 the happiness of getting a great prize in the lot- 
 tery ! What is that to the opening a box of 
 books ! That I shall never be paid for my labor 
 according to the current value of time and labor, 
 is tolerably certain ; but if any one should offer 
 me £10,000 to forego that labor, I should bid him 
 and his money go to the devil, for twice the sum 
 could not purchase me half the enjoyment. It 
 
162 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 will be a great delight to me in the next world to 
 take a fly and visit these old worthies, who are my 
 only society here, and to tell them what excellent 
 company I found them here at the lakes of Cum- 
 berland two centuries after they had been dead 
 and turned to dust. In plain truth, I exist more 
 amons: the dead than the livins^, and think more 
 about them, and, perhaps, feel more about them. 
 
 To John Hickman. 
 
 March 30, 1804. 
 
 I look upon the invention of reviews to be the 
 worst injury which literature has received since its 
 revival. People formerly took up a book to learn 
 from it, and with a feeling of respectful thankful- 
 ness to the man who had spent years in acquiring 
 that knowledge Avhich he communicates to them in 
 a few hours ; now they only look for faults. 
 Everybody is a critic, that is, every reader im- 
 agines himself superior to the author, and reads 
 his book that he may censure it, not that he may 
 improve by it. 
 
 You are in great measure right about Coler- 
 idge ; he is worse in body than you seem to 
 believe, but the main cause lies in his own man- 
 agement of himself, or rather want of manage- 
 ment. His mind is in a perpetual St. Vitus's 
 dance — eternal activity without action. At times 
 he feels mortified that he should have done so lit- 
 
THE STOEY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 163 
 
 tie ; but this feeling never produces any exertion. 
 I will begin to-morrow, he siiys, and thus he has 
 been all his life long letting to-day slip. He has 
 had no heavy calamities in life, and so contrives to 
 be miserable about trifles. Poor fellow ! there is 
 no one thing which gives me so much pain as the 
 witnessing such a waste of unequalled power. I 
 knew one man resembling him, save that with 
 equal genius he was actually a vicious man. If 
 that man had common prudence, he must have 
 been the flrst man in this country, from his natural 
 and social advantages, and as such, we who knew 
 him and loved him at school used to anticipate 
 him. I learnt more from his conversation than 
 any other man ever taught me, because the rain 
 fell wdien the young plant was just germinating 
 and wanted it most ; and I learnt more morality 
 by his example than anything else could have 
 taught me, for I saw him wither away. He is 
 dead and buried at the Cape of Good Hope, and 
 has left behind him nothing to keep his memory 
 alive. This will not be the case with Coleridge ; 
 the disjecta membra will be found if he does not 
 die early : but having so much to do, so many 
 errors to weed out of the world which he is capa- 
 ble of eradicating, if he does die Avithout doing his 
 work, it would half break my heart, for no human 
 being has had more talents allotted. 
 
 Wordsworth will do better, and leave behind 
 
li]4: THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 him a name, unique in his way ; he will rank 
 among the very first poets, and probably possess a 
 mass of merits superior to all, except only Shak- 
 speare. This is doing much, yet would he be a 
 happier man if he did more. 
 
 [Writing of Coleridge about the same time to 
 Miss Barker, a friend gained in Portugal, Southey 
 says : — ] 
 
 It is now almost ten years since he and I first 
 met, in my rooms at Oxford, which meeting de- 
 cided the destiny of both; and now when, after 
 so many ups and downs, I am, for a time, settled 
 under his roof, he is driven abroad in search of 
 health. Ill he is, certainly and sorely ill ; yet I 
 believe if his mind was as well regulated as mine, 
 the body would be quite as manageable. I am 
 perpetually pained and mortified by thinking what 
 he ought to be, for mine is an eye of microscopic 
 discernment to the faults of my friends ; but the 
 tidings of his death would come upon me more like 
 a stroke of lightning than any evil I have ever yet 
 endured ; almost it would make me superstitious, 
 for we were two ships that left port in company. 
 
 To Grosveiior Bedford. 
 
 March 31, 1804. 
 I am bound for London, chiefly to complete 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LITE. 165 
 
 these Specimens,* and put them to press. Alas ! 
 for your unhappy habit of procrastination ! ' Don't 
 delay,' you write in 3'our postscript, and this in 
 answer to a letter which had lain above a fortnight 
 in your desk ! Here it happens to be of no 
 moment ; but you tell me the habit has produced 
 and is producing worse consequences. I would 
 give you advice if it could be of use ; but there 
 is no curino; those who choose to be diseased. A 
 good man and a wise man may at times be angry 
 with the world, at times grieved for it ; but be 
 sure no man was ever discontented with the world 
 if he did his duty in it. If a man of education 
 who has health, eyes, hands, and leisure, wants an 
 object, it is only because God Almighty has 
 bestowed all those blessings upon a man who does 
 not deserve them. Dear Grosvenor, I wish you 
 may feel half the pain in reading this that I do in 
 writing it. 
 
 To the same. 
 
 April 23, 1804. 
 'Tis a long way to London ! I wish I were on 
 my way, and then shall I wish myself arrived, 
 and then be wishing myself back again ; for com- 
 plete rest, absolute, unprospective, rooted rest, is 
 the great object of my desires. Near London 
 
 * Specimens of Later English Poets, 3 vols. Bedford under- 
 took to revise the work for the press, and, as we learn later 
 on, did it very badly. — Ed. 
 
166 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 must 1)6 my final settlement, unless any happy and 
 unforeseen fortune should enable me to move to 
 the south, and thus take a longer lease of life ; in 
 fact, if I could aflbrd the money sacrifice, I would 
 willingly make the other, and keep my History 
 unpublished all my life, that I might pass it in 
 Portugal. Society, connections, native language, 
 — all these are weighty things ; but what are they 
 to the permanent and perpetual exhilaration of a 
 climate that not merely prolongs life, but gives 
 you double the life while it lasts? I have actually 
 felt a positive pleasure in breathing there ; and 
 even here, in this magnificent spot, the recollec- 
 tion of the Tagus, and the Serra de Ossa, of 
 Coimbra, and its cypresses, and orange groves, 
 and olives, its hills and mountains, its venerable 
 buildings, and its dear river, of the Vale of 
 Algarve, the little islands of beauty amid the 
 desert of Alentego, and, above all, of Cintra, the 
 most blessed spot in the habitable globe, will 
 almost bring tears into my eyes. 
 
 To Mrs. Southey. 
 
 London, May, 1804. 
 
 The Thames is ebbing fast before the window, 
 and a beautiful sight it is, dear Edith ; but I wish 
 I were upon the banks of the Greta ! I will not 
 remain an hour longer than can be helped. You 
 have no notion of the intolerable fatigue it is to 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 167 
 
 walk all day and not get to bed till after midnight. 
 I might live all the year here, by being invited 
 out as a show, but I will not show myself. I 
 write you very unsatisfactory letters, dear Edith, 
 but you know how like a bear with a sore head 
 this place makes me ; and never was I more 
 uncomfortal)le in it, though with a pleasanter 
 house over my head than ever, and better com- 
 pany. 
 
 To S. T. Coleridge. 
 
 June 11, 1804. 
 
 I was worn to the very bone by fatigue in 
 London, — more walking in one day than I usu- 
 ally take in a month ; more waste of breath in 
 talking than serves for three months' consumption 
 in the country ; add to this a most abominable 
 cold, affecting chest, head, eyes, and nose. It 
 was impossible to see half the persons wdiom I 
 wished to see, and ought to have seen, without 
 prolonging my stay to an inconvenient time, and 
 an unreasonable length of absence from home. 
 
 I went into the Exhibition merely to see your 
 picture, which perfectly provoked me. Hazlitt's 
 does look as if you were on your trial, and cer- 
 tainly had stolen the horse ; but then you did it 
 cleverly, — it had been a deep, well laid scheme, 
 and it was no fault of yours that you had been 
 detected. But this portrait by Northcote looks 
 
168 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 like a grinning idiot ; and the worst is, that it is 
 just like enough to pass for a good likeness, with 
 those who only know j^our features imperfectly. 
 Dance's drawing has that merit at least, that 
 nobody would ever suspect you of having been 
 the original. What news, you will wish to ask, 
 of Keswick? The house remains in statu quo, 
 except that the little parlor is painted, and papered 
 with cartridge-paper. Workmen to plaster this 
 room could not be procured when Jackson sent 
 for them, and so unplastered it is likely to remain 
 another winter. A great improvement has been 
 made by thinning the trees before the parlor win- 
 dow, — just enough of the lake can be seen 
 through such a frame-work and such a fretted 
 cano[)y of foliage as to produce a most delightful 
 scene, and utterly unlike any other view of the 
 same subject. 
 
 To Lieutenant Southey. 
 
 July 30, 1804. 
 
 I trust you will have learnt before this can 
 reach you that I have two Ediths in the family, — 
 the Edithling (who was })orn on the last of April) 
 continuing to do well, only that I am myself some- 
 what alarmed at that premature activity of eye 
 and spirits, and those sudden startings, which 
 were in her poor sister the symptoms of a dread- 
 ful and deadly disease. I did not mean to trust 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 169 
 
 my aifections again on so frail a foundation, — and 
 yet the young one takes me from my desk and 
 makes me talk nonsense as fluently as you perhaps 
 can imao^ine. 
 
 Both Edith and I are well ; indeed, I have 
 weathered a rude winter, and a ruder spring, 
 bravely. Harry * is here, and has been here about 
 three weeks, and will remain till the end of Octo- 
 ber. He is a very excellent companion, and 
 tempts me out into the air and the water when I 
 should else be sitting at home. We have made 
 our way Avell in the world, Tom, thus far, and by 
 God's help we shall yet get on better. 
 
 You ask of AmacUs: it has been well re- 
 viewed, both in the Annual and Edinburgh, by 
 Walter Scott, who in both has been very civil to 
 me. Of all my later publications, this has been 
 the most successful, ^more than 500 of the 1000 
 having sold within the year, so that there is a fair 
 chance of the £50 dependent upon the sale of the 
 whole. Thalaba has been very admirably re- 
 viewed in the Critical, by William Taylor ; but it 
 does not sell, and will not for some years reach 
 a second edition. Reviewing is coming round 
 again ! one parcel arrived ! another on the road ! 
 a third ready to start ! I grudge the time thus to 
 be sold, sorely ; but patience ! it is, after all, bet- 
 ter than pleading in a stinking court of law, — or 
 * A younger brother, afterwards Dr. Southey. — Ed. 
 
170 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 being called up at midnight to a patient ; it is 
 better than being a soldier or a sailor ; better than 
 calculating profits and loss on a counter ; better, 
 in short, than anything but independence. 
 
 July is, indeed, a lovel}'^ month at the Lakes, 
 and so the Lakers seem to think, for they swarm 
 here. We have been much interrupted by visit- 
 ors, and more are yet to come. These are not 
 the only interruptions ; we have been, or rather 
 are, manufacturing black-currant jam for my 
 uncle, and black-currant wine for ourselves, — 
 Harry and I chief workmen, — pounding them in 
 a wooden bowl with a great stone, as the acid acts 
 upon a metal mortar. We have completed a great 
 work in brid2:ino: the river Greta at the bottom of 
 the orchard, by piling heaps of stones so as to 
 step from one to another, — many a hard hour's 
 sport, half knee-deep in the water. Davy has 
 been here, stark mad for angling. 
 
 I am learning Dutch, and wish you were here 
 to profit by the lessons at the breakfast-table, and 
 to mynheerify with me, as you like the language. 
 My reason for attaining the language is that as 
 the Dutch conquered, or rather destroyed, the 
 Portuguese empire in Asia, the history of the 
 downfall of that empire is, of course, more fully 
 related by Dutch than by Portuguese historians. 
 
 Will you not laugh to hear that I have actually 
 been employed all the morning in making arrange- 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEy's LIFE. 171 
 
 ments for a subscription ball at Keswick ? — I ! — 
 very I ! — your brother, R. S. ! To what vile 
 purposes may we couie ! It was started by Harry 
 and Miss Charter at the theatre (for we have a 
 strolling company at an alehouse here), and he and 
 I and General Peche have settled it ; and all Cum- 
 berland will now envy the gayeties of Keswick. 
 Mrs. General insisted upon my opening the ball 
 with her. I advised her, as she was for perform- 
 ing impossibilities, to begin with turning the wind, 
 before she could hope to turn me : so I shall sip 
 my tea, and talk with the old folks some hour or 
 so, and then steal home to write Madoc, drink my 
 solitary glass of punch, and get to bed at a good 
 Christian-like hour, — as my father, and no doubt 
 his father, did before me. Oh, Tom, that you 
 were but here ! for in truth we lead as pleasant a 
 life as heart of man could wish. I have not for 
 years taken such constant exercise as this summer. 
 Some friend or acquaintance or other is perpetu- 
 ally making his appearance, and out then I go to 
 lackey them on the lake or over the mountains. 
 I shall get a character for politeness ! 
 
 To 0. W. W. Wijnn. 
 
 Dec. 7, 1804. 
 No man was ever more contented with his lot 
 than I am, for few have ever had more enjoyments, 
 and none had ever better or worthier hopes. Life, 
 
172 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 therefore, is sufficiently dear to me, and long life 
 desirable, that I may accomplish all which I 
 design. But yet I could be well content that the 
 next century were over, and my part fairly at an 
 end, having been gone well through. Just as at 
 school one wished the school-days over, though 
 we were happy enough there, because we expected 
 more happiness and more liberty when we were to 
 be our own masters, might lie as much later in the 
 morning as we pleased, have no bounds, and do 
 no exercise, — just so do I wish that my exercises 
 were over, — that that ugly chrysalis state were 
 passed through to which we must all come, and 
 that I had fairly burst my shell, and got into the 
 new Avorld, with wings upon my shoulders, or 
 some inherent power like the wishing-cap, which 
 should annihilate all the inconveniences of space. 
 
 To C. Danvers. 
 
 Jan. 15, 1805. 
 
 Hartley * is from home, visiting Mr. Words- 
 worth's sisters near Penrith. It is impossible to 
 give you any adequate idea of his oddities ; for he 
 is the oddest of all God's creatures, and becomes 
 quainter and quainter every day. It is not easy 
 to conceive, what is perfectly true, that he is 
 totally destitute of anything like modesty, yet 
 without the slightest tinge of impudence in his 
 * Hartley Coleridge. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 173 
 
 nature. His religion makes one of the most 
 humorous purts of his character. " I 'm a boy of 
 a very religious turn," he says; for he always 
 talks of himself, and examines his own character, 
 just as if he was speaking of another person, and 
 as impartially. Every night he makes an extem- 
 pore prayer aloud ; but it is always in bed, and 
 not till he is comfortable there and got into the 
 mood. When he is ready he touches Mrs. "Wil- 
 son, who sleeps with him, and says, "Now lis- 
 ten ! " and oft* he sets like a preacher. If he has 
 been behaving amiss, away he goes for the Bible, 
 and looks out for something appropriate to his 
 case in the Psalms or the Book of Job. The 
 other day, after he had been in a violent passion, 
 he chose out a chapter against wrath. "Ah ! that 
 suits me ! " The Bible is also resorted to when- 
 ever he ails anything, or else the Prayer-book. 
 He once made a pun upon occasion of the belly- 
 ache, though I will not say that he designed it. 
 "Oh, Mrs. AVilson, /'.<?e got the colic I read me 
 the Epistle and Gospel for the day." In one part 
 of his character he seems to me strikingly to 
 resemble his father, — in the afiection he has for 
 those who are present with him, and the little he 
 cares about them wdien he is out of their sight. 
 It is not possible for one human being to love 
 another more dearly than Mrs. Wilson loves him, 
 and he is as fond of her as it is in his nature to be 
 
174 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 of anything, and probably loves her better than he 
 does anybody else. Last summer she was dan- 
 gerously ill, and Hartley in consequence came and 
 lived at home. He never manifested the slightest 
 uneasiness or concern about her, nor ever would 
 go near her. I do not know whether I should 
 wish to have such a child or not. There is not 
 the slightest evil in his disposition, but it wants 
 something to make it steadily good ; physically 
 and morally there is a defect of courage. He is 
 afraid of receiving pain to such a degree that, if 
 any person begins to read a newspaper, he will 
 leave the room, lest there should be anything 
 shocking in it. This is the explication of his con- 
 duct during Mrs. Wilson's illness. He would not 
 see her because it would give him pain, and when 
 he was out of sight he contrived to forget her. I 
 fear that, if he lives, he will dream away life like 
 his father, too much delighted with his own ideas 
 ever to embody them, or suflfer them, if he can 
 help it, to be disturbed. 
 
 To Q. W. W. Wynn. 
 
 April 3, 1805. 
 
 I have been grievously shocked this evening 
 by the loss of the Abergavenny, * of which 
 Wordsworth's brother was captain. Of course 
 
 * The ship was wrecked off the Bill of Portland Feb. 5, and 
 it is therefore probable that Southey has misdated his letter. — 
 Ed. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 175 
 
 the news came flying up to us from all quarters, 
 and it has disordered me from head to foot. At 
 such circumstances I believe we feel as much for 
 others as for ourselves ; just as a violent blow 
 occasions the same pain as a wound, and he who 
 breaks his shin feels as acutely at the moment as 
 the man whose leg^ is shot ofi". In fact, I am writr- 
 ing to you merely because this dreadful shipwreck 
 has left me utterly unable to do anything else. It 
 is the heaviest calamity Wordsworth has ever 
 experienced, and in all probability I shall have to 
 communicate it to him, as he will very likely be 
 here before the tidings can reach him. What ren- 
 ders any near loss of the kind so peculiarly dis- 
 tressing is that the recollection is perpetually 
 freshened when any like event occurs, by the 
 mere mention of shipwreck, or the sound of the 
 wind. Of all deaths it is the most dreadful, from 
 the circumstances of terror which accompany it. 
 
 [On the publication of Madoc, which won the 
 warmest praise of Scott, who said that in years to 
 come it would take its place at the feet of Milton, 
 Southey's honest friend Rickman expressed an 
 adverse opinion of the poem.] 
 
 To John Rickman, Esq. 
 
 July, 1805. 
 I am not surprised at your little liking the 
 poem ; on the contrary, I am more surprised at 
 
176 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 those who like it, because what merit it has Is 
 ahiiost wholly of execution, which is intinitely bet- 
 ter than the subject. Now everybody can feel if 
 a story be interesting or flat, whereas there are 
 very few who can judge of the worth of the lan- 
 guage and versification. I have said to somebody, 
 perhaps it was to you, that had this been loritten 
 since TJialaha (for, as you know, the phm was 
 formed, and the key pitched, before Thalaha was 
 begun or dreamt of), I should have thought it 
 ominous of declining powers, it is in so sober a 
 tone, its coloring so autumnal, its light everywhere 
 that of an evening sun ; but as only the last finish 
 of hmgiiage, the polishing part, is of later labor, 
 the fair inference is that instead of the poet's im- 
 agination having grown weaker, he has improved 
 in the mechanism of his art. A fair inference it 
 is, for I am no self-flatterer, heaven knows. Hav- 
 ing confessed thus much, I ought to add that the 
 poem is better than you think it. . . . Com- 
 pare it with the Odyssey, not the Iliad; with 
 King John or Coriolanus, not Macbeth or The 
 Tenqjesf. The story wants unity, and has per- 
 haps too Greek, too stoical, a want of passion; 
 but, as far as I can see, with the same eyes where- 
 with I read Homer and Shakspeare and INIilton, it 
 is a good poem and must live. You will like it 
 better if ever you read it again. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 177 
 
 [Of this poem be writes to his brother a little 
 later : — ] 
 
 No further news of the sale of Madoc. The 
 reviews will probal)ly hurt it for a time ; that is in 
 their power, and that is all they can do. Un- 
 questionably the poem will stand and flourish. I 
 am perfectly satisfied with the execution, — now 
 eight months after its publication, in my cool 
 judgment. Wm. Taylor has said it is the best 
 English poem that has left the press since the 
 Paradise Lost ; — indeed this is not exaggerated 
 praise, for unfortunately there is no competition. 
 
 [In the autumn of the year Southey visited Scot- 
 land and Scotland's greatest son, at Ashestiel. It 
 will be seen from the next letter that he had had 
 some thouo-hts of revisitinir Portu2:al.1 
 
 To Mrs. Soxdhey. 
 
 Oct. 14, 1805. 
 I need not tell you, my own dear Edith, not 
 to read my letters aloud till you have first of all 
 seen what is written only for yourself. What I 
 have now to say to you is that having been eight 
 days from home, with as little discomfort, and as 
 little reason for discomfort, as a man can reason- 
 ably expect, I have yet felt so little comfortal)le, 
 so great sense of solitariness, and so many home- 
 
178 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 ward yearnings, that certainly I will not 2:0 to 
 Lisbon without you ; a resolution which, if your 
 feelings be at all like mine, will not displease you. 
 If, on mature consideration, you think the incon- 
 venience of a voyage more than you ought to sub- 
 mit to, I must be content to stay in England, as 
 on my part it certainly is not worth while to sacri- 
 fice a year's happiness ; for, though not unhappy 
 (my mind is too active and too well diciplined to 
 yield to any such criminal weakness), still without 
 you I am not happy. But for your sake as well as 
 my own, and for little Edith's sake, I will not con- 
 sent to any separation ; the gi'owth of a year's love 
 between her and me, if it please God that she 
 should live, is a thing too delightful in itself, and 
 too valuable in its consequences, both to her and 
 me, to be given up for any light inconveniences 
 either on your part or mine. An absence of a 
 year would make her effectually forget me. But 
 of these things we will talk at leisure ; only, dear, 
 dear Edith, we must not part. 
 
 To Lieutenant Southey. 
 
 Nov. 15, 1805. 
 You will have heard of Nelson's most glorious 
 death. The feeling it occasioned is highly honor- 
 al)le to the country. He leaves a name above all 
 former admirals, with, perhaps, the single excep- 
 tion of Blake, a man who possessed the same 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 179 
 
 genius upon great occasions. We ought to name 
 the two best ships in the navy from these men. 
 
 My trip to Edinl>urgh was pleasant. I went 
 to accompany Ehnsley. We stayed three days with 
 Walter Scott, at Ashestiel, the name of his house 
 on the banks of the Tweed. I saw all the scenery 
 of his Lay of the Last Minstrel, a poem which you 
 will read with great pleasure when you come to 
 England. And I went salmon-spearing on the 
 Tweed, in which, though I struck at no fish, I 
 bore my part, and managed one end of the boat 
 with a long spear. Having had neither new coat 
 nor hat since the Edithling was born, you may 
 suppose I was in want of both — so at Edinburgh 
 I was to rig myself, and, moreover, lay in new 
 boots and pantaloons. Howbeit, on considering 
 the really respectable appearance Avhich my old 
 ones made for a traveller, — and considering, 
 moreover, that as learning was better than house 
 or land, it certainly must be much better than fine 
 clothes, — I laid out all my money in books, and 
 came home to wear out my old wardrobe in the 
 winter. My library has had many additions since 
 you left me, and many gentlemen in parchment 
 remain with anonymous backs till you come and 
 bedeck them. 
 
180 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 To C. W. W. Wynn. 
 
 Oct. 20, 1805. 
 Of Edinburgh society I think very little. 
 Elmsley very justly observed that, of the three 
 faculties of the mind, judgment is the only one 
 which they cultivate or value. Jeffrey is amusing 
 from his wit ; in taste, he is a mere child ; and he 
 affects to despise learning, because he has none. 
 Perhaps I am not a fair judge, having been accus- 
 tomed to live with Coleridge and Wordsworth ; 
 but the plain truth is that, compared with such 
 men as these, the Scotch literatuli are very low 
 indeed. Brougham was not in good health, and 
 did not open much. I had, however, conversation 
 enough with him to see that he never regarded any- 
 thing in the broad moral point of view. As for 
 Jeffrey, I really cannot feel angry with anything so 
 diminutive ; he is a mere homunculus, and would 
 do for a major in Gog and Magog's army, were they 
 twice as little. We were three days at Scott's, a 
 much superior man, whom it is impossible not to 
 like. 
 
 [That he did not yet feel himself settled at Kes- 
 wick, will be seen from the next extract.] 
 
 To the Rev. I^icholas Lightfoot. 
 
 Feb. 8, 1806. 
 
 Time, you say, moderates opinions as it mel- 
 lows wine. My views and hopes are certainly 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHET'S LIFE. 181 
 
 altered, though the heart and soul of my wishes 
 continues the same. It is the world that has 
 changed, not I. I took the same way in the after- 
 noon that I did in the morning, but sunset and 
 sunrise make a different scene. If I regret any- 
 thing in my own life, it is that I could not take 
 orde'i-s, for of all ways of life that would have 
 best accorded with my nature ; but I could not get 
 in at the door. In other respects time has not 
 much altered me. I am as thin as ever, and to the 
 full as noisy : making a noise in any way whatever 
 is an animal pleasure with me, and the louder it is 
 the better. 
 
 Coleridge is daily expected to return from 
 Malta, where he has been now two years for his 
 health. I inhabit the same house with his wife 
 and children, —perhaps the very finest single spot 
 in Enoland. We overlook Keswick Lake, have 
 the Lake of Bassenthwaite in the distance on the 
 other side, and Skiddaw behind us. But we only 
 sojourn here for a time. I may, perhaps, be des- 
 tined to pass some years in Portugal, — which, 
 indeed, is my wish, — or, if otherwise, must ulti- 
 mately remove to the neighborhood of London, 
 for the sake of the public libraries. 
 
 To C. W. W. Wijnn. 
 
 Feb. 28, 1806. 
 
 Many things make me feel old : — ten years of 
 
182 THE STOKY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 marriage ; the sort of fatherly situation in which 
 I have stood to my brother Henry, now a man 
 himself; the premature age at which I commenced 
 author ; the death of all who were about me in 
 childhood ; a body not made of lasting materials, 
 and some wear and tear of mind. You once re- 
 marked to me how time strengthened family affec- 
 tions, and, indeed, all early ones : one's feelings 
 seem to be weary of travelling, and like to rest at 
 home. They who tell me that men grow hard- 
 hearted as they grow older have had a very lim- 
 ited view of this world of ours. It is true with 
 those whose views and hopes are merely and vul- 
 garly worldly ; but when human nature is not 
 perverted, time strengthens our kindly feelings, 
 and abates our angry ones. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 July 5, 1S06. 
 And now, Grosvenor, let me tell you what I 
 have to do. I am writing, 1. The History of 
 Portugal; 2. The Chronicle of the Cid; 3. The 
 Curse of Kehama; 4. Espriella's Letters. Look 
 you, all these lam writing. The second and third 
 of these must get into the press and out of it be- 
 fore this time twelve months, or else I shall be 
 like the Civil List. By way of interlude comes 
 in this Preface. Don't swear, and bid me do one 
 thing at a time. I tell you, I can't afford to do 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 183 
 
 one thing at a time — no, nor two neither; and it 
 is only by doing many things that I contrive to do 
 so much ; for I cannot work long together at any 
 thing without hurting myself; and so I do every- 
 thing by heats ; then, by the time I am tired of 
 one, my inclination for another is come round. 
 
 To Lieutenant Southey. 
 
 July 28, 1806. 
 For many days I have looked for a letter from 
 you, — the three lines announcing your arrival in 
 England being all which have yet reached me. 
 Yesterday the doctor and I returned home after 
 a five days' absence, and I was disappointed at 
 finding no tidings of you. We were two days at 
 Lloyd's, and have had three days mountaineering, 
 
 one on the way there, two on our return, — 
 
 through the wildest parts of this wild country, 
 many times wishing you had been with us. One 
 day we lost our way upon the mountains, got 
 upon a summit where there were precipices before 
 us, and found a way down through a fissure, like 
 three sides of a chnnney, where we could reach 
 from side to side and help ourselves with our 
 hands. This chimney-way was considerably higher 
 than any house, and then we had an hour's descent 
 afterwards over loose stones. Yesterday we 
 mounted Great Gabel,— one of the highest moun- 
 tains in the country, — and had a magnificent view 
 
184 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 of the Isle of Man, rising out of a sea of light, for 
 the water l;iy like a sheet of silver. This was a 
 digression from our straight road, and exceedingly 
 fatiguing it was ; however, after we got down we 
 drank five quarts of milk I)etween us, and got 
 home as fresh as larks after a walk of eleven 
 hours. You will find it harder service than walk- 
 ing the deck when you come here. 
 
 Our landlord, who lives in the house adjoining 
 us, has a boat, which is as much at our service as 
 if it were our own ; of this we have voted you 
 commander-in-chief whenever you shall arrive. 
 The lake is about four miles in length, and some- 
 thing between one and two in breadth. However 
 tired you may be of the salt water, I do not think 
 you will have the same o])jection to fresh when 
 you see this beautiful basin, clear as crystal, and 
 shut in by mountains on every side except one 
 opening to the N. W. We are very fre- 
 quently upon it, Harry and I being both tolerably 
 good boatmen ; and sometimes we sit in state and 
 the women row us — a Avay of manning a boat 
 which will amuse you. The only family with 
 which we are on familiar terms live, during: the 
 summer and autumn, on a little island here — one 
 of the loveliest spots in this wide world. They 
 have one long room, lookin<2: on the lake from 
 three windows, afibrding the most beautiful views ; 
 and in that room you may have as much music, 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 185 
 
 dancing, shuttle-cocking, etc., as your heart can 
 desire. 
 
 [In 1803, Southey pubh'shed an edition of the 
 works of Chatterton for the benefit of the inspired 
 boy's family. To Henry Kirke "White he had 
 acted the part of a true friend, and now upon the 
 poor fellow's death undertook a similar act of 
 kindness for his family. They were worthy of it, 
 and with Henry's brothers, especially with Neville, 
 the acquaintance thus begun " ripened into an in- 
 timate and life-long friendship."] 
 
 To Neville White. 
 
 Dec. 20, 1806. 
 What account of your brother shall be given 
 it rests with you, sir, and his other nearest friends, 
 to determine. I advise and entreat that it may be 
 as full and as minute as possible. The example of 
 a young man winning his way against great difficul- 
 ties, of such honorable ambition, such unexampled 
 industry, such a righteous and holy confidence of 
 genius, ought not to be withheld. A full and 
 faithful narrative of his difficulties, his hopes, and 
 his eventual success, till it pleased God to pro- 
 mote him to a higher state of existence, will be a 
 lasting encouragement to others who have the 
 same uphill path to tread ; he will be to them 
 what Chatterton was to him, and he will be a 
 
186 THE STORY OF SOUTHEy's LIFE. 
 
 purer and better example. If it would wound 
 the feelings of his family to let all and every par- 
 ticular of his honorable and admirable life be 
 known, those feelings are, of course, paramount 
 to every other consideration. But I sincerely hope 
 this may not be the case. It will, I know, be a 
 painful task to furnish me with materials for this, 
 which is the most useful kind of biography, yet, 
 when the effort of beginning such a task shall 
 have been accomplished, the consciousness that 
 you are doing for him what he would have Avished 
 to be done, will bring with it a consolation and 
 a comfort. 
 
 7b tJie same. 
 
 March 3, 1807. 
 
 Your parcel reached me on Sunday evening, 
 and I have perused every line of its contents Avith 
 deep and painful interest. The letters and your 
 account (of which I should say much were I writ- 
 ing to any other person) have made me thoroughly 
 acquainted with one of the most amiable and most 
 admirable human beings that ever was ripened upon 
 earth for heaven. Be assured that I will not in- 
 sert a sentence which can give pain or offence to 
 any one. There will come a time (and God only 
 knows how soon it may come) when some one will 
 perform that office for me which I am now per- 
 forming for your incomparable brother ; and I 
 shall endeavor to show how that office ousfht to be 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LITE. 187 
 
 pei'foi'med. I will be scrupulously careful ; and 
 if, when the papers pass through your hands, you 
 should think I have not been sufSciently so, I beg 
 you will, without hesitation, expunge whatever 
 may appear exceptionable. When I obeyed the 
 impulse which led me to undertake this task, it 
 was from a knowledge that Henry White had left 
 behind him an example, w^hich ought not to be 
 lost, of Avell directed talents, and that, in perform- 
 ing an act of respect to his memory, I should at 
 the same time hold up the example to others who 
 have the up-hill paths of life to tread. No per- 
 son can be more thoroughly convinced that good- 
 ness is a better thing than genius, and that genius 
 is no excuse for those follies and oflfences which 
 are called its eccentricities. 
 
 To John May. 
 
 March 30, 1807. 
 I am just now enabled to give you some intel- 
 ligence concerning myself. In this topsy-turvying 
 of ministers, Wynn was very anxious, as he says, 
 " to pick something out of the tire for me." The 
 registership of the Vice-Admiralty Court in St. 
 Lucia was offered, worth about £600 a year. He 
 wrote to me, offering this, or, as an alternative, 
 the only one in his power, a pension of £200 ; 
 but, before my answer could arrive, it was neces- 
 sary that he should choose for me, and he judged 
 
188 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 rightly in taking the latter. Fees and taxes will 
 reduce this to £160,* the precise sum for which I 
 have hitherto l)eeh indebted to him ; so that I 
 remain with just the same income as before. The 
 difi'erent source from which it is derived is, as you 
 may suppose, sufficiently grateful ; for, though 
 Wynn could till now Avell afford this, and I had 
 no reluctance in accepting it from one who is the 
 oldest friend I have in the world (we have been 
 intimate for nineteen years), he has now nearly 
 doubled his expenditure by marrying. This, I 
 suppose, is asked for and granted to me as a man 
 of letters, in which character I feel myself fully 
 and fairly entitled to receive it ; and you know 
 me too well to suppose that it can make me lose 
 one jot of that freedom, both of opinion and 
 speech, without which I should think myself un- 
 worthy, not of this poor earthly pittance alone, 
 but of God's air and sunshine, and my inheritance 
 in heaven. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 April 21, 1807. 
 I am a little surprised to hear you speak so con- 
 temptuously of modern poetry, because it shows 
 how very little you must have read, or how little 
 you can have considered the subject. The im- 
 provement during the present reign has been to 
 
 * The deduction, Southey's biographer states, proved to be 
 £56, reducing it to £144. — Ed. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 189 
 
 the full as great in poetry as it has been in the 
 experimental sciences, or in the art of raising 
 money by taxation. What can you have been 
 thinking of ? Had j^ou forgotten Burns a second 
 time? had you forgotten Cowper, Bowles, Mont- 
 gomery, Joanna Baillie, Walter Scott? to omit a 
 host of names which, though inferior to them, are 
 above those of any former period except the age 
 of Shakspeare, not to mention Wordsworth and 
 another poet, who has written two very pretty 
 poems in my opinion, called Thalaha and Madoc. 
 
 To the Rev. Nicholas Lightfoot. 
 
 April 24, 1807. 
 Your last letter is fourteen months old, and 
 they may have brought forth so many changes 
 that I almost fear to ask for my god-child Fanny. 
 During that time I have had a son born into the 
 world, and baptized into the Church by the name 
 of Herbert, who is now six months old, and bids 
 fair to be as noisy a fellow as his father, — Avhich 
 is saying something ; for be it known that I am 
 quite as noisy as ever I was, and should take as 
 much delioht as ever in showerino^ stones throuijh 
 the hole of the staircase against your room door, 
 and hearing with what hearty good earnest " you 
 fool ! " was vociferated in indignation aijainst me 
 in return. Oh, dear Lightfoot, what a blessing it 
 is to have a boy's heart ! it is as great a blessing 
 
190 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 in carrying one through this world as to have a 
 child's spirit will be in fitting us for the next. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 May 5, 1807. 
 When I wished you never to read the Classics 
 again it was because, like many other persons, you 
 read nothing else, and were not likely ever to get 
 more knowledge out of them than you had got 
 already, especially as you chiefly (I may say 
 exclusively) read those from whom least is to be 
 got, which is also another sin of the age. Your 
 letter contains the usual blunders which the iofno- 
 ranee of the age is continually making, and upon 
 which, and nothing else, rests the whole point at 
 issue between such critics as Jeffrey and myself: 
 you couple Homer and Virgil under the general 
 term of classics, and suppose that both are to be 
 admired upon the same grounds. A century ago 
 this was better understood ; the critics of that 
 age did read what they wrote about, and under- 
 stood what they read, and they knew that whoever 
 thought the one of these writers a good poet must 
 upon that very principle hold the other to be a bad 
 , one. Greek and Latin poets, Grosvenor, are as 
 opposite as French and English (excepting always 
 Lucretius and Catullus), and you may as well 
 suppose it possible for a man equally to admire 
 Shakspeare and Racine as Homer and Virgil ; that 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 191 
 
 is, provided be knows why and wherefore he 
 admires either. 
 
 To Richard Duppa. 
 
 May 23, 1807. 
 You are mistaken about Henry AYhite ; the fact 
 is briefly this : — at the age of seventeen he pul)- 
 lished a little volume of poems of very great 
 merit, and sent with them to the different Reviews 
 a letter stating that his hope was to raise money 
 by them to pursue his studies and get to college. 
 Hamilton, then of the Critical, showed me this 
 letter. I asked him to let me review the book, 
 which he promised ; but he sent me no books 
 after the promise. Well, the Monthly Review 
 noticed this little volume in the most cruel and 
 insulting manner. I was provoked, and wrote to 
 encourage the boy, offering to aid him in a sub- 
 scription for a costlier publication. I spoke of 
 him in London, and had assurances of assistance 
 from Sotheby, and, by way of Wynn, from Lord 
 Carysfort. His second letter to me, however, 
 said he was going to Cambridge, under Simeon's 
 protection. I plainly saw that the Evangelicals 
 had caught him ; and as he did not want what 
 little help I could have procured, and I had no 
 leisure for new correspondences, ceased to write 
 to him, but did him what good I could in the way 
 of reviewing, and getting him friends at Cam- 
 
192 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 bridofe. He died last autumn ; and I received a 
 letter informino^ me of it. It o-ave me a sort of 
 shock, because, in spite of his evangelicism, I 
 always expected great things, from the proof he 
 had given of very superior powers ; and, in re- 
 I)lying to this letter, I asked if there were any 
 intention of pul)lishing anything which he might 
 have left, and offered to give an opinion upon his 
 papers, and look them over. Down came a box- 
 ful, the sight of which literally made my heart 
 ache, and my eyes overflow, for never did I 
 behold such proofs of human industry. To make 
 short, I took the matter up with interest, collected 
 his letters, and have, at the expense of more time 
 than such a poor fellow as myself can very well 
 afford, done what his family are very grateful for, 
 and what I think the world will thank me for too. 
 Of course I have done it gratuitously. His life 
 will affect you, for he fairly died of intense appli- 
 cation. Cambrido-e finished him. When his 
 nerves were already so overstrained that his 
 nights were utter misery, they gave him medi- 
 cines to enable him to hold out during examina- 
 tion for a prize ! The horse won, — but he died 
 after the race ! 
 
 To John Rkhman. 
 
 May 27, 1807. 
 
 Nothing can be so little calculated to advance 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 193 
 
 our stock of knowledge as our inveterate mode 
 of education, whereby we all spend so many years 
 in learnino' so little. I was from the as^e of six to 
 that of twenty learning Greek and Latin, or, to 
 speak more truly, learning nothing else. The 
 little Greek I had sleepeth, if it be not dead, and 
 can hardly wake without a miracle, and my Latin, 
 though abundant enough for all useful purposes, 
 ■would be held in great contempt by those people 
 who regard the classics as the scriptures of taste. 
 
 To Hartleij Coleridge. 
 
 June 13, 1807. 
 Nephew Job, — * 
 
 Bona Marietta hath had kittens ; they were 
 remarkably ugly, all taking after their father 
 Thomas, who there is reason to believe was either 
 uncle or grandsire to Bona herself, the prohibited 
 degrees of consanguinity which you will find at 
 the end of the Bible not being regarded by cats. 
 As I have never been able to persuade this family 
 that catlings, fed for the purpose and smothered 
 with onions, would be rabbits to all eatable pur- 
 poses. Bona Marietta's ugly progeny no sooner 
 came into the world than they were sent out of it ; 
 the river njmiph Greta conveyed them to the river 
 god Derwent, and if neither the eels nor the ladies 
 
 * Southey used to call this extraordinary boy Moses, and 
 afterwards changed the name to Job, on account of his im- 
 patience. — Ed. 
 
194 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 of the lake have taken a fancy to them on their 
 way, Derwent hath consigned them to the Nereids. 
 
 We have been out one evening in the boat, — 
 Mr. Jackson, Mrs. Wilson,* and the children, — 
 and kindled our fire upon the same place where 
 you drank tea with us last autumn. The boat has 
 been painted, and there is to be a boat-house built 
 for it. Alterations are going on here upon a great 
 scale. The parlor has been transmogrified. That, 
 Hartley, was one of my mother s words ; your 
 mother will explain it to 3^ou. The masons are at 
 work in my study ; the garden is enclosed with a 
 hedge ; some trees planted behind it, a few shrubs, 
 and abundance of currant trees. We must, how- 
 ever, wait till the autumn before all can be done 
 that is intended in the garden. 
 
 The Aveather has been very bad ; nothing but 
 easterly winds, which have kept everything back. 
 We had one day hotter than had been remembered 
 for fourteen years : the glass was at 85° in the 
 shade, in the sun in Mr. Calvert's garden at US'*. 
 The horses of the mail died at Carlisle. I never 
 remember to have felt such heat in En<rland, 
 except one day fourteen years ago, when I 
 chanced to be in the mail coach, and it was neces- 
 sary to bleed the horses, or they Avould have died 
 then. In the course of three days the glass fell 
 
 * Mrs. Wilson, once the belle of Keswick, lived for many 
 years in Southey's house as nurse and friend. — Ed. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 195 
 
 forty degrees, and the wind was so cold and so 
 violent tiiat persons who attempted to cross the 
 Fells beyond Penrith were forced to turn back. 
 
 Your friend Dapper, who is, I believe, your 
 god-dog, is in good health, though he grows every 
 summer graver than the last. This is the natural 
 eifect of time, which, as you know, has made me 
 the serious man I am. I hope it will have the 
 same effect upon you and your mother, and that, 
 when she returns, she will have left off that evil 
 habit of quizzing me and calling me names : it is 
 not decorous in a woman of her years. 
 
 I am desired to send you as much love as can 
 be enclosed in a letter: I hope it will not be 
 charged double on that account at the post-oflSce : 
 but there is Mrs. Wilson's love, Mr. Jackson's, 
 your Aunt Southey's, your Aunt Lovell's, and 
 Edith's ; with a purr from Bona Marietta, an 
 open-mouthed kiss from Herbert, and three wags 
 of the tail from Dapper. I trust they will all 
 arrive safe, and remain, 
 
 Dear Nephew Job, 
 
 Your dutiful Uncle, 
 
 Egbert Southey. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 Nov. 24, 1S07. 
 Mine is a strong spirit, and I am very desirous 
 that you should not suppose it to be more severely 
 
196 THE STORY OF SODTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 tried than it is. The temporary inconvenience 
 which I feel is solely produced by unavoidable 
 expenses in settling mj'self, which will not occur 
 again ; and if EsprieJla slides into a good sale, or 
 if one edition of our deplorable Specimens should 
 go off, I shall be floated into smooth water. Bear 
 this in mind, also, that I can command an income, 
 fully equivalent to all my Avants, whenever I 
 choose to w^rite for money, and for nothing else. 
 Our Fathers in the Row would find me task-work, 
 to any amount which I might wish to undertake, 
 and I could assuredly make £300 a year as easily 
 as I now make half that sum, simply by writing 
 anonymously, and doing what five hundred trading 
 authors could do just as well. This is the worst 
 which can befall me. 
 
 Old John Southey dealt unjustly b}' me, — 
 but it was what I expected, and his brother will, 
 without doubt, do just the same. In case of Lord 
 Somerville's death without a son, a considera1)le 
 property devolves to me or my representatives — 
 encumbered, however, with a lawsuit to recover 
 it ; and, as I should be compelled to enter into 
 this, I have only to hope his Lordship will have 
 the goodness to live as long as I do, and save me 
 from the disquietude which this would occasion. 
 I used to think that the reputation which I should 
 esta])lish would ultimately turn to marketable 
 account, and that my books would sell as well as 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 197 
 
 if they were seasoned with slander or obscenity. 
 In time they will ; it will not be in my time. I 
 have, however, an easy means of securing some 
 part of the advantage to my family, by forbearing 
 to publish any more corrected editions during my 
 lifetime, and leaving such corrections as will avail 
 to give a second lease of copyright, and make any 
 bookseller's editions of no value. As for my 
 family, I have no fears for them ; they would find 
 friends enough when I am gone ; and having this 
 confidence, you may be sure that there is not a 
 lishter-hearted man in the world than myself. 
 
 To C. W. W. Wynn. 
 
 Dec. 3, 1807. 
 On the duty of spreading Christianity you know 
 my opinions, which perfectly coincide with your 
 own. My views of religion approach very nearly 
 to Quakerism, as the Annual Review may per- 
 haps have led you to suspect. The Quakers err 
 in prohibiting things which it is sufiicient to de- 
 spise ; they err in their principle of preaching ; 
 and their conduct about tithes is foolish and 
 troublesome. Their opinions concerning war go 
 against the instinct of self-defence ; just now that 
 sort of religion which the Maccabees held upon 
 this subject, is more called for. There can, how-, 
 ever, be no question but that the Quaker system, 
 were it general, would produce the greatest possi- 
 
198 THE STORY OF SOLTTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 ble good. It never can spread so rapidly as to 
 lay any part of the world at the feet of the con- 
 queror, and if it were not for Bonaparte, I should 
 have little hesitation in declaring my conviction 
 that it is the true system of the Gospel ; that is, 
 my reason is convinced, l)ut I want to have the 
 invasion over before I allow it to be so. Their 
 morality is perfect. I should not have agreed 
 with George Fox if he had made his creed, but I 
 entirely agree with him in reverentially abstaining 
 from attempting to define what has been left in- 
 definite, and in rejecting all those disputed terras 
 which are not to be found in the Scriptures ; not 
 as false, but as not being there, and as unneces- 
 sary provocations to disputes and doubts. Were 
 there a meeting in Keswick, I should silently take 
 a seat in it, but I should not alter my language 
 nor my dress, should pay my Easter dues, and 
 stand in no fear of a pack of cards. Did you 
 ever read Sir Thomas Browne's Religio Medici 9 
 If ever I can afford to write what I should not 
 think it prudent to publish, it will be the Religio 
 Poetce. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Declining to write for the Edinburgh iJevjezo — Friendship with Lan- 
 dor— Sale of his Works — Contributes to the Quarterly —T>e2t.\h. 
 of a Child. 
 
 [With regard to the next letter a word of expla- 
 nation is necessary. Scott, always a true friend 
 to Southey, had written proposing that he should 
 write for the Edinburgh Revieiu in spite of the 
 adverse criticism in that journal of Thalaha and 
 3Iadoc, and adding that, notwithstanding the flip- 
 pancy of those attacks, Jefi'rey had the most sin- 
 cere respect both for his person and talents.] 
 
 To Walter Scott. 
 
 Dec. 8, 1807. 
 I am very much obliged to you for the offer 
 which you make concerning the Edinburgh Re- 
 vieiv, and fully sensible of your friendliness, and 
 the advantages which it holds out. I bear as little 
 ill-will to Jeffrey as he does to me, and attribute 
 whatever civil things he has said of me to especial 
 civility, whatever pert ones (a truer epithet than 
 severe would be) to the habit which he has 
 acquired of taking it for granted that the critic is, 
 by virtue of his ofBce, superior to every writer 
 whom he chooses to summon before him. The 
 
 199 
 
200 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 reviewals of Thalaha and Madoc do in no degree 
 influence me. Setting all personal feelings aside, 
 the objections which Aveigh with me against bear- 
 ing any part in this journal are these : — I have 
 scarcely one opinion in common with it upon any 
 subject. Jeffrey is for peace, and is endeavoring 
 to frighten the people into it : I am for Avar as 
 long as Bonaparte lives. He is for Catholic eman- 
 cipation : I believe that its immediate consequence 
 would be to introduce an Irish priest into every 
 ship in the navy. ]My feelings are still less in 
 unison with him than my opinions. On subjects 
 of moral or political importance no man is more 
 apt to speak in the very gall of bitterness than I 
 am, and this hal)it is likely to go with me to the 
 grave : but that sort of bitterness in which he 
 indulges, which tends directly to wound a man in 
 his feelings, and injure him in his fame and for- 
 tune (Montgomery is a case in point), appears to 
 me utterly inexcusable. Now, though there 
 would be no necessity that I should follow this 
 example, yet every separate article in the Revieiv 
 derives authority from the merit of all the others ; 
 and, in this way, whatever of 'M\y merit I might 
 insert there would aid and abet opinions hostile to 
 my own, and thus identify me with a system which 
 I thoroughly disapprove. This is not said hastily. 
 The emolument to be derived from writing at ten 
 guineas a sheet, Scotch measure, instead of seven 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 201 
 
 pounds, annual, would be considerable ; the pecu- 
 niary advantage resulting from the different man- 
 ner in which my future works would be handled, 
 probably still more so. But my moral feelings 
 must not be compromised. To Jeffrey as an indi- 
 vidual I shall ever be ready to show every kind of 
 individual courtesy ; but of Judge Jeffrey of the 
 Edinburgh Review I must ever think and speak 
 as of a bad politician, a worse moralist, and a 
 critic, in matters of taste, equally incompetent 
 and unjust. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 Jan. 11, 1808. 
 The thought of the journey to London plagues 
 me, — the older I grow the more do I dislike 
 going from home. Oh dear ! oh dear ! there is 
 such a comfort in one's old coat and old shoes, 
 one's own chair and own fireside, one's own writ- 
 ing-desk and own library, — with a little girl 
 clim])ing up to my neck, and saying, "Don't go to 
 London, papa, — you must stay with Edith," — 
 and a little l)oy, whom I have taught to speak the 
 language of cats, dogs, cuckoos, and jackasses, 
 etc., before he can articulate a word of his own; 
 there is such a comfort in all these things that 
 transportation to London for four or five weeks 
 seems a heavier punishment than any sins of mine 
 deserve. 
 
202 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 To Joseph Cottle. 
 
 April 20, 1808. 
 
 What you say of my copyrights affected me 
 very much. Dear Cottle, set your heart at rest on 
 that subject. It ought to be at rest. These were 
 yours, fairly bought, and fairly sold. You bought 
 them on the chance of their success, which no 
 London bookseller would have done ; and had 
 \hQy not been bought, they could not have been 
 published at all. Nay, if you had not purchased 
 Joan of Arc, the poem never would have existed, 
 nor should I, in all probability, ever have obtained 
 that reputation which is the capital on which I 
 subsist, nor that power which enables me to sup- 
 port it. 
 
 But this is not all. Do j^ou suppose, Cottle, 
 that I have forgotten those true and most essential 
 acts of friendship which you showed me when I 
 stood most in need of them ? Your house was my 
 house when I had no other. The very money 
 with which I bought my wedding-ring and paid 
 my marriage fees was supplied by you. It was 
 with your sisters I left Edith during my six 
 months' absence, and for the six months after my 
 return it was from you that I received, week by 
 week, the little on which we lived, till I was ena- 
 bled to live by other means. It is not the settling 
 of a cash account that can cancel obligations like 
 these. You are in the habit of preserving your 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 203 
 
 letters, and if you were not, I would entreat yon 
 to preserve tJiis, that it might be seen hereafter. 
 Sure I am, there never was a more generous or a 
 kinder heart than yours ; and you will believe 
 me w^hen I add that there does not live that man 
 upon earth whom I remember with more grat- 
 itude and more affection. My head throbs and 
 my eyes burn with these recollections. Good 
 night ! my dear old friend and benefactor. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 April 26, 1808. 
 
 From one scene of confusion to another. You 
 saw me in London everlastingly at work in pack- 
 ing my books : and here they are now lying in all 
 parts about me, up to my knees in one place, up 
 to my eyes in another, and above head and ears 
 in a third. I can scared}^ find stepping-places 
 through the labyrinth from one end of the room 
 to the other. Like Pharaoh's frogs, they have 
 found their way everywhere, even into the bed- 
 chambers. 
 
 And now, Grosvenor, having been married 
 above twelve years, I have for the first time col- 
 lected all my books together. What a satisfaction 
 this is you cannot imagine, for you cannot con- 
 ceive the hundredth part of the inconvenience and 
 vexation I have endured for want of them. But 
 the joy which they give me brings with it a min- 
 
204 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 gled feeling — the recollection that there are as 
 many materials heaped up as I shall ever find life 
 to make use of; and the humiliating reflection 
 how little knowledge can be acquired in the most 
 laborious life of man, that knowledge becoming 
 every age less and less in proportion to the accu- 
 mulation of events. 
 
 At Bristol I met with the man of all others 
 whom I was most desirous of meeting, — the only 
 man living of Avhose praise I was ambitious, or 
 whose censure would have humbled me. You will 
 be curious to know who this could be. Savao:e 
 Landor, the author of Gehir, a poem which, unless 
 you have heard me speak of it, you have probably 
 never heard of at all. I never saw any one more 
 unlike myself in every prominent part of human 
 character, nor any one who so cordially and in- 
 stinctively agreed with me on so many of the most 
 important subjects. I have often said before we 
 met, that I would walk forty miles to see him, and 
 having seen him, I would gladly walk fourscore to 
 see him again. He talked of Thalaba, and I told 
 him of the series of m3'thological poems which I 
 had planned, — mentioned some of the leading 
 incidents on which they were to have been formed, 
 and also told him for what reason they were laid 
 aside; — in plain English, that I could not afford 
 to write them. Landor's reply was, " Go on with 
 them, and I will pay for printing them, as many 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 235 
 
 as you will write and as many copies as 3'ou 
 please." I had reconciled myself to my abdication 
 (if the phrase may be allowable), and am not sure 
 that this princely offer has not done me mischief; 
 for it has awakened in me old dreams and hopes 
 which had been laid aside, and a stinging desire to 
 go on, for the sake of showing him poem after 
 poem, and saying, "I need not accept your offer, 
 but I have done this because you made it." It is 
 something to be praised by one's peers ; ordinary 
 praise I regard as little as ordinary abuse. 
 
 To Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 May 2, 1808. 
 
 I have sent you all that is written of the Curse 
 of KeJiama: you offered to print it for me ; if ever 
 I finish the poem it will be because of that offer, 
 though without the slightest intention of accepting 
 it. Enough is written to open the story of the 
 poem, and serve as a specimen of its manner, 
 though much of what is to follow would be in a 
 wilder strain. 
 
 My history as an author is not very honorable 
 to the age in which we live. By giving up my 
 whole time to worthless work in reviews, maga- 
 zines, and newspapers, I could thrive, as by giving 
 up half my time to them, I contrive to live. In 
 the time thus employed every year I could cer- 
 tainly produce such a poem as Thalaha, and if I 
 
206 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 did I should starve. You have awakened in me 
 projects that had been laid asleep, and recalled 
 hopes which I had dismissed contentedly, and, as 
 I thought, for ever. If you think Keliama 
 deserves to be finished, I will borrow hours from 
 sleep, and finish it by rising two hours before my 
 customary time ; and when it is finished I will try 
 whether subscribers can be procured for five hun- 
 dred copies, by which means I should receive the 
 whole profit to myself. The bookseller's share is 
 too much like the lion in the fable : 30 or 33 per 
 cent, they first deduct as booksellers, and then 
 half the residue as publishers. I have no reason 
 to complain of mine : they treat me Avith great 
 respect and great liberality, Ijut I wish to be inde- 
 pendent of them ; and this, if it could be eft'ected, 
 would make me so. 
 
 The will and the power to produce anything 
 great are not often found together. I wish you 
 would write in English, because it is a better lan- 
 guage than Latin, and because the disuse of Eng- 
 lish as a living and literary language would be the 
 greatest evil that could befall mankind. 
 
 To John Hickman. 
 
 May, 1808. 
 
 Your good news came much sooner than it was 
 expected. I shall not condole with you on the 
 daughtership, because (though it would be an error 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 207 
 
 deserving of flogging to deny that the masculine 
 gender is more worthy than the feminine) there 
 are many things in which girls are preferable to 
 boys. They begin to be useful just when boys 
 begin to be troublesome ; you have them longer 
 for companions, and, moreover, the cost of a boy's 
 education is a girl's fortune. Mrs. Rickman, I 
 dare say, is well satisfied with the sex, — or, if she 
 is not, she Avill soon find cause to be so. Boys 
 about a house are like favorite dogs in the country, 
 who come into the parlor with dirty legs, and then 
 lie down on the hearth and lick themselves clean ; 
 they are always in the way, and when out of sight, 
 ten to one but they are in mischief. Girls are like 
 cats, clean and fit to be up-stairs. 
 
 To NeviUe White. 
 
 June 20, 1808. 
 The box arrived about an hour ago. Sir 
 William Jones's works are placed opposite my 
 usual seat, and on the most conspicuous shelf in 
 the room. I have retired to my library to thank 
 you for the most splendid set of books it contains. 
 I thank you for them, Neville, truly and heartily ; 
 but do not let it hurt you if I say, that so costly 
 a present gives me some pain as well as pleasure. 
 Were you a rich man, you could not give me 
 more books than I would joyfully accept, for I 
 delight in accumulating such treasures as nmch as 
 
208 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 a miser does in keeping together gold ; but, as 
 things are at present, no proof was needed of your 
 generous spirit, and, from the little you have to 
 spare, I cannot but feel you are giving me too 
 much. You will not be offended at my express- 
 ing this feeling, nor will you impute it to any un- 
 just pride, which, blessed be God, I am too poor 
 a man, and too wise a one, to be guilty of in any, 
 even the smallest degree. Be assured that I shall 
 ever value the books far more than if they had 
 come from a wealthier donor, and that I write the 
 donor's name in them with true respect and es- 
 teem. You will be pleased to hear they are 
 books of immediate use to me. Seven years ago 
 I began a long poem which Sir William Jones, 
 had he been living, would have liked to see, 
 because it has the system of Hindoo mythology 
 for its basis. I believe you heard me mention it 
 at Mr. Hill's. I have been stimulated by the 
 approbation of one of the few men living whose 
 approbation could stimulate me, to go on with this 
 poem, and am winning time for it by rising earlier 
 than was my custom, because I will not allow any 
 other part of the day to an employment less 
 important than writing history, and far less profit- 
 able than that of w^'iting anything else, how hum- 
 ble or how worthless soever. In the hours thus 
 fairly won for the purpose I get on steadily and 
 well. Now, though I had long ago gone through 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 209 
 
 those works of Sir William, and made from them 
 such extracts as were necessary for my purpose, 
 it was still very desirable that I should have them 
 at hand. Lord Teignmouth''s Life also is new to 
 me. 
 
 To Richard Duppa. 
 
 July 11, 1808. 
 
 The thought of writing to you, — or, rather, 
 the thought that I had not written, — has very 
 often risen in my conscience heavily. Joanna 
 Southcote has been the cause. Her books, with 
 Sharp's dirty treasure, are now on their way to 
 London. It is so much better to say I have done 
 a thing than I will do it, that I really have de- 
 ferred writing for the sake of saying these books 
 were actually gone. 
 
 For the last three weeks I have suffered from 
 a blinding and excoriating catarrh ; always with 
 me a very obstinate disease, and more violent than 
 I have ever seen it in any person except one of 
 my own family. Diseases are the worst things a 
 man can inherit, and I am never likely to inherit 
 anything else. That father's brother of mine in 
 Somersetshire — whom I would so gladly sell at 
 half price — received me as cordially as was in his 
 nature last April, and gave me £25, — an act of 
 great generosity in a man of £1200 a year, and 
 remarkable as being all I ever have had, or ever 
 shall have from him, for he has now turned his 
 
210 THE STOEY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 sister out of doors, and desired never to see 
 any of the family again. Duppa, my breeches' 
 pockets will never be so full as to make me stick 
 in Heaven's gate. Three lines of that fellow's 
 pen will cut me off from more than all the pens I 
 shall ever wear to the stump will gain for me, and 
 yet I hope many is the goose-egg yet unlaid which 
 is to produce quills for my service. 
 
 To C. W. W. Wyyin. 
 
 London, July, 1808. 
 My own affairs are not in the pleasantest way. 
 It cannot quite be said of me laudatur et cdget; 
 but if I do not wholly give myself up to writing 
 in reviews and magazines, and once more spinning 
 verses for the newspaper, it will very soon come 
 to it. One edition of Espriella has sold ; it 
 requires the sale of a second to balance my account 
 with Longman, and it is most likely that the 
 second will sell. The small edition of Madoc has 
 not yet paid the expenses. The quarto copies are 
 waste paper. Palmerin has just paid. I have 
 that, the Madoc (which will in time drop off), and 
 the yet unpublished Cid to look to for the sup- 
 plies of the current Yeva\ "Whatever Brazil may 
 produce is anticipated ; it will go to discharge a 
 debt contracted for Harry during the last seven 
 years. Do not, however, suppose that I am 
 either out of humor with the world, or out of 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LITE. 211 
 
 heart myself. The 200?. a year which is neces- 
 sary for my expenditure, is within my reach. 
 The Annual Review will yield me from 70?. to 
 80?., the Athenamm 30?., and I am solicited to 
 become poet to the Courier at a guinea per week. 
 This oifer I have declined, and choose rather to 
 work by the piece than trust to periodical exer- 
 tion, which very probably it may not be in my 
 power to command. Verses, however, for that 
 respectable i:)aper I shall assuredly soon begin to 
 write, for this efficient reason, that it is the only 
 way in which they will pay me for the paper on 
 which they are written. 
 
 To Lieutenant Southey. 
 
 Aug. 16, 1808. 
 We have got the prettiest kitten you ever saw, 
 — a dark tabl)y, — and we have christened her by 
 the heathenish name of Dido. You would be very 
 much diverted to see her hunt Herbert all round 
 the kitchen, playing with his little bare feet, which 
 she just pricks at every pat, and the faster he 
 moves back the more she paws them, at which he 
 cries "Naughty Dido ! " and points to his feet and 
 says, " Hurt, hurt, naughty Dido." Presently he 
 feeds her with comfits, which Dido plays with 
 awhile, but soon returns to her old game. You 
 have lost the amusing part of Herbert's child- . 
 hood, — just when he is trying to talk, and endeav- 
 oring to say everything. 
 
212 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 I hope that the opening of Pelayo is pretty 
 well arninged, but I will not begin upon it till I 
 come to a stop in KeJiama. You will not, per- 
 haps, be surprised to hear that two of my old 
 dreams are likely to be introduced, with powerful 
 effect, in this poem, — good proof that it was 
 worth while to keep even the imperfect register 
 that I have. The fear is that what happened to 
 Nebuchadnezzar is perpetually happening to me. 
 I forget my dreams, and have no Daniel to help 
 out my recollection ; and if by chance I do remem- 
 ber them, unless they are instantly written down, 
 the impression passes away almost as lightly as the 
 dream itslf. Do you remember the story of jMickle 
 the poet, who always regretted that he could not 
 remember the poetry which he composed in his 
 sleep? it was, he said, so infinitely superior to any- 
 thing which he produced in his waking hours. 
 One morning he awoke and repeated the lamenta- 
 tion over his unhappy fortune, that he should com- 
 pose such sublime poetry, and yet lose it for ever ! 
 " What ! " said his wife, who happened to be awake, 
 "were you writing poetry?" "Yes," he replied, 
 "and such poetry that I would give the world to 
 remember it." " Well then," said she, " I did luck- 
 ily hear the last lines, and I am sure I remember 
 them exactly : they were — 
 
 ' By Heaven, I'll wreak my woes 
 
 Upon the cowslip and the pale primrose.' " 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 213 
 
 I am not such a dreamer as Miclde, for what I can 
 remember is worth remembering, — and one of 
 the wildest scenes in Kehama will prove this. 
 
 To the same. 
 
 Oct. 13, 1808. 
 
 An Irishman who was abroad came in one day 
 and said that he had seen that morning what he had 
 never seen before, — a fine crop of anchovies 
 growing in the garden. ''Anchovies?" said an 
 Englishman, with a half laugh and a tone of won- 
 der. And from this the other, according to the 
 legitimate rules of Irish logic, deduced a quarrel, 
 a challenge, and a duel, in which the poor English- 
 man, who did not believe that anchovies grew in 
 the garden, was killed on the spot. The moment 
 he fell, the right word came into the challenger's 
 head. " Och ! what a pity ! " he cried, " and I 
 meant capers all the while ! " Mr. Spence knew 
 the parties, and told this story the other day at 
 Calvert's, from whence it travelled to me. 
 
 I wish you had the Cid to have shown the 
 Spaniards ; they would have been pleased to see 
 that the Campeador was beginning to have his fame 
 here in England, 700 years after his death. Un- 
 questionably that Chronicle is one of the finest 
 things in the world ; and so I think it will be ad- 
 mitted to be. Coleridge is perfectly delighted 
 with it. 
 
214 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 I am getting on with my Letters from Portu- 
 gal. The evenings close in by tea-time, and fire 
 and candle bring with them close work at the desk, 
 and nothing to take me from it. The Long-man 
 of the Row recommends the small size in preference 
 to quarto, as producing greater profits, in conse- 
 quence of its readier sale. To this I willingly 
 assent. They will probably extend to three such 
 volumes as EspiHella. When they are done, the 
 fresh letters of Espriella will come in their turn ; 
 and so I go on. Huzza ! two and twenty volumes 
 already ; the Gid, when reprinted, will make two 
 more ; and, please God, five a year in addition as 
 long as I live. 
 
 Edith has just been in with her kiss — as reg- 
 ular as the eveninof ffun. She "wants to know 
 when Uncle will come home. Sooner perhaps 
 than he himself thinks, for the glorious revolution 
 in Spain will bring Bonaparte down. It is 
 morally impossible that such a nation can be sub- 
 dued. 
 
 To Walter Scott. 
 
 Nov. 6, 1808. 
 Very, very few of the Spanish ballads are good ; 
 they are made in general upon one receipt, and 
 that a most inartificial one ; they begin by describ- 
 ing the situation of somebody who makes a speech 
 which is the end. Nothing like the wildness or 
 the character of our ballads is to be found among 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 215 
 
 them. It is curious, and at present inexplicable 
 to me, how their prose should be so exquisitely 
 poetical as it is in the Cid, and their poetry so com- 
 pletely prosaical as it is in their narrative poems. 
 
 A reviewal of my Cid by you will be the best 
 aid that it can possibly receive. Five hundred 
 only were printed, and in spite of the temporary 
 feeling and the wonderful beauty of the book, I 
 dare say they will hang upon hand. 
 
 It will rejoice me to see you here, and show 
 you my treasures, and talk of the days of the 
 shield and the lance. We have a bed at your 
 service, and shall expect you to be our guest. 
 Wordsworth, who left me to-day, desires his re- 
 membrances. He is about to write a pamphlet 
 upon this precious convention, which he will place 
 in a more philosophical point of view than any- 
 body has yet done. I go to press in a few weeks 
 with my History of Brazil, and have Thcdaba at 
 present in Ballantyne's hands, that poem having 
 just reached the end of its seven years' apprentice- 
 ship. And I have got half way through my 
 Hindoo poem, which, it is to be hoped, will please 
 myself, inasmuch as it is not likely to please any- 
 body else. It is too strange, too much beyond all 
 human sympathies ; but I shall go on, and as, in 
 such a case, I have usually little but my labor for 
 my pains, the certainty that it never can be popu- 
 lar will not deter me from gratifying my own 
 fancy. 
 
216 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 [The Quarterly Review, which owed its birth to 
 Sir Walter Scott, was established in 1809. Scott 
 had previously withdrawn from the Edinburgh, 
 disapproving of its political tone, and Southey, 
 who agreed with Scott, was asked to write an 
 article for the first number of the new journal. 
 From that time, though never a blind adherent to 
 the principles of the Quarterly, he became a regular 
 contributor to that Review, and gained from it the 
 steadiest portion of his income. The first editor, 
 as all the world knows, was Giffbrd.] 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 Nov. 17, 1808. 
 Let not Gifford suppose me a troublesome man 
 to deal with, pertinacious about trifles, or standing 
 upon punctilios of authorship. No, Grosvenor, I 
 am a quiet, patient, easy-going hack of the mule 
 breed ; regular as clockwork in my pace, sure- 
 footed, bearing the burden which is laid on me, 
 and only olistinate in choosing my own path. If 
 Giffbrd could see me by this fireside where, like 
 Nicodemus, one candle suffices me in a large room, 
 he would see a man in a coat " still more thread- 
 bare than his own " when he wrote his Imitation^ 
 workinij hard and ""etting little, — a bare mainte- 
 nance, and hardly that ; writing poems and his- 
 tory for posterity with his whole heart and soul ; 
 one daily progressive in learning, not so learned 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 217 
 
 as he is poor, not so poor as proud, not so proud 
 as happy. Grosvenor, there is not a lighter-hearted 
 nor a happier man upon the face of this wide 
 world. 
 
 Your godson thinks that I have nothino^ to do 
 but to play with him, and anybody who saw what 
 reason he has for his opinion would be disposed to 
 agree with him. I wish you could see my beauti- 
 ful boy ! 
 
 To W. S. Lander. 
 
 Nov. 26, 1S08, ■ 
 Find out a woman whom you can esteem, and 
 love will grow more surely out of esteem than 
 esteem will out of love. Your soul would then 
 find anchorage. There are fountain springs of 
 delight in the heart of man, which gush forth at 
 the sight of his children, though it might seem 
 before to be hard as the rock of Horeb, and dry 
 as the desert sands. What I learnt from Rousseau 
 before I laid Epictetus to my heart, was that Julia 
 was happy with a husband whom she had not 
 loved, and that Wolmer was more to be admired 
 than St. Preux. I bid no man beware of being 
 poor as he grows old, but I say to all men beware 
 of solitariness in age. Rest is the object to be 
 sought. There is no other way of attaining it 
 here, where we have no convents, but by putting 
 an end to all those hopes and fears to which the 
 
218 THE STOP.Y or southey's life. 
 
 best hearts are the most subject. Experto crede 
 Roberto. This is the holy oil Avhich has stilled in 
 me a nature little less tempestuous than your own. 
 
 [The next letter refers to that most hopelessly 
 incompetent of works, Cowper's Milton, edited by 
 Hayley.] 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 Jau. 6, 1809. 
 You make a confession * respecting JNIilton 
 which nine hundred and ninety-nine persons out 
 of the thousand would make if they were honest 
 enough ; for his main excellences are like M. 
 Angelo's, only to be thoroughly appreciated by an 
 artist. Hayley, as Miss Seward has just remarked 
 to me in a letter, is perfectly insane upon the sub- 
 ject of Cowper's resemblance to Milton ; there is 
 no other resemblance between them than that both 
 wrote in blank verse — but blank verse as different 
 as possible. You may compare Cowper's transla- 
 tions (which I suppose are very bad, as many of 
 his lesser pieces are, and as Miss Seward tells me) 
 with Langhorne's ; and you may estimate Cowper 
 himself as a poet, as a man of intellect, and as a 
 translator of Homer, showing that he is not over- 
 
 * The confession was that he did not suflBciently understand 
 Milton to be in the same raptures with him " which our coun- 
 trymen in general think it a natural duty to feel." — Ed. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 219 
 
 valued, but that his popularity is owing to his 
 piety, not his poetry, and that that piety was craz- 
 iness. I like his letters, but think their so great 
 popularity one of the very many proofs of the im- 
 becility of the age. 
 
 Ah, Grosvenor ! the very way in which you 
 admire that passage in Kehama * convinces me 
 that it ought not to be there. Did I not tell you 
 it was clap-trappish? you are clapping as hard as 
 you can to prove the truth of my opinion. That 
 it grew there naturally is certain, but does it suit 
 i with the poem? is it of a piece or color with the 
 whole? Is not the poet speaking in himself, 
 whereas the whole character of the poem requires 
 that he should be out of himself. 
 
 To W. S. Landor. 
 
 Feb. 9, 1809. 
 You have a bill coming before Parliament. The 
 Speaker's secretary happens to be one of my very 
 intimate friends and one of the men in the world 
 for whom I have the highest respect. It may be 
 some convenience to you on this occasion to know 
 him, because he can give you every necessary infor- 
 mation respecting Parliamentary business and thus, 
 perhaps, spare you some needless trouble ; and 
 there needs no other introduction than knocking at 
 
 * See Curse of Kehama, Canto X., v. 20, beginning, "They 
 sin who tell us love can die." — Ed. 
 
220 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 his door and sending up your name, with which 
 he is well acquainted. Ricknian is his name ; and 
 you will find it over his door, in St. Stephen's 
 Court, New Palace Yard, next door to the Speak- 
 er's. I Avill tell you wdiat kind of man he is. His 
 outside has so little polish about it that once hav- 
 ing gone from Christchurch to Poole, in his own 
 boat, he was taken by the press-gang, — his robust 
 figure, hard-working hands, and strong voice all 
 tending to deceive them. A little of this is worn 
 off. He is the strongest and clearest-headed man 
 that I have ever known. "Pondere, numero, et 
 raensur^," is his motto ; })ut to all things he car- 
 ries the same reasoning and investigating intellect 
 as to mathematical science, and will find out in 
 Homer and the Bible facts necessarily to be in- 
 ferred fi'om the text, and which yet have as little 
 been supposed to be there intimated, as the exis- 
 tence of metal was suspected in potash before Davy 
 detected it there. I have often said that I learnt 
 how to see for the purposes of poetry from Gebb\ 
 how to read for the purposes of history from 
 Rickman. His manners are stoical ; they are like 
 the husk of the cocoa-nut, and his inner nature is 
 like the milk within its kernel. When I go to 
 London I am always his guest. He gives me but 
 half his hand when he welcomes me at the door, 
 but I have his whole heart, — and there is not that 
 thins: in the world which he thinks would serve or 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 221 
 
 gratify me that he does not do for me, unless it be 
 something which he thinks I can as well do myself. 
 The subtle subject which he best understands is 
 political economy. Were there but half a dozen 
 such men in the House of Commons, there would 
 be courage, virtue, and wisdom enough there to 
 save this country from that revolution to which it 
 is so certainly approaching. 
 
 To W. Gifford. 
 
 March 6, 1809. 
 
 Your letter, and its enclosed draft, reached 
 me this afternoon. I have to acknowledge the 
 one, and thank you for the other. It gratifies me 
 that you approve my defence of the missionaries, 
 because I am desirous of such approbation ; and it 
 will gratify me if it should be generally approved, 
 because I wrote from a deep and strong conviction 
 of the importance of the subject. With respect to 
 any alterations in this or any future communica- 
 tion, I am perfectly sensible that absolute authority 
 must always be vested in the editor. 
 
 I could have wished that this Review had less 
 resembled the Edinburgh in the tone and temper 
 of its criticisms. That book of Miss Owenson's is, 
 I dare say, very bad both in manners and morals ; 
 yet, had it fallen into my hands, I think I could 
 have told her so in such a spirit that she herself 
 would have believed me, and might have profited 
 
222 THE STORY OF SCUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 by the censure. The same quantity of rain which 
 would clear a flower of its blights will, if it falls 
 heavier and harder, wash the roots bare, and beat 
 the blossoms to the ground. I have been in the 
 habit of reviewing more than eleven years, for the 
 lucre of gain, and not, God knows, from any liking 
 to the occupation ; and of all my literary misdeeds, 
 the only ones of which I have repented have been 
 those reviewals which were written with undue 
 asperity, so as to give unnecessarj' pain. I pro- 
 pose to continue the subject of the Missions 
 throuofh two other articles, neither of which will 
 probal)ly be half so long as the first ; one respect- 
 ing the South Sea Islands, the other South Africa. 
 Two things I can promise, — perfect sincerity 
 in what I write, without the slightest assumption 
 of knowledge which I do not possess ; and a 
 punctuality not to be exceeded by that 'of Mr. 
 Murray's opposite neighbors at St. Dunstan's. 
 
 To Richard Duppa. 
 
 March 31, 1809. 
 I am sorry for your loss, — a heavy one under 
 any circumstances, and particularly so to one 
 who, being single at your time of life, will now 
 feel more entirely what it is to have no person 
 who intimately loves him. It is not in the order 
 of nature that there should ever be a void in the 
 heart of man, — the old leaves should not fall 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 223 
 
 from the tree till the young ones are expanding 
 to supply their place. 
 
 I have now three ofirls livinsr, and as delightful 
 a playfellow in the shape of a boy as ever man 
 was blest with. Very often, when I look at 
 tl>em, I think what a fit thing it would be that 
 Malthus should be hanged. 
 
 You may have known that I have some deal- 
 ings in the way of trade with your bookseller, 
 Murray. One article of mine is in his first Quar- 
 terly, and he has bespoken more. Whenever I 
 shall have the satisfaction of seeing you once 
 more under this roof it will amuse you to see 
 how dexterously Gilford endeavors to be dull, 
 and aim at nothing hiorher than Reviews and 
 Magazines. 
 
 To Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 April 23, 1809. 
 
 I shall send three sections of Keliama to meet 
 you in London — three more will complete it — and 
 would have so done before this time had all things 
 been going on well with me. I had a daughter 
 born on the 27th last month ; a few days after 
 the birth her mother was taken ill, and for some 
 time there was cause of serious alarm. This, 
 God be thanked, is over. The night before last 
 we had another alarm of the worst kind, though 
 
224 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 happily this also is passing away. My little boy 
 went to bed with some slight indications of a tri- 
 fling cold. His mother went up as usual to look 
 at him before supper ; she thought he coughed in 
 a strange manner, called me, and I instantly rec- 
 ognized the sound of the croup. We have a 
 good apothecary within three minutes' walk, and 
 luckily he was at home. He immediately con- 
 firmed our fears. The child was taken out of bed 
 and bled in the jugular vein, a blister placed on 
 the throat next morning, and by these vigorous 
 and timely remedies we hope and trust the dis- 
 ease is subdued. But what a twelve hours did 
 we pass, knowing the. nature of the disease, and 
 only hoping the efficacy of the remedy. Even 
 now I am far, very far, from being at ease. 
 There is a love which passeth the love of women, 
 and which is more lightly alarmed than the wake- 
 fullest jealousy. 
 
 Landor, I am not a stoic at home : I feel as you 
 do about the fall of an old tree ; but, O Christ ! what 
 a pang it is to look upon the young shoot and think 
 it will be cut down. And this is the thought which 
 almost at all times haunts me ; it comes upon me 
 in moments w^hen I know not whether the tears 
 that start are of love or of bitterness. There is 
 an evil, too, in seeing all things like a poet ; cir- 
 cumstances which would glide over a healthier 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 225 
 
 mind sink into mine ; everything comes to me 
 with its whole force, — the full meaning of a 
 look, a gesture, a child's imperfect speech, I can 
 perceive, and cannot help perceiving ; and thus 
 am I made to remember what I would give the 
 world to foro'ct. 
 
 To Lieut. 8outJiey. 
 
 May 22, 1809. 
 
 My last letter told you of Herbert's danger and 
 his recovery. You will be a little shocked at the 
 intelligence in this. We lost Emma yesterday 
 nioht. Five days ago she was in finer health 
 than we had ever seen her, and I repeatedly re- 
 marked it. For a day or two she had been ail- 
 ing ; on Saturday night breathed shortly and was 
 evidently ill. Edmondson repeatedly saw her, 
 thought her better at ten o'clock, and assured us 
 he saw no danger. In half an hour she literally 
 fell asleep without a struggle. Edith is as well as 
 should be expected, and I, perhaps, better. You 
 know how I take tooth-ache and tooth-drawings, 
 and I have almost learnt to bear moral pain, not, 
 indeed, with the same levity, but with as few 
 outward and visible signs. In fact, God be 
 thanked for it, there never was a man who had 
 more entirely set his heart upon things permanent 
 and eternal than I have done ; the transitoriness 
 
226 THE STORY OP SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 of everything here is always present to my feel- 
 ing as well as my understanding. Were I to 
 speak as sincerely of my family as "Wordsworth's 
 little girl, my story [would be] that I have five 
 children ; three of them at home, and two under 
 my mother's care in heaven. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Southey's Pecuniaiy Prospects — The Annual Register — Madoc — 
 Acquaintance with Shelley — Life of Nelson — Recollections of 
 Oxford — His Children. 
 
 [Canning having expressed a strong desire to 
 serve Southey, Scott wrote to him saying there 
 were professors' chairs vacant, and adding " What 
 would I not give to secure you a chair in our 
 northern metropolis ! " Southey replied at length 
 stating his early disappointments with regard to 
 Portugal, and that he was now receiving a pension 
 of £200, "from which the Exchequer deducts 
 above sixty pounds."] 
 
 To Walter Scott. 
 
 June 16, 1809. 
 This is all I have. Half my time I sell to the 
 booksellers ; the other half is reserved for works 
 which will never pay for the paper on which they 
 are written, but on which I rest my future fame. 
 I am, of course, straitened in circumstances ; a 
 little more would make me easy. My chance of 
 inheritance is gone by : my father's elder brother 
 was worth 40,000/., but he cut me off without the 
 227 
 
228 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 slightest cause of offence. You will see by this 
 that I would willingly be served, but it is not 
 easy to serve me. Lisbon is too insecure a place 
 to remove to with a family, and nothing could 
 repay me for going without them. I have neither 
 the habits nor talents for an official situation ; 
 nor, if I had, could I live in London, — that is, 
 I should soon die there. I have said to Wynn 
 that one thing would make me at ease for life, — 
 create for me the title of Eoyal Historiographer 
 for England* (there is one for Scotland), with a 
 salary of 400?. : the reduction would leave a net 
 income of 278?. ; with that I should be sure of all 
 the decent comforts of life, and, for everything 
 beyond them, it would then be easy to supply 
 myself. Of course, my present pension would 
 cease. Whether Mr. Canning can do this I know 
 not; but, if this could be done, it would be ade- 
 quate to all I want, and beyond that my wishes 
 have never extended. 
 
 To Lieut. Southey. 
 
 Nov. 25, 1809. 
 
 I have this day finished Eehama, having w^'it- 
 
 ten two hundred lines since yesterday morning. 
 
 Huzza, Aballiboozobanganorribo ! f It is not 
 
 often in his lifetime a man finishes a long poem, 
 
 * Southey soon discovered that he was mistaken in suppos- 
 ing that there was no English Historiographer. — Ed. 
 t See The Doctor, &c. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 229 
 
 and as I have nobody to give me joy I must give 
 myself joy. 24 sections, 4844 lines ; 200 or 300 
 more will probably be added in course of correc- 
 tion and transcription ; all has been done before 
 breakfast (since its resumption) except about 170 
 lines of the conclusion. Huzza ! better than lying 
 abed, Tom ; and though I am not quite ready to 
 begin another, I will rise as usual to-morrow and 
 work at the plans of Pelayo and Robin Hood. 
 And now I am a little impatient that you should 
 see the Avhole, and shall feel another job off my 
 hands when your copy is completed. By begin- 
 ning earlier with the next poem I shall be able to 
 keep pace with it, and send it to you as fast as it 
 proceeds. Very very few persons will like Ke- 
 hama; everybody will wonder at it; it will 
 increase my reputation without increasing my 
 popularity ; a general remark will be, what a 
 pity that I have wasted so much power. I care 
 little about this, having in the main pleased my- 
 self, and all along amused myself; every genera- 
 tion will afford me some half dozen admirers of it, 
 and the everlasting column of Dante's fame does 
 not stand upon a wider base. 
 
 [And now Southey undertook to write the 
 History of Europe for Ballantyne's Annual Reg- 
 ister.'] 
 
230 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 To John Hickman. 
 
 Jan. 21, 1810. 
 
 This is a very profitable engagement. They 
 give me 400?. for it; and if it continues two 
 or three years (which I believe rests wholly Avith 
 myself) , it will make me altogether at ease in my 
 circumstances, for by that time my property in 
 Longman's hands will have cleared itself, the con- 
 stable will come up with me, and we shall travel 
 on, I trust, to the end of our journey cheek by 
 jowl, even if I should not be able to send him for- 
 ward like a running footman. 
 
 The ^?m?'^er/y pays me well — ten guineas per 
 sheet : at the same measure the Annual was only 
 four. I have the bulky Life of Nelson in hand, 
 and am to l^e paid double. This must be for the 
 sake of saying they give twenty guineas per sheet, 
 as I should have been well satisfied with ten, and 
 have taken exactly the same pains. 
 
 To Ehenezer Elliott. 
 
 Feb. 9, 1810. 
 The objections which have been made to the 
 style of Madoc are ill-founded. It has no other 
 peculiarity than that of being pure English, which, 
 unhappily, in these times renders it peculiar. < 
 My rule of writing, whether for prose or verse, 
 is the same, and may very shortly be stated. It 
 is, to express myself, 1st, as perspicuously as 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 231 
 
 possible; 2d, as concisely as possible; 3d, as 
 impressively as possible. This is the way to be 
 understood, and felt, and remembered. But 
 there is an obtuseness of heart and understand- 
 ing which it is impossible to reach ; and if you 
 have seen the reviewals of Madoc, after having 
 read the poem, you will perceive that almost in 
 every part or passage w^hich they have selected 
 for censure they have missed the meaning. 
 
 The metre has been criticised with equal inca- 
 pacity on the part of the critics. Milton and 
 Shakspeare are the standardt of blank verse : in 
 these writers every variety of it is to be found, 
 and by this standard I desire to be measured. 
 The redundant verses (when the redundant sylla- 
 ble is anywhere but at the end of a line) are 
 formed upon the admitted principle, that two 
 short syllables are equal in time to one long one. 
 The truth is, that though the knack of versif}^ing 
 is a gift, the art is an acquirement. I versified 
 more rapidly at the age of sixteen, than now at 
 six-and-thirty. But it requires a knowledge of 
 that art to criticise upon the structure of verse ; 
 nor is it sufficient to understand the regular turn 
 of the metre : a parrot might be taught that. In 
 the sweep of blank verse, the whole paragraph 
 must be taken into consideration before the merit 
 or demerit of a single line, or sometimes of a sin- 
 gle word, can be understood. Yet these critics 
 
232 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 are everlastingly picking out single lines, and 
 condemning their cadence as bad. This might 
 be true if the line could possibly stand alone. 
 But were I to cut off one of the critic's lingers 
 and tell him it was only fit for a tobacco-stopper, 
 that would be true also, because the act of ampu- 
 tation made it so. 
 
 To Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 March 26, 1810. 
 Is it a mark of strensfth or of weakness, of 
 maturity or of incipient decay, that it is more 
 delightful to me to compose history than poetry? 
 not, perhaps, that I feel more pleasure in the act 
 of composition, but that I go to it with more com- 
 placency as to an employment which suits my 
 temperament. I am loth to ascribe this lack of 
 inclination to any deficiency of power, and cer- 
 tainly am not conscious of an}" ; still I have an 
 ominous feeling that there are poets enough in the 
 world without me, and that my best chance of 
 being remembered will be as an historian. A 
 proof-sheet of Kehama, or a second-sight scene 
 in Pelayo, disperses this cloud ; such, however, 
 is my habitual feeling. It did not use to be the 
 case in those days when I thought of nothing but 
 poetry, and lived, as it w^ere, in an atmosphere of 
 nitrous oxide — in a state of perpetual excitement 
 which yet produced no exhaustion. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 233 
 
 To the same. 
 
 Jan. 11, 1811. 
 
 Your abhorrence of Spenser is a strange her- 
 esy.* I admit that he is inferior to Chaucer 
 (who for variety of power has no competitor 
 except Shakspeare), but he is the great master of 
 English versification, incomparably the greatest 
 master in our language. Without being insensi- 
 ble to the defects of the Faery Queen, I am never 
 weary of reading it. Surely Chaucer is as much 
 a poet as it was possible for him to be when the 
 language was in so rude a state. There seems to 
 be this material point of difference between us, — 
 you think we have little poetry which Avas good 
 for anything before Milton ; I, that we have little 
 since, except in our own immediate days. I do 
 not say there was much before, but what there 
 was was sterlins^ verse in sterlino; Enjjlish. It 
 had thought and feeling in it. At present, the 
 surest way to become popular is to have as little 
 of either ingredient as possible. 
 
 To the same. 
 
 Feb. 12, 1811. 
 
 I am not disappointed in Count Julian; it is 
 
 too Greek for representation in these times, but it 
 
 * See Landor's couplet in the verses addressed to Words- 
 worth: — 
 
 " Thee gentle Spenser fondly led, 
 But me he mostly sent to bed." — Et). 
 
234 THE STOEY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 is altogether worthy of you. The thought and 
 feeling which you have frequently condensed in a 
 single line, is unlike anything in modern composi- 
 tion. The conclusion too is Greek. I should 
 have known this play to be yours had it fallen 
 in my way without a name. 
 
 Never was a character more finely conceived 
 than Julian. That image of his seizing the 
 horses is in the very first rank of sublimity ; it is 
 the grandest image of power that ever poet pro- 
 duced. 
 
 You wonder that I can think of two poems at 
 once ; it proceeds from weakness, not from 
 strenjrth. I could not stand the continuous ex- 
 citement which you have gone through in your 
 tragedy : in me it would not work itself off in 
 tears ; the tears would flow while in the act of 
 composition, and would leave behind a throbbing 
 head and a whole system in the highest state of 
 nervous excitability, which would soon induce 
 disease in one of its most fearful forms. From 
 such a state I recovered in 1800 by going to 
 Portugal, and suddenly changing climate, occu- 
 pation, and all internal ol)jects : and I have kept 
 it oft' since by a good intellectual regimen. 
 
 When I have read Count Julian again and 
 again I will then make out a list of the passages 
 which appear so difficult that ordinary readers 
 may be supposed incapable of understanding 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 235 
 
 them. When you perceive that they may be 
 difficult to others, it will be easy, in most in- 
 stances, to make the meaning more obvious. 
 Then you must print the tragedy. It will not 
 have many more admirers than Gebir; but they 
 will be of the same class and cast ; and with 
 Gebir it will be known hereafter, when all the rub- 
 bish of our generation shall have been swept away. 
 
 To the same, 
 
 July 15, 1811. 
 I am no botanist ; but, like you, my earliest 
 and deepest recollections are connected with flow- 
 ers, and they always carry me back to other days. 
 Perhaps this is because they are the only things 
 which afiect our senses precisely in the same man- 
 ner as they did in childhood. The sweetness of 
 the violet is always the same, and when you rifle a 
 rose, and drink as it were its fragrance, the re- 
 freshment is the same to the old man as to the 
 boy. We see with difi*erent eyes in proj)ortion as 
 we learn to discriminate, and, therefore, this effect 
 is not so certainly produced by visual objects. 
 Sounds recall the past in the same manner, but do 
 not bring with them individual scenes, like the 
 cowslip-field or the bank of violets, or the corner 
 of the garden to which we have transplanted field- 
 flowers. Oh, what a happy season is childhood, 
 if our modes of life and education will let it be so ! 
 
236 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 It were enough to make one misanthropical when 
 we consider how great a portion of the evil of this 
 world is man's own making, if the knowledge of 
 this truth did not imply that the evil is removable ; 
 and, therefore, the prime duty of a good man is 
 by all means in his power to assist in removing it. 
 
 To James White. 
 
 Oct. 25, 1811. 
 
 By this time you are settled at Pembroke, 
 know your way to your rooms, the faces of your 
 fellow collegians, and enough I dare say of a col- 
 lege life, to find its duties less formidable, and its 
 habits less agreeable, than they are supposed to be. 
 Those hal^its are said to have undergone a great 
 reformation since I was acquainted with them ; — 
 in my time they stood grievously in need of it ; 
 but even then a man who had any good moral 
 principles might live as he pleased if he dared 
 make the trial ; and however much he might be 
 stared at at first for his singularity, was sure ere 
 long to be respected for it. 
 
 Some dangers beset every man when he enters 
 upon so new a scene of life ; that which I appre- 
 hend for you is, low spirits. Walk a stated 
 distance every day ; and that you may never 
 want a motive for walking, make yourself ac- 
 quainted wMth the elements of botany during the 
 winter, that as soon as the flowers come out in the 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 237 
 
 spring you may begin to herbalize. A quarter of 
 an hour every day will make you master of the 
 elements in the course of a very few months. I 
 prescribe for you mentally also, and this is one of 
 the prescriptions ; for it is of main importance that 
 you should provide yourself with amusement as 
 well as employment. Pursue no study longer 
 than you can without effort attend to it, and lay it 
 aside whenever it interests you too much : when- 
 ever it impresses itself so much upon your mind 
 that you dream of it, or lie awake thinking aljout 
 it, be sure it is then become injurious. Follow 
 my practice of making your latest employment in 
 the day something unconnected with its other pur- 
 suits, and you will be able to lay your head upon 
 the pillow like a child. 
 
 One word more and I have done with advice. 
 Do not be solicitous about takino^ a hio;h desrree, or 
 about college honors of any kind. Many a man 
 has killed himself at Cambridge by overworking 
 for mathematical honors ; recollect how few the 
 persons are, who, after they have spent their years 
 in severe study at this branch of science, ever 
 make any use of it afterwards. Your wiser plan 
 should be to look on to that state of life in which 
 you wish and expect to be placed, and to lay in 
 such knowledge as will then turn to account. 
 
238 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 Jan. 4, 1812. 
 Here is a man at Keswick, "who acts upon me 
 as my own ghost would do. He is just what I 
 w^as in 1794. His name is Shelley, son to the 
 meml)er for Shoreham ; with 6000Z. a year entailed 
 upon him, and as much more in his father's power 
 to cut off. Betjinnino^ with romances of ghosts 
 and murder, and with poetry at Eton, he passed, 
 at Oxford, into metaphysics ; printed half-a-dozen 
 pages which he entitled The Necessity of Athe- 
 ism; sent one anonymously to Coplestone, in 
 expectation, I suppose, of converting him ; w^as 
 expelled in consequence ; married a girl of seven- 
 teen, after being turned out of doors by his father ; 
 and here they both are, in lodgings, living upon 
 200?. a year, which her fother allows them. He 
 is come to the fittest physician in the w^orld. At 
 present he has got to the Pantheistic stage of phi- 
 losophy, and, in the course of a week, I expect he 
 will be a Berkeley an, for I have put him upon a 
 course of Berkeley. It has surprised him a good 
 deal to meet, for the first time in his life, with a 
 man who perfectly understands him, and does him 
 full justice. I tell him that all the difference 
 between us is, that he is nineteen, and I am thirty- 
 seven ; and I dare say it will not be very long 
 before I shall succeed in convincing him that he 
 may be a true philosopher, and do a great deal of 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 239 
 
 good, with 6000?. a year; the thought of which 
 troubles him a great deal more at present than 
 ever the want of sixpence (for I have known such 
 a want) did me. 
 
 To James Wliite. 
 
 Feb. 16, 1812. 
 There is no part of my own life which I remem- 
 ber with so little pleasure as that which was 
 passed at the University ; not that it has left be- 
 hind it any cause of self-reproach, but I had many 
 causes of disquietude and unhappiness, — some 
 imaginary, and some, God knows, real enough. 
 And I cannot think of the place without pain, be- 
 cause of the men with whom I there lived in the 
 closest intimacy of daily and almost hourly in- 
 tercourse ; those whom I loved best are dead, and 
 there are some whom I have never seen since we 
 parted there, and possibly never shall see more. 
 It is with this feeling I believe, more or less, that 
 every man who has any feeling always remembers 
 college. Seven years ago I walked through Ox- 
 ford on a fine summer morning, just after sunrise, 
 while the stage was changing horses : I went 
 under the windows of what had formerly been my 
 own rooms ; the majesty of the place was height- 
 ened by the perfect silence of the streets, and it 
 had never before appeared to me half so majestic 
 or half so beautful. But I would rather go a day's 
 
240 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 journey round than puss through that city again, 
 especially in the day-time, when the streets are 
 full. Other places in which I have been an inhab- 
 itant would not make the same impression ; there 
 is an enduring sameness in a university like that 
 of the sea and mountains. It is the same in our 
 age that it was in our youth ; the same figures fill 
 the streets, and the knowledge that they are not 
 the same persons brings home the sense of change 
 which is of all things the most mournful. 
 
 To C. W. W. Wynn. 
 
 April 15, 1812. 
 Of all our school companions, how very few 
 of them are there whose lots in life have proved 
 to be what might have been expected for them. 
 You and Bedford have gone on each in your natu- 
 ral courses, and are to be found just where and 
 what I should have looked to find, if I had waked 
 after a Nourjahad sleep of twenty years. The 
 same thing might be said of me, if my local habi- 
 tation were not here at the end of the map. I am 
 leading the life which is convenient for me, and 
 following the pursuits to which, from my earliest 
 boyhood, I was so strongly predisposed. A less 
 troubled youth would probably have led to a less 
 happy manhood. I should have thought less and 
 studied less, felt less and suffered less. Now, for 
 all that I have felt and suffered, I know that I am 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 241 
 
 the better ; and God knows that I have yet much 
 to think, and to study, and to do. It is now eight- 
 een years since you and I used to sit till midnight 
 over your claret in Skeleton Corner,* — half your 
 life and almost half mine. During that time we 
 have both of us rather grown than changed, and 
 accident has had as little to do with our circum- 
 stances as with our character. 
 
 Hitherto I have been highly favored. A 
 healthy bod}^ an active mind, and a cheerful heart 
 are the three best boons nature can bestow ; and, 
 God be praised, no man ever enjoyed them more 
 perfectly. My skin and bones scarcely know 
 what an ailment is, my mind is ever on the alert, 
 and yet, when its work is done, becomes as tran- 
 quil as a baby ; and my spirits invincil^ly good. 
 Would they have been so, or could I have been 
 what I am, if you had not been for so many years 
 my stay and support ? I believe not ; yet you 
 had been so long my familiar friend, that I felt no 
 more sense of dependence in receiving my main, 
 and at one time sole, subsistence from you, than 
 if you had been my brother : it was being done to 
 as I would have done. 
 
 To John May. 
 
 Jan. 3, 1813. 
 
 Many happy new years to you, and may those 
 
 * A part of Christ Church, so called, where Mr. Wynn's 
 rooms were situated. 
 
242 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 which are to come prove more favorable to you in 
 worldly concerns than those which are past ! I 
 have been somewhat unwell this Christmas ; first 
 with a cold, then with a sudden and unaccountable 
 sickness, which, however, has not returned, and I 
 now hope I have been physicked into tolerable 
 order. The young ones are going on well : little 
 Isabel thrives, 3'our god-daughter is old enough 
 to figure at a Christmas dance, and Herbert will 
 very soon be perfect in the regular Greek verb. 
 A Testament is to come for him in my next par- 
 cel, and we shall begin upon it as soon as it 
 arrives. No child ever promised better, morally 
 and intellectually. He is very quick of compre- 
 hension, retentive, observant, diligent, and as 
 fond of a book and as impatient of idleness as I 
 am. Would that I were as -well satisfied with his 
 bodily health ; but in spite of activity and bodily- 
 hilarity, he is pale and puny : just that kind of 
 child of Avhom old women would say that he is too 
 clever to live. Old women's notions are not often 
 so well founded as this ; and having this appre- 
 hension before my eyes, the uncertainty of human 
 happiness never comes home to my heart so deeply 
 as when I look at him. God's will be done ! I 
 must sow the seed as carefully as if I were sure 
 that the harvest would ripen. My two others are 
 the most perfect contrast you ever saw. Bertha, 
 whom I call Queen Henry the Eighth, from her 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 243 
 
 likeness to Kins: Bluebeard, o-rows like Jonah's 
 gourd, and is tlie very picture of robust health ; 
 and little Kate hardly seems to grow at all, though 
 perfectly well, — she is round as a mushroom- 
 button. Bertha, the bluff queen, is just as grave 
 as Kate is garrulous ; they are inseparable play- 
 fellows, and go about the house hand in hand. 
 Shall I never show you this little flock of mine ? I 
 have seen almost every one of my friends here ex- 
 cept you, than whom none would be more joyfully 
 welcomed. 
 
 To Walter Scott. 
 
 Jan. 13, 1813. 
 In tlie course of next month I hope you will 
 receive my Life of JSTelson, a subject not self- 
 chosen — and out of my way, but executed con 
 amove. Some of my periodical employment I 
 must ere long relinquish, or I shall never com- 
 plete the great historical works upon which so 
 many years have been bestowed, in which so 
 much progress has been made, and for which it is 
 little likely that any other person in the country 
 will ever so qualify himself again. Yonder they 
 are lying unfinished, while I suffer myself to be 
 tempted to other occupations of more immediate 
 emolument indeed, but, in all other respects, of 
 infinitely less importance. Meanwhile time passes 
 on, and I who am of a short-lived race, and have 
 a sense of the uncei'tainty of life more continually 
 
244 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 present in my thoughts and feelings than most 
 men, sometimes reproach myself for not devoting 
 my time to those works upon which my reputa- 
 tion, and perhaps the fortunes of my family, must 
 eventually rest, while the will is strong, the ability 
 yet unimpaired, and the leisure permitted me. 
 
 To Dr. Gooch. 
 
 Jan. 20, 1813. 
 Wordsworth refers, in more than one of his 
 poems, with a melancholy feeling of regret, to the 
 loss of youthful thoughts and hopes. In the last 
 six weeks he has lost two children — one of them 
 a fine boy of seven years old. I believe he feels, 
 as I have felt before him, that " there is healing 
 in the bitter cup," — that God takes from us those 
 we love as hostages for our faith (if I may so 
 express myself), — and that to those who look to 
 a reunion in a better world, where there shall be 
 no separation, and no mutability except that 
 which results from perpetual progressiveness, the 
 evening; becomes more deli";htful than the morn- 
 ing, and the sunset offers brighter and lovelier 
 visions than those which we build up in the 
 morning clouds, and which disappear before the 
 strength of the day. The older I grow — and I 
 am older in feeling than in years — the more I am 
 sensible of this : there is a precious alchemy in 
 this faith, which transmutes grief into joy, or, 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 245 
 
 rather, it is the true and heavenly euphrasy which 
 clears away the fihn from our mortal sight, and 
 makes affliction appear what, in reality, it is to 
 the wise and good, — a dispensation of mercy. 
 
 To Neville White, 
 
 Jan. 25, 1813. 
 The poem goes on slow and sure. Twenty 
 years ago nothing could equal the ardor with 
 which I pursued such employments. I was then 
 impatient to see myself in print : it was not possi- 
 ble to long more eagerly than I did for the honor 
 of authorship. This feeling is quite extinct ; and, 
 allowing as much as may be allowed for experi- 
 ence, wiser thoughts, and, if you please, satiety 
 in effecting such a change, I cannot but believe 
 that much must be attributed to a sort of autumnal 
 or evening tone of mind, coming upon me a little 
 earlier than it does upon most men. I am as 
 cheerful as a boy, and retain many youthful or 
 even boyish habits ; but I am older in mind than 
 in years, and in years than in appearance ; and, 
 thouo-h none of the joyousness of youth is lost, 
 there is none of its ardor left. Composition, 
 ■where any passion is called forth, excites me more 
 than it is desirable to be excited; and, if it were 
 not for the sake of gratifying two or three persons 
 in the world whom I love, and who love me, it is 
 more than probable that I might never write a 
 verse asrain. 
 
246 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 To James Dusautoy.* 
 
 Feb. 12, 1813. 
 
 Your talents will do everything for you in time, 
 but nothing in the ^\'^,y you wish for some 3'ears to 
 come. The best road to the Bar is through the 
 University, where honors of every kind will be 
 within your reach. With proper conduct you 
 would obtain a fellowship by the time you were 
 one or two and twenty, and this would enable you 
 to establish yourself in one profession or another, 
 at your own choice. 
 
 This course is as desirable for 3'our intellectual 
 as for your worldly advancement. Your mind 
 would then have time and opportunity to ripen, 
 and brins: forth its fruits in due season. God 
 forbid that they should either be forced or 
 blighted ! A young man cannot support himself 
 by literary exertions, however great his talents 
 and his industry. Woe be to the youthful poet 
 who sets out upon his pilgrimage to the temple of 
 fame with nothing but hope for his viaticum ! 
 There is the Slough of Despond, and the Hill of 
 Difficulty, and the Valley of the Shadow of Death 
 upon the way ! 
 
 * Like Kirke White, Dusautoy had applied to Southey for 
 advice, and received the wise counsel contained in this letter. 
 He gave practical help at the same time, and the young man 
 went up to Cambridge. There he showed the highest promise, 
 but was cut off by a malignant fever, and buried in the cloisters 
 of Emanuel College. — Ed. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 247 
 
 To be called to the Bar you must 1)6 five years a 
 member of one of the inns of court ; but if you 
 have a University degree, three will suffice. Men 
 who during this course look to their talents for 
 support usually write for newspapers or reviews : 
 the former is destructively laborious, and sends 
 many poor fellows prematurely to the grave ; for 
 the latter branch of employment there are always 
 too many applicants. I began it at the age of 
 four and twenty, which was long before I was fit 
 for it. 
 
 The stage, indeed, is a lottery where there is 
 more chance of a prize ; but there is an evil 
 attending success in that direction which I can 
 distinctly see, though you perhaps may not be 
 persuaded of it. The young man who produces a 
 successful play is usually the dupe of his own 
 success ; and being satisfied with producing an 
 immediate and ephemeral efiect, looks for nothing 
 beyond it. You must aim at something more. I 
 think your path is plain. Success at the Univer- 
 sity is not exclusively a thing of chance or favor ; 
 you are certain of it if you deserve it. 
 
 When you have considered this with your 
 friends, tell me the result, and rest assured that 
 my endeavors to forward your wishes in this, or 
 in any other course which you may think proper 
 to pursue, shall be given with as much sincerity 
 as this advice ; meantime read Greek, and write 
 
248 THE STOEY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 as many verses as you please. By shooting at a 
 high mark you will gain strength of arm, and 
 precision of aim will come in its proper season. 
 
 To C. W. W. Wynn. 
 
 March 12, 1813. 
 
 Have 3^ou heard of the strange circumstance 
 about Colerido;e ? — a man hano-ino; himself in the 
 Park with one of his shirts on, marked at full 
 length I Guess C.'s astonishment at reading this 
 in a newspaper at a coffee-house. The thing is 
 equally ridiculous and provoking. It will alarm 
 many persons who know him, and I dare say 
 many will always believe that the man was C. 
 himself, but that he was cut down in time, and 
 that his friends said it was somebody else in order 
 to conceal the truth. As yet, however, I have 
 laughed about it too much to be vexed. 
 
 To Neville White. 
 
 June 14, 1813. 
 The prayer in the Litany against sudden death 
 I look upon as a relic of Romish error, the only 
 one remaining in that finest of all human composi- 
 tions, — death without confession and absolution 
 being regarded by the Romanist as the most 
 dreadful of all calamities, naturally is one of the 
 evils from which they pray to be delivered. I 
 substitute the word violent in my supplications; 
 
■ THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 249 
 
 for since that mode of dissolution which, in the 
 Scriptures is termed falling asleep, and which 
 should be the natural termination of life passed 
 in peace and innocence and happiness, has become 
 so rare that it falls scarcely to the lot of one in 
 ten thousand, instantaneous and unforeseen death 
 is the happiest mode of our departure, and it is 
 even more desirable for the sake of our surviving 
 friends than for our own. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Poet-Laureate — Estimate of Wordsworth — Lord Byron — Southey 
 as an Historian — Battle of Waterloo Celebrated upon Skiddaw — 
 Visits Beljjium. 
 
 [When Pye, the poet-laureate, died, " the not 
 very desirable succession " was offered as all read- 
 ers know, to Scott. His " manner of declining it," 
 writes Southey, " was the handsomest possible ; 
 nothing could be more friendly to me or more 
 honorable to himself." Southey was in London 
 at the time, when, thanks to Scott, the laureate- 
 ship was offered to him, whence he writes to Mrs. 
 Southey : — ] 
 
 Sept. 28, 1813. 
 
 I dined on Sunday at Holland House, with 
 some eighteen or twenty persons. Sharp was 
 there, who introduced me with all due form to 
 Rogers, and to Sir James Mackintosh, who seems 
 to be in a bad state of health. In the eveninsr 
 Lord Byron came in. He had asked Rogers if I 
 was " magnanimous," and requested him to make 
 for him all sorts of amends honorable for havino- 
 tried his wit upon me at the expense of his dis- 
 cretion ; and in full confidence of the success of 
 the apology, had been provided with a letter of 
 
 250 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 251 
 
 introduction to me in case he had gone to the 
 Lakes, as he intended to have done. As for me, 
 you know how I reo'urd things of this kind ; so we 
 met with all becoming courtesy on both sides, and 
 I saw a man whom in voice, manner, and counte- 
 nance I liked very much more than either his 
 character or his writinos had o^iven me reason to 
 expect. Rogers w^anted me to dine with him on 
 Tuesday (this day) : only Lord Byron and Sharp 
 were to have been of the party, but I had a pend- 
 ing engagement here, and was sorry for it. 
 
 To Walter Scott. 
 
 London, Nov. 5, 1813. 
 The original salary of the office was 100 marks. 
 It was raised for Ben Jonson to 100?. and a tierce 
 of Spanish canary wine, now wickedly commuted 
 for 26L ; which said sum, unlike the canary, 
 is subject to income-tax, land-tax, and heaven 
 knows what taxes besides. The whole net in- 
 come is little more or less than 90/. It comes to 
 me as a Godsend, and I have vested it in a life- 
 policy : by making it up 102?. it covers an insur- 
 ance for 3000L upon my own life. I have never 
 felt any painful anxiety as to providing for my 
 family, — my mind is too buoyant, my animal 
 spirits too good, for this care ever to have af- 
 fected my happiness ; and I may add that a not 
 unbecoming trust in Providence has ever sup- 
 
252 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 ported my confidence in myself. But it is with 
 the deepest feeling of thanksgiving that I have 
 secured this legacy for my wife and children, and 
 it is to you that I am primarily and chiefly 
 indebted. 
 
 To the manner of }'our letter I am quite unable 
 to reply. We shall both be remembered here- 
 after, and ill betide him who shall institute a 
 comparison between us. There has been no 
 race ; we have both got to the top of the hill 
 by diiferent paths, and meet there not as rivals 
 but as friends, each rejoicing in the success of the 
 other. 
 
 To James White. 
 
 May 2, 1814. 
 There are hardly more than half-a-dozen pul- 
 pits in the kingdom in which an eloquent preacher 
 would not be out of his place. Everywhere else, 
 what is required of the preacher is to be plain, 
 perspicuous, and in earnest. If he feels himself, 
 he will make his congregation feel. But it is not 
 in the pulpit that the minister may do most good. 
 He will do infinitely more by living with his par- 
 ishioners like a pastor ; b}' becoming their con- 
 fidential adviser, their friend, their comforter ; 
 directing the education of the poor, and, as far 
 as he can, inspecting that of all, which is not 
 diflScult for a man of good sense and gentle dis- 
 position to do as an official duty, without giving 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 253 
 
 it, in the slightest degree, the appearance of offi- 
 cious interference. Teach the young what Chris- 
 tianity is ; distinguish by noticing and rewarding 
 those who distinguish themselves by their good 
 conduct ; see to the wants of the poor, and call 
 upon the charity of the rich, making yourself the 
 channel through which it flows ; look that the 
 schools be in good order, that the workhouse is 
 what it ought to be, that the overseers do their 
 duty ; be, in short, the active friend of your par- 
 ishioners. Sunday will then be the least of your 
 labors, and the least important of your duties ; 
 and you will very soon find that the time employed 
 in making a sermon would be better employed in 
 adapting to your congregation a dozen, which 
 your predecessors did not deliver to the press for 
 no other purpose than that they should stand idle 
 upon the shelves of a divinity library. The pul- 
 pit is a clergyman's parade, the parish is his field 
 of active service. 
 
 To Neville WJiite. 
 
 Nov. 8, 1814. 
 Our repast upon Kirkston wore a good face of 
 cheerfulness ; but I could not help feeling how 
 soon we were to separate, and how doubtful it was 
 that the whole of the party would ever be as- 
 sembled together again. After our return Isabel 
 was seized with a severe attack, and was brought 
 
254 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 to the very brink of the grave. I so verily ex- 
 pected to lose her that I thought at one moment 
 I had seen her for the last time. There are 
 heavier afflictions than this, but none keener ; 
 and the joy and thankfulness ^vhich attend on 
 recovery are proportionately intense. She has 
 not yet regained her strength ; but every day is 
 restoring her, God be thanked. 
 
 dear Neville ! how unendurable would life be 
 if it were not for the belief that we shall meet 
 again in a better state of existence. I do not 
 know that person who is happier than myself, and 
 who has more reason to be happy ; and never was 
 man more habitually cheerful : but this belief is 
 the root which gives life to all, and holds all fast. 
 
 To James Mliite. 
 
 Nov. 11, 1814. 
 
 1 am grieved to learn from Neville that you are 
 distressing yourself about what I could find in my 
 heart to call these cursed examinations. There 
 are few things of which I am more thoroughly 
 convinced, than that the system of feeding-up 
 young men like so many game cocks for a sort of 
 intellectual long-main is every way pernicious. 
 
 University honors are like provincial tokens, 
 not current beyond the narrow limits of the dis- 
 trict in which they are coined ; and even where 
 they pass current they are not the only currency, 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 255 
 
 nor the best. Remember that you only want 
 3^our degree as a passport : content yourself with 
 simply taking it; and if you are disposed to 
 revenge yourself afterwards by burning your 
 mathematical books and instruments, bring them 
 with you to Keswick when next you make us a 
 visit, and I will assist at the auto-da-fe. We will 
 dine by the side of the Lake, and light our tire 
 with Euclid. 
 
 Neville was more fortunate than you in his 
 excursion to this land of loveliness. He had 
 delightful weather, and he made the most of it. 
 Never had we a more indefatigable guest, nor one 
 who enjoyed the country more heartily. Since 
 his return, Neville-like, he has loaded us with 
 presents ; and no children were ever happier than 
 these young ones were when the expected box 
 made its appearance. I happened to be passing 
 the evening at the Island with General Peachey, 
 when it arrived, and they one and all laid their 
 injunctions upon their mother not to tell me what 
 each had received, that they might surprise me 
 with the sight in the morning. Accordingly, no 
 sooner was my door opened in the morning than the 
 whole swarm were in an uproar, buzzing about me. 
 In an evil moment I had begun to shave myself ; be- 
 fore the operation was half over, Edith with her 
 work-box was on one side, Herbert with his books 
 on the other, — Bertha was displaying one treas- 
 
256 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 ure, Kate another, and little Isabel, jigging for de- 
 light in the midst of them, was crying out mine — 
 mine — Mitter WJiite — and holding up a box of 
 Tunbridge ware. My poor chin suffered for all 
 this, and the scene would have made no bad subject 
 for Wilkie or Bird. 
 
 To Dr. Gooch. 
 
 Nov. 30, 1814. 
 
 I am fully convinced that a gradual improvement 
 is going on in the world, has been going on from 
 its commencement, and will continue till the 
 human race shall attain all the perfection of which 
 it is capable in this mortal state. This belief 
 grows out of knowledge ; that is, it is a corollary 
 deduced from the whole history of mankind. It 
 is no little pleasure to believe that in no age has 
 this improvement proceeded so rapidly as in the 
 present, and that there never was so great a dis- 
 position to promote it in those who have the 
 power. The disposition, indeed, is alloyed with 
 much weakness and much superstition ; and 
 God knows there are many disturbing powers at 
 work. But much has been done, more is doing, 
 and nothing can be of more importance than giving 
 this disposition a good direction. 
 
 You have in Roderick the best which I have 
 done, and, probably, the best that I shall do, 
 which is rather a melancholy feeling for the 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 257 
 
 author. My powers, I hope, are not yet verging 
 upon decay, but I have no right to expect any 
 increase or improvement, short as they are of 
 what they might have been, and of what I might 
 have hoped to make them. Perhaps I shall never 
 venture upon another poem of equal extent, and 
 in so deep a strain. It will affect you more than 
 Madoc, because it is pitched in a higher key. I 
 am growing old, the gray hairs thicken upon me, 
 my joints are less supple, and, in mind as well as 
 body, I am less enterprising than in former years. 
 "When the thought of any new undertaking occurs, 
 the question, shall I live to complete what I have 
 already undertaken? occurs also. My next poem 
 will be, " A Tale of Paraguay," about a thousand 
 lines only in length. Its object will be to plant 
 the grave with flowers, and wreathe a chaplet for 
 the angel of death. If you suspect, from all this, 
 that I suffer any diminution of my usual happy 
 spirits, you will be mistaken. 
 
 To Bernard Barton. 
 
 Dec. 19, 1814. 
 Wordsworth's residence and mine are fifteen 
 miles asunder, a sufficient distance to preclude 
 any frequent interchange of visits. I have known 
 him nearly twenty years, and, for about half that 
 time, intimately. The strength and the character 
 of his mind you see in the Excursion, and his 
 
258 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 life does not belie his writings, for, in every rela- 
 tion of life, and every point of view, he is a truly 
 exemplary and admirable man. In conversation 
 he is powerful beyond any of his contemporaries : 
 and, as a poet, — I speak not from the partiality 
 of friendship, nor because we have been so ab- 
 surdly held up as both writing upon one concerted 
 system of poetry, but with the most deliberate 
 exercise of impartial judgment Mhereof I am 
 capable, when I declare my full conviction that 
 posterity will rank him with Milton. 
 
 To Walter Scott. 
 
 Dec. 24, 1814. 
 
 Are j'^ou still engaged with the Lord of the 
 Isles, or may I give you joy of a happy deliver- 
 ance? There are few greater pleasures in life 
 than that of getting fairly through a great work of 
 this kind, and seeing it when it first comes before 
 us in portly form. I envy you the advantage which 
 you always derive from a thorough knowledge of 
 your poetical ground ; no man can be more sensi- 
 l>le of this advantage than myself, though I have 
 in every instance been led to forego it. 
 
 Jeffrey I hear has written what his admirers 
 call a crushing review of the Excursion. He 
 might as well seat himself upon Skiddaw, and 
 fancy that he crushed the mountain. I heartily 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 259 
 
 wish Wordsworth may one day meet with him, 
 and lay him alongside, yard-arm and yard-arm, in 
 argument. 
 
 To Dr. Southey. 
 
 Feb. 16, 1815. 
 I have heard from many quarters of Lord 
 Byron's praise, and regard it just as much as I did 
 his censure. Nothing can be more absurd than 
 thinking of comparing any of my poems with the 
 Paradise Lost. With Tasso, with Virgil, with 
 Homer, there may be fair grounds of comparison ; 
 but my mind is wholly unlike Milton's, and my 
 poetry has nothing of his imagination and distin- 
 guishing character; nor is there any poet who 
 has, except Wordsworth : he possesses it in an 
 equal degree. And it is entirely impossible that 
 any man can understand Milton, and fail to per- 
 ceive that Wordsworth is a poet of the same class 
 and of equal powers. Whatever my powers may 
 be, they are not of that class. From what I have 
 seen of the minor poems, I suspect that Chiabrera 
 is the writer whom, as a poet, I most resemble in 
 the constitution of my mind. His narrative poems 
 I have never seen. 
 
 The sale of Roderick is what I expected, neither 
 better nor worse. It is also just what I should 
 desire, if profit were a matter of indifference to 
 me ; for I am perfectly certain that great imme- 
 diate popularity can only be obtained by those 
 
260 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 faults which fall in with the humor of the times, 
 and which are, of course, ultimately fatal to the 
 poems that contain them. 
 
 To C. W. W. Wynn. 
 
 March 9, 1815. 
 Your godson bids fair to walk in the ways of 
 his father. He is now in his ninth year, and 
 knows about as much Greek as a boy in the 
 under-fifth. His Latin consists in a decent knowl- 
 edge of the grammar, and a tolerable co^ia verbo- 
 rum. His sister teaches him French, and he and 
 I have lately begun to learn German together. 
 Do not fear that we are over-doing him, for he 
 has plenty of play, and, indeed, plays at his 
 lessons. He takes it for granted that he must be 
 a poet in his turn ; and in this respect, as far as it 
 is possible to judge, nature seems to agree with 
 him. Be that as it may, there is not a happier 
 creature upon this earth, nor could any father 
 desire a child of fairer promise, as to moral and 
 intellectual qualities. 
 
 To the same. 
 
 May 20, 1815. 
 I am misemploying much time in reviewing for 
 the lucre of gain, which nothing but filthy lucre 
 should make me do. My History of Brazil^ how- 
 ever, gets on in the press ; and you would be sur- 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 261 
 
 prised were you to see the materials which I have 
 collected for it. I did not think it right to postpone 
 this second volume till m}^ history of the Spanish 
 war was done ; for it had already been postponed 
 too long. But it is a considerable sacrifice which 
 I thus have been making. As soon as this work 
 is off my hands I shall be able to put the History 
 of Portugal to press without impeding the more 
 profitable work. It is on this that I should wish 
 to rest my reputation. As a poet I know where 
 I have fallen short ; and did I consult onlj^ my 
 own feelings, it is probable that I should write 
 poetry no more, — not as being contented with 
 what I have done, but as knowing that I can hope 
 to do nothing better. I might were my whole 
 heart and mind given to it, as they were in 
 youth; but they are no longer at my own dis- 
 posal. As an historian I shall come nearer my 
 mark. For thorough research, indeed, and range 
 of materials, I do not believe that the History of 
 Portugal will ever have been surpassed. 
 
 To Dr. Southey. 
 
 Aug. 23, 1815. 
 According to all form, I ought to write you a 
 letter of congratulation ; * but some unlucky in- 
 gredient in my moral, physical, and intellectual 
 composition has all my life long operated upon 
 * On his marriage. 
 
262 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 me with respect to forms, like that antipathy 
 which some persons feel towards cats, or other 
 objects equally inoffensive. I get through them 
 so badly at all times, that, whenever I am obliged 
 to the performance, my chief concern is, how to 
 slink out of it as expeditiously as possible. I 
 have, moreover, a propensity Avhich may seem at 
 first not very well to accord with that constitu- 
 tional hilarity W'hich is my best inheritance. 
 Occasions of joy and festivity seem rather to 
 depress the barometer of my spirits than to raise 
 it; birthdays and wedding-days, therefore, pass 
 uncelebrated by me ; and with the strongest con- 
 viction of the good effects of national holidays, 
 and with a feeling towards them which men, who 
 are inca])able of understanding what is meant by 
 the imaginative faculty, might call superstition, I 
 yet wish, if it were possible, that Christmas and 
 New Year's Day could be blotted from my calen- 
 dar. It might not be difficult to explain why 
 this is, but it would be somewhat metaphysical, 
 which is bad, and somewhat sentimental, which is 
 worse. 
 
 Monday, the 21st of August, was not a more 
 remarkable day in your life than it Avas in that of 
 my neighbor Skiddaw, who is a much older per- 
 sonao-e. The weather served for our bonfire,* 
 and never, I believe, was such an assemblage 
 * In honor of the Battle of Waterloo. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 263 
 
 upon such a spot. To my utter astonishment, 
 Lord Sunderlhi rode up, and Lady S., who had 
 endeavored to dissuade me from ooin^ as a thino; 
 too dangerous, joined the walking party. "Words- 
 worth, with his wife, sister, and eldest boy, came 
 over on purpose. Edith, the Senhora,* Edith 
 May, and Herbert were my convoy, with our 
 three maid-servants, some of our neighbors, some 
 adventurous Lakers, and Messrs. Rag, Tag, and 
 Bobtail, made up the rest of the assembly. We 
 roasted beef and boiled plum-puddings there ; 
 suno- " God save the kino- " round the most furious 
 body of flaming tar-barrels that I ever saw ; 
 drank a huge wooden bowl of punch ; fired can- 
 non at every health with three times three, and 
 rolled large blazing balls of tow and turpentine 
 down the steep side of the mountain. The eflect 
 was grand beyond imagination. We formed a 
 huo^e circle round the most intense lio;ht, and 
 behind us was an immeasurable arch of the most 
 intense darkness, for our bonfire fairly put out 
 the moon. 
 
 [After the war Southey, like most Englishmen 
 who could afford it, made the tour of Belgium. 
 He was absent some months.] 
 * Miss Barker. 
 
264 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 To John May. 
 
 Dec. 6, 1815. 
 You will be glad to hear that we arrived safely 
 this day, after a less uncomfortable journey than 
 might have been apprehended from the season of 
 the year. "We found all well, God be thanked, 
 and Edith,* who complained a little the first day, 
 got better daily as we drew nearer home. She 
 complains of a headache now ; but that is the 
 natural effect of over-excitement on seeing her 
 brother and sisters and her cousin, and display- 
 ing the treasures which we have brought for 
 them. "We reached Wordsworth's yesterday, 
 about seven o'clock. Three hours more would 
 have brought us home, but I preferred passing 
 the night at his house, for had we proceeded, we 
 should have found the children in bed ; and a 
 return home, under fortunate circumstances, has 
 something the character of a triumph, and re- 
 quires dajdight. Never, I believe, was there 
 seen a happier household than this when the 
 chaise drew up to the door. 
 
 To Walter Scott. 
 
 March 17, 1816. 
 I have a debt upon my conscience, Avhich has 
 been too long unpaid. You left me a letter of 
 introduction to the Duchess of Richmond, which I 
 * This daughter had been seriously ill at Aix. — Ed. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 265 
 
 was graceless enough to make no use of, and, 
 still more gracelessly, I have never yet thanked 
 you for it. As for the tirst part of the offence, 
 my stay at Brussels was not very long. I had a 
 great deal to see there ; moreover I got among 
 the old books ; and having a sort of instinct 
 which makes me as much as possible get out of 
 the way of drawing-rooms, because I have an 
 awkward feeling of being in the way when in 
 them, I was much more at my ease when looking 
 at emperors and princes in the crowd, than I 
 should have been in the room with them. 
 
 How I should have rejoiced if we had met at 
 Waterloo ! This feeling I had and expressed 
 upon the ground. You have pictured it with 
 your characteristic force and animation. My 
 poem will reach you in a few weeks : it is so 
 different in its kind, that, however kindly malice 
 may be disposed, it will not be possible to insti- 
 tute a comparison with yours. I take a different 
 point of time and a wider range, leaving the bat- 
 tle untouched, and describing the field only such 
 as it was when I surveyed it. 
 
 Did I ever thank you for the Lord of the Isles? 
 There are pictures in it which are not surpassed 
 in any of your poems, and in the first part espec- 
 ially, a mixture of originality and animation and 
 beauty, which is seldom found. I wished the 
 lord himself had been more worthy of the good 
 
266 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 fortune which you bestowed upon him. The 
 laurel which it has pleased you, rather than any 
 other person, to bestow upon me, has taken me in 
 for much dogged work in rhyme ; otherwise, I 
 am inclined to think that my service to the Muses 
 has been long enough, and that I should, perhaps, 
 have ckiimed mv discharije. The ardor of youth 
 is gone by : however I may have fallen short of 
 my own aspirations, my best is done, and I ought 
 to prefer those employments which require the 
 matured faculties and collected stores of declining 
 life. 
 
 To Sharon Turner. 
 
 April 2, 1816. 
 
 Time, my own heart, and, more than all other 
 causes, the sorrows with which it has been visited 
 (in the course of a life tliat, on the Avhole, has 
 been happy in a degree vouchsafed to few, even 
 among the happiest), have made me fully sensible 
 that the highest happiness exists, as the only 
 consolation is to be found, in a deep and habitual 
 Jfeelinjr of devotion. Lons; ere this would I have 
 preached what I feel upon this subject, if the door 
 had been open to me ; but it is one thing to con- 
 form to the Church, preserving that freedom of 
 mind which in religion, more than in all other 
 things, is especially valuable ; and another to 
 subscribe solemnly to its articles. Christianity 
 exists nowhere in so pure a form as in our own 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHS Y's LIFE. 267 
 
 Church ; but even there it is mingled with much 
 alloy, from which I know not how it will be puri- 
 fied. I have an instinctive abhorrence of bigotry. 
 When Dissenters talk of the Establishment, they 
 make me feel like a high Churchman ; and when 
 I get among high Churchmen, I am ready to take 
 shelter in dissent. 
 
 You have thrown a new light upon the York 
 and Lancaster age of our history, by showing the 
 connection of those quarrels with the incipient 
 spirit of Reformation. I wish we had reformed 
 the monastic institutions instead of overthrowinff 
 them. Mischievous as they are in Catholic coun- 
 tries, the}^ have got this good about them, that 
 they hold up something besides worldly distinction 
 to the respect and admiration of the people, and 
 fix the standard of virtues higher than we do in 
 Protestant countries. Would that we had an 
 order of Beguines in England ! There are few 
 subjects which have been so unfairly discussed as 
 monastic institutions ; the Protestant condemns 
 them in the lump, and the Romanist crams his 
 legends down your throat. The truth is, that they 
 began in a natural and good feeling, though some- 
 what exaggerated, — that they produced the great- 
 est public good in their season, that they were 
 abominably perverted, and that the good which 
 they now do, wherever they exist, is much less 
 than the evil. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 Death of Herbert Southey — The Father's Sorrow — Memories of 
 
 School and College — The Excursion — Condition of the Lower 
 Classes — The Church of England and the Methodists. 
 
 [The death of his son Herbert, a boy whose 
 nature seems to have been as sweet and lovable as 
 his intellect was extraordinary, darkened this year 
 with a cloud from which Southey never fully 
 emerged. Pie bore the loss bravely, but it cut 
 him to the heart. In the first bitterness of ffrief 
 he wrote to his oldest friend.] 
 
 o' 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 April 11, 1816. 
 Here is an end of hope and of fear, but not of 
 suffering. His sufferings, however, are over, and, 
 thank God, his passage was perfectly easy. He 
 fell asleep, and is now in a better state of exist- 
 ence, for which his nature was more fitted than 
 for this. You, more than most men, can tell 
 what I have lost, and yet you are far from know- 
 ing how large a portion of my hopes and happi- 
 ness will be laid in the grave with Herbert. For 
 years it has been my daily prayer that I might be 
 spared this affliction. 
 
 268 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 269 
 
 I am much reduced in body by this long and 
 sore suffering, but I am perfectly resigned, and 
 do not give way to grief. 
 
 1 will not venture to relate the boy's conduct 
 during his whole illness. I dare not trust myself 
 to attempt this. But nothing could be more calm, 
 more patient, more collected, more dutiful, more 
 admirable. 
 
 Oh ! that I may be able to leave this country ! 
 The wound will never close while I remain in it. 
 You would wonder to see me, how composed I 
 am. Thank God, I can control myself for the 
 sake of others ; but it is a life-long grief, and do 
 what I can to lighten it, the burden will be as 
 heavy as I can bear. 
 
 To the same. 
 
 April 18, 1816. 
 Wherefore do I write to you? Alas, because 
 I know not what to do. To-morrow, perhaps, 
 may bring with it something like the beginning of 
 relief. To-day I hope I shall support myself, or 
 rather that God will support me, for I am weak 
 as a child, in body even more than in mind. My 
 limbs tremble under me ; long anxiety has wasted 
 me to the bone, and I fear it will be long before 
 grief will suffer me to recruit. I am seriously 
 apprehensive for the shock which my health seems 
 to have sustained ; yet I am wanting in no effort 
 
270 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 to appear calm and to console others ; and those 
 ■who are about me give me credit for a fortitude 
 which I do not possess. Many blessings are left 
 me — abundant blessings, more than I have de- 
 served, more than I had ever reason to expect, or 
 even to hope. I have strong ties to life, and 
 many duties yet to perform. Believe me, I see 
 these things as they ought to be seen. Reason 
 will do something, Time more. Religion most of 
 all. The loss is but for this world ; but as long 
 as I remain in this world I shall feel it. 
 
 Some way my feelings will vent themselves. I 
 have thought of endeavoring to direct their course, 
 and may, perhaps, set about a monument in verse 
 for him and for myself, which may make our 
 memories inseparable. 
 
 There would be no wisdom in going from home. 
 The act of returning to it would undo all the 
 benefit I might receive from change of circum- 
 stance for some time yet. Edith feels this ; 
 otherwise, perhaps, we might have gone to visit 
 Tom in his new habitation. You, more than most 
 men, are aware of the extent of my loss, and how, 
 as long as I remain here, every object within and 
 without, and ever}'- hour of every day, must bring 
 it fresh to recollection. Yet the more I consider 
 the difficulties of removing, the greater they 
 appear ; and perhaps by the time it would be 
 possible, I may cease to desire it. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 271 
 
 Whenever I have leisure (will that ever be?) I 
 will begin my own memoirs, to serve as a post- 
 obit for those of my family who may survive me. 
 They will be so far provided for as to leave me 
 no uneasiness on that score. My life insurance is 
 4000/. ; my books (for there is none to inherit 
 them now) may be worth 1500?. ; my copyrights, 
 perhaps, not less; and you will be able to put 
 together letters and fragments, which, when I am 
 gone, will be acceptable articles in the market. 
 Probably there would, on the whole, be 10,000/. 
 forthcoming. The whole should be Edith's during 
 her life, and afterwards divided equally among 
 the surviving children. I shall name John May 
 and Neville White for executors, — both men of 
 business, and both my dear and zealous friends. 
 But do you take care of my papers, and publish 
 my remains. I have perhaps much underrated the 
 value of wdiat will be left. A selection of my 
 reviewals may be reprinted, with credit to my 
 name and with profit. You will not wonder that 
 I have fallen into this strain. One grave is at this 
 moment made ready ; and who can tell how soon 
 another may be required? I pray, however, for 
 continued life. 
 
 It is some relief to write to you, after the calls 
 which have this day been made upon my fortitude. 
 I have not been found wanting; and Edith, 
 throuo-hout the whole long trial, has displayed the 
 
272 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 most exemplary self-control. We never ap- 
 proached him but with composed countenances 
 and words of hope ; and for a mother to do this, 
 hour after hour, and night after night, while her 
 heart was breaking, is perhaps the utmost effort 
 of which our nature is capable. Oh ! how you 
 would have admired and loved him, had you seen 
 him in these last weeks ! But you know some- 
 thing of his character. Never, perhaps, was child 
 of ten years old so much to his father. Without 
 ever ceasing to treat him as a child, I had made 
 him my companion, as well as playmate and pupil, 
 and he had learnt to interest himself in my pur- 
 suits, and take part in all my enjoyments. 
 
 I have sent Edith May to Wordsworth's. 
 Poor child, she is dreadfully distressed ; and it 
 has ever been my desire to save them from all the 
 sorrow that can be avoided, and to mitigate, as 
 far as possible, what is inevitable. Something it 
 is to secure for them a happy childhood. Never 
 was a happier than Herbert's. He knew not what 
 unkindness or evil were, except by name. His 
 whole life was passed in cheerful duty, and love, 
 and enjojanent. If I did not hope that I have 
 been useful in my generation, and may still con- 
 tinue to be so, I could wish that I also had gone 
 to rest as early in the day ; but my childhood was 
 not like his. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 273 
 
 To John May, 
 
 April 22, 1816. 
 Three things I prayed for, — the child's recovery 
 if it might please God ; that if this might not be, 
 his passage might be rendered easy ; and that we 
 might be supported in our affliction. The two 
 latter petitions were granted, and I am truly 
 thankful. But when the event was over, then, 
 like David, I roused myself, and gave no way to 
 unavailins: jxrief, actino; in all things as I should 
 wish others to act when my hour also is come. I 
 employ myself incessantly, taking, however, every 
 day as much exercise as I can bear without in- 
 jurious fatigue, which is not much. My appetite 
 is good, and I have now no want of sleep. Edith 
 is perfectly calm and resigned. Her fortitude is 
 indeed exemplary to the highest degree, but her 
 employments do not withdraw her from herself as 
 mine do, and therefore I fear she has more to 
 struggle with. Perhaps we were too happy before 
 this dispensation struck us. Perhaps it was ex- 
 pedient for us that our hearts should be drawn, 
 more strongly towards another world. This is the 
 use of sorrow, and to this use I trust our sorrow 
 will be sanctified. 
 
 To William Wordsworth. 
 
 April 22, 1816. 
 
 You were right respecting the nature of my sub- 
 
274 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 port under this affliction ; there is but one source 
 of consolation, and of that source I have drunk 
 largely. When you shall see how I had spoken of 
 my happiness but a few weeks ago, you Avill read 
 with tears of sorrow what I wrote with tears of joy. 
 And little did I think how soon and how literally 
 another part of this mournful poem was to be ful- 
 filled, when I said in it — 
 
 " To earth I should have sunk in my despair, 
 Had I not claspt tlie Cross, and been supported there." 
 
 I thank God for the strength wnth which we 
 have borne this trial. It is not possible for woman 
 to have acted with more fortitude than Edith has 
 done through the whole sharp suffering ; she has 
 rather set an example than followed it. My bodily 
 frame is much shaken. A little time and care will 
 recruit it, and the mind is sound. I am fully sen- 
 sible of the blessings which are left me, which far 
 exceed those of. most men. I pray for continued 
 life that I may fulfill my duties towards those 
 whom I love. iSIany will feel for me, but none 
 can tell what I have lost : the head and flower of 
 my earthly happiness is cut off. But I am not 
 unhappy. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 April 30, 1816. 
 You know how much I used to unbend, and 
 play with the children, in frequent intervals of 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 275 
 
 study, as though I were an idle man. Of this I 
 am quite incapable, and shall long continue so. 
 No circumstance of my former life ever brought 
 with it so great a change as that which I daily and 
 hourly feel, and perhaps shall never cease to feel. 
 Yet I am thankful for having possessed this child 
 so lono- : for worlds I would not but have been his 
 father. Of all the blessings which it has pleased 
 God to vouchsafe me, this was and is the greatest. 
 
 To the Rev. Nicholas Lightfoot. 
 
 May, 1816. 
 It is now full two-and-twenty years since you 
 and I shook hands at our last parting. In all 
 likelihood, the separation between my son and me 
 will not be for so long a time ; in the common 
 course of nature it cannot possibly be much longer, 
 and I may be summoned to rejoin him before the 
 year, yea, before the passing day or the passing 
 hour be gone. Death has so often entered my 
 doors, that he and I have long been familiar. The 
 loss of five brothers and sisters (four of whom I 
 remember well), of my father and mother, of a 
 female cousin who grew up with me, and lived 
 with me ; of two daughters, and of several friends 
 (among them two of the dearest friends that ever 
 man possessed), had very much weaned my heart 
 from this world, or, more properly speaking, had 
 fixed its thoughts and desires upon a better state 
 
276 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 wherein there shall be no such separation, before 
 this last and severest affliction. Still it would be 
 senseless and ungrateful to the greatest degree, if 
 I were not to feel and acknowledge the abundant 
 blessings that I still possess, especially believing, 
 trusting, knoiving, as I do, in the full assurance 
 of satisfied reason and settled faith, that the 
 treasure which has been taken from me now, is 
 laid up in heaven, there to be repossessed with 
 ample increase. 
 
 To the Rev. Herbert Hill. 
 
 May 4, 1816. 
 
 My estimate of human life is more favorable 
 than yours. If death were the termination of our 
 existence, then, indeed, I should wish rather to 
 have been born a beast, or never to have been 
 born at all ; but considering nothing more certain 
 than that this life is preparatory to a higher state 
 of being, I am thankful for the happiness I have 
 enjoyed, for the blessings which are left me, and 
 for those to which I look with sure and certain 
 hope. With me the enjoyments of life have more 
 than counterbalanced its anxieties and its pains. 
 No man can possibly have been happier ; and at 
 this mcifcent, when I am sufiering under almost the 
 severest loss which could have befallen me, I am 
 richer' both in heart and hope than if God had 
 never given me the child whom it hath pleased him 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 277 
 
 to take away. My heart has been exercised with 
 better feelings during his life, and is drawn nearer 
 towards Heaven by his removal. I do not recover 
 spirits, but my strength is materially recruited, 
 and I am not unhappy. 
 
 To Chauncey Hare Toivnshend. 
 
 June 5, 1816. 
 
 The history of your school-boy days reminds me 
 of my own childhood and youth. I had a lonely 
 childhood, and sufiered much from tyranny at 
 school, till I outgrew it, and came to have author- 
 ity myself. In one respect, my fortune seems to 
 have been better than yours, or my nature more 
 accommodating. Where intellectual sympathy was 
 not to be found, it was sufficient for me if moral 
 sympathy existed. A kind heart and a gentle 
 disposition won my friendship more readily than 
 brighter talents, where these were wanting. 
 
 I left Westminster in a perilous state, — a heart 
 full of feeling and poetry, a head full of Kousseau 
 and Werter, and my religious principles shaken by 
 Gibbon : many circumstances tended to give me a 
 wrong bias, none to lead me right, except adver- 
 sity, the wholesomest of all discipline. An 
 instinctive modesty, rather than any purer cause, 
 preserved me for a time from all vice. A severe 
 system of stoical morality then came to its aid. 
 I made Epictetus, for many months, literally my 
 
278 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 manual. The French revolution was then in its 
 full career. I went to Oxford in January, 1793, a 
 Stoic and a Republican. I had no acquaintance at 
 the college, which was in a flagitious state of 
 morals. I refused to wear powder, when every 
 other man in the University wore it, because 
 I thought the custom foolish and filthy ; and I re- 
 fused even to drink more wine than suited my 
 inclination and my principles. Before I had been 
 a week in the college, a little party had got round 
 me, glad to form a sober society, of which I was 
 the centre. Here I became intimate with Edmund 
 Seward, whose death was the first of those pri- 
 vations which have, in great measure, weaned m}' 
 heart from the world. He confirmed in me all 
 that was good. Time and reflection, the blessings 
 and the sorrows of life, and I hope I may add, 
 with unfeigned humility, the grace of God, have 
 done the rest. Large draughts have been admin- 
 istered to me from both urns. No man has suf- 
 fered keener sorrows, no man has been more 
 profusely blest. Four months ago no human 
 being could possibly be happier than I was, or 
 richer in all that a wise heart could desire. The 
 diflference now is, that what was then my chief 
 treasure is now laid up in Heaven. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 279 
 
 To John May. 
 
 June 12, 1816. 
 We read of persons who have suddenly become 
 gray from violent emotions of grief or fear. I 
 feel in some degree as if I had passed at once from 
 boyhood to the decline of life. I had never ceased 
 to be a boy in cheerfulness till now. All those 
 elastic spirits are now gone ; nor is it in the 
 nature of things that they should return. I am 
 still capable of enjoyment, and trust that there is 
 much in store for me ; but there is an end of that 
 hilarity which I possessed more uninterruptedly, 
 and in a greater degree, than any person with 
 whom I was ever acquainted. You advised me to 
 write down my recollections of Herbert while they 
 were fresh. I dare not undertake the task. 
 Something akin to it, but in a different form, and 
 with a more extensive purpose, I have begun ; but 
 my eyes and my head suffer too much in the occu- 
 pation for me to pursue it as yet ; and as these 
 effects cannot be concealed, I must avoid as much 
 as possible all that would produce them. This, 
 believe me, is an effort of forbearance, for my 
 heart is very much set upon completing what I 
 have planned. The effect upon Edith will be as 
 lasting as upon myself; but she had not the same 
 exuberance of spirits to lose, and therefore it will 
 be less perceptible. 
 
280 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 To Chauncey Hare Townshend. 
 
 July 22, 1816. 
 
 It will be unfortunate if chauce should not one 
 day bring me within reach of you ; but I would 
 rather that chance should bring 3'ou to Cumber- 
 land, when you can spare a few Aveeks for such a 
 visit. You will find a bed, plain fare, and a glad 
 welcome ; books for wet weather, a boat for sunny 
 evenings ; the loveliest parts of this lovely county 
 within reach and within sight ; and myself one of 
 the best guides to all the recesses of the vales and 
 mountains. As a geologist, you will enjoy one 
 more pleasure than I do, who am ignorant of 
 every branch of science. Mineralogy and botany 
 are the only branches which I wish that I had 
 possessed, not from any predilection for either, 
 but because opportunities have fallen in my way 
 for making observations (had I been master of the 
 requisite knowledge) by which others might have 
 been interested and guided. These two are sciences 
 which add to our out-door enjoyments, and have 
 no injurious effects. Chemical and physical 
 studies seem, on the contrary, to draw on very 
 prejudicial consequences. Their utility is not to 
 be doubted ; but it appears as if man could not 
 devote himself to these pursuits without blunting 
 his finer faculties. 
 
 This county is very imperfectly visited by many 
 of its numerous guests. They take the regular 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 281 
 
 route, stop at the regular stations, ascend one of 
 the mountains, and then fiincy they have seen the 
 Lakes, in Avhich, after a thirteen years' residence, 
 I am every year discovering new scenes of beauty. 
 Here I shall probably pass the remainder of my 
 days. Our church, as you may perhaps recollect, 
 stands at a distance from the town, unconnected 
 with any other buildings, and so as to form a strik- 
 ing: and beautiful feature in the vale. The church- 
 yard is as open to the eye and to the breath of 
 heaven as if it were a Druid's place of meeting. 
 There I shall take up my last abode, and it is some 
 satisfaction to think so — to feel as if I were at 
 anchor, and should shift my berth no more. A 
 man whose habitual frame of mind leads him to 
 look forward, is not the worse for treading the 
 churchyard path, with a belief that along that 
 very path his hearse is one day to convey him. 
 
 To the same. 
 
 August 17, 1816. 
 There is a paper of mine in the last Quarterly, 
 upon the means of bettering the condition of the 
 poor. You w^ill be interested by a story which it 
 contains of an old woman upon Exmoor. In 
 Wordsworth's blank-verse it would go to every 
 heart. Have you read The Excui^sion? and have 
 you read the collection of Wordsworth's other 
 poems, in two octavo volumes? If you have not, 
 
282 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 there is a great pleasure in store for you. I am 
 no blind admirer of Wordsworth, and can see 
 where he has chosen subjects which are unworthy 
 in themselves, and where the strength of his 
 imagination and of his feeling is directed upon in- 
 adequate objects. Notwithstanding these faults, 
 and their frequent occurrence, it is by the side of 
 Milton that Wordsworth will have his station 
 awarded him by posterity. 
 
 To John Rickman. 
 
 October 2, 1816. 
 I incline to think there will come a time w-hen 
 public opinion will no more tolerate the extreme 
 of poverty in a large class of the community, than 
 it now tolerates slavery in Europe. Meantime it is 
 perfectly clear that the more we can improve the 
 condition of the lower classes, the greater number 
 of customers we procure for the home market ; and 
 that if we can make people pay taxes instead of 
 claiming poor-rates, the wealth as well as security 
 of the State is increased. The poor-rates are a 
 momentous subject, and I have long believed you 
 were the only man who could grapple with it. I 
 see, or think I see, palliatives and alteratives, in 
 providing the laborers with garden and grass 
 land, in establishing saving banks, in national 
 education, and in affording all possible facilities 
 and encouragement for emigration, and in colon- 
 izing at home upon our waste lands. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 283 
 
 The state of the Church is another important 
 question, assailed as it is on all sides. I think it 
 would be possible to take in the Methodists as a 
 sort of Cossacks, or certainly to employ those per- 
 sons henceforward in aid of the Establishment, 
 who, if not thus employed, will swell the numbers 
 of the Methodists and act against it. 
 
 By nature I am a poet, by deliberate choice an 
 historian, and a political writer I know not how ; 
 by accident, or the course of events. Yet I think 
 I can do something towards awakening the country, 
 and that I can obtain the confidence of well-dis- 
 posed minds by writing honestly and sincerely 
 upon things in which all persons are concerned. 
 
 Were I to accept a good berth, which is held out 
 to me, it would very much counteract the im- 
 pression which I am aiming to produce. Instead 
 of attempting to answer my arguments and asser- 
 tions, the anarchists would then become the assail- 
 ants, and attack me as one who had sold himself. 
 
 To John May. 
 
 January 1, 1817. 
 Your last letter gave me great and most unex- 
 pected concern. « I had indeed believed that you 
 were sailing on a quiet sea, in no danger of shoals 
 or tempests. By what principle, or what strange 
 want of principle, is it that mercantile men so often, 
 for the sake of the shortest reprieve from bank- 
 
284 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 ruptcy, involve their nearest friends and connec- 
 tions with them? Your loss, I would hope, may 
 not prove altogether so great as you apprehend ; 
 and I would hope also that some prize in the 
 lottery of life, full of change as it is, may one day 
 or other replace it. Even at the worst it leaves 
 you heart-whole. It will be long before I shall 
 find myself so ; and if life had no duties, I should 
 be very far from desiring its continuance for the 
 sake of any enjoyments which it can possibly have 
 in store. I have the same sort of feeling that a 
 man who is fondly attached to his family has when 
 absent from them, — as if I were on a journey. I 
 yearn, perhaps more than I ought to do, to be at 
 home and at rest. Yet what abundant cause have 
 I for thankfulness, possessing as I do so many 
 blessings, that I should think no man could possi- 
 bly be happier, if I had not been so much happier 
 myself. Do not think that I give way to such 
 feelings ; far less that I encourage them, or am 
 weak enough to repine. What is lost in possession 
 is given me in hope. I am now in my forty-third 
 year : both my parents died in their fiftieth. 
 Should my lease be continued to that term, there 
 is a fair prospect of leaving my family Avell pro- 
 vided for ; and let it fall when it may, a decent 
 provision is secured. Before this object was at- 
 tained, great natural cheerfulness saved me from 
 any anxiety on this score, and there happily exists 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 285 
 
 no cause for anxiety when I have no longer the 
 same preservative. My house is in order, and 
 whenever the summons may come I am ready to 
 depart. Dearly as I love these children, my pres- 
 ence is by no means so necessary as it was to him 
 who is gone. He drew in his intellectual life from 
 me, and a large portion of mine is departed with 
 him. It is best as it is, for he is gone in the per- 
 fection of his nature, and mine will not be the 
 worse for the chastening which it has undergone. 
 
 To Sharon Turner. 
 
 February 24, 1817. 
 
 My spirits, rather than my disposition, have un- 
 dergone a great change. They used to be exuber- 
 ant beyond those of almost every other person ; 
 my heart seemed to possess a perpetual fountain 
 of hilarity ; no circumstances of study, or atmos- 
 phere, or solitude affected it ; and the ordinary 
 vexations and cares of life, even when they 
 showered upon me, fell off like hail from a pent- 
 house. That spring is dried up ; I cannot now 
 preserve an appearance of serenity at all times 
 without an effort, and no prospect in this world 
 delights me except that of the next. My heart 
 and my hopes are there. 
 
 I have a scheme to throw out somewhere for 
 taking the Methodists into the Church ; or, 
 borrowing from Methodism so much of it as is 
 
286 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 good, and thereby regenerating the Establishment. 
 There is little hope in such schemes, except that in 
 process of time they may produce some effect. 
 But were it eftected now, and would the Church 
 accept the volunteer services of lay coadjutors, I 
 should feel strongly inclined to volunteer mine. 
 This is a dream, and I fear the whole fabric will 
 fall to pieces even in our days. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Southey declines a Position on The Times — Tour in Switzerland — 
 The Life of Wesley — Declines an Appointment in Edinburgh — 
 Wilberforce at Keswick — Edmund Seward — Walter Scott — 
 History of Brazil — Crabbe's Tales. 
 
 [At this time Southey had an offer of a share in 
 the profits of TJie Times with an income of £2,000 
 if he were willing to remove to London and to 
 write for that paper ; an offer that was at once de- 
 clined. Then followed a tour in Switzerland, and 
 two such events in the poet's quiet life deserve to 
 be recorded, although the first is barely mentioned 
 in his correspondence, and the second yielded no 
 letters of special interest.] 
 
 To C. W. W. Wynn. 
 
 March 10, 1817. 
 You would be amused to see my table overlaid 
 with Methodism and Moravianisra. I am going 
 through the whole set of the Arminian Magazine. 
 This Life of Wesley is a more operose business than 
 one who is not acquainted with my habits would 
 suppose. I am given to works of supererogation, 
 and could do nothing to my oAvn satisfiiction if I 
 287 
 
28S THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 did not take twice as much labor as any other 
 person would bestow upon it. In this case it will 
 be well bestowed. I am treating of a curious part 
 of history just at the right time, and in as fair a 
 temper as it could be possible to bring to such a 
 subject. The materials are very copious, and very 
 curious, and the plan so arranged as to relieve that 
 monotony which you might perhaps apprehend. 
 
 I see no person during the winter except my own 
 family, and for weeks together do not stir be^^ond 
 m}' own garden ; the kitchen clock is not more 
 regular in its movements than my life, and scarcely 
 more monotonous, yet time never appeared to glide 
 so swiftly. I have often said that, live as long as 
 we may, the first twenty years of life are the long- 
 est half. There are indications enough that I am 
 on the downhill road ; an unwillingness to exer- 
 tion of any kind is one ; I fear that a decay of sight 
 is another ; as yet, however, it only regards distant 
 objects ; what is near I see as distinctly as ever. 
 
 To the same. 
 
 August 23, 1817. 
 Does this country, you will ask, appear flat and 
 unprofitable after Alpine scenery ? Certainly not. 
 It has lost very little by the comparison, and that 
 little will soon be regained. Skiddaw is by much 
 the most imposing mountain, for its height, that 
 I have yet seen. Many mountains, which are 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 289 
 
 actually as high again from their base, do not 
 appear to more advantage. I find here, as "Words- 
 worth and Sir G. Beaumont had told me I should, 
 the charm of proportion, and Avould not exchange 
 Der went water for the Lake of Geneva, thous'h I 
 would gladly enrich it with the fruit-trees and the 
 luxuriant beauties of a Swiss summer. Their 
 waterfalls, indeed, reduce ours to insignificance. 
 On the other hand, all their streams and rivers are 
 hideously discolored, so that that which should be 
 one of the greatest charms of the landscape, is in 
 reality a disgusting part of it. The best color 
 which you see is that of clean soap-suds ; the more 
 common one that of the same mixture when dirty. 
 But the rivers have a poAver, might, and majesty 
 which it is scarcely possible to describe. 
 
 To Chauncey Hare Townshend. 
 
 October 31, 1817. 
 Having nothing to hope in this world, and no- 
 thing to desire in it for myself, except as quiet a 
 passage through it as it may please God to grant, 
 my mind, when it takes its course, recurs to the 
 world which is to come, and lays as naturally now 
 the scenes of its day-dreams in Heaven, as it used 
 to do upon earth. I think of the many intimacies 
 I have made among the dead, and with what de- 
 light I shall see and converse with those persons 
 whose lives and writings have interested me, to 
 
290 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 whom I have endeavored to render justice, or 
 from whom I have derived so much pleasure and 
 benefit of the highest kind. Something perhaps 
 we shall have to communicate, and oh ! how much 
 to learn ! The Koman Catholics, when they write 
 concerning Heaven, arrange the difierent classes 
 there M'ith as much precision as a master of the 
 ceremonies could do. Their martj-rs, their doc- 
 tors, their confessors, their monks and their virgins, 
 have each their separate society. As for us poets, 
 they have not condescended to think of us ; but 
 we shall tind one another out, and a great many 
 questions I shall have to ask of Spenser and of 
 Chaucer. Indeed, I half hope to get the whole 
 story of Cambuscan bold ; and to hear the lost 
 books of the Faery Queen. Lope de Vega and I 
 shall not meet with equal interest, and yet it will 
 be a pleasant meeting. 
 
 To C. W. W. Wynn. 
 
 January 1, 1818. 
 The Life of Wesley is my favorite employment 
 just now, and a very curious book it will be, look- 
 ing at Methodism abroad as well as at home, and 
 comprehending our religious history for the last 
 hundred years. I am sure I shall treat this sub- 
 ject with moderation. I hope I come to it with a 
 sober judgment, a mature mind, and perfect free- 
 dom from all unjust prepossessions of any kind. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 291 
 
 There is no party which I am desirous of pleasing, 
 none which I am fearful of offending ; nor am I 
 aware of any possible circumstance w^hich might 
 tend to bias me one way or other from the straight 
 line of impartial truth. For the bigot I shall be 
 far too philosophical : for the libertine, far too 
 pious. The Ultra-churchman will think me little 
 better than a Methodist, and the Methodists will 
 wonder what I am. "Ayia dyioig will be my 
 motto. 
 
 To Walter Scott. 
 
 March 10, 1818. 
 I am fflad that the first tidiniys which informed 
 me of your illness, told of your recovery also. 
 There is an enjoyment of our absent friends, even 
 of those from whom we are far distant, in talking 
 and thinking of them, which makes a large part 
 of the happiness of life. It is a great thing to be 
 in the same place with a friend, it is something to 
 be in the same planet. And whenever you are re- 
 moved to a better, there are few men whose loss 
 will be more widely felt in this, for I know no one 
 who has administered so much delight to so ex- 
 tensive a part of the public. I hope your illness 
 has left no weakness behind it. We stand in need 
 sometimes of visitations which may lead us to look 
 towards eternity ; and in such cases the stroke is 
 merciful when it falls on the body. There is a 
 joyousness, too, in the sense of returning health, 
 
292 THE STORY OF SOUTHET'S LIFE. 
 
 — a freshness of sensation such as one might ex- 
 pect from a draught of the fountain of youth. 
 
 [This year Southey had the offer of an appoint- 
 ment, that of Librarian to the Advocates' Library, 
 Edinburgh, which wouhl have relieved liim from 
 pecuniary anxiety, and afforded an occupation not 
 out of harmony with his pursuits as a man of let- 
 ters. He declined it, saying, " I am contented 
 where I am and as I am, wanting nothing and 
 wishing nothing." It would seem, his son writes, 
 "that he had taken root so firmly among the 
 mountains of Cumberland, and was so unwilling to 
 encounter the difficulties of a removal and to take 
 upon him new habits of life, that he exercised un- 
 consciously a kind of self-deception whenever an 
 offer was made to him, and conjured up for the 
 time feelings of security from anxiety which had 
 no solid foundation." That Southey was not with- 
 out anxiety will be seen presently.] 
 
 To Sharon Turner. 
 
 September 21, 1818. 
 You have taken, I see, Cornaro for your physi- 
 cian. Had I made the same experiment, I should 
 have been disposed to prefer a diet of roots, fruits, 
 and esculent plants to bread, which is so likely to 
 be adulterated. There is as nuich difference in the 
 stomachs of men as in their tempers and faces ; 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 293 
 
 severe abstinence is necessary for some, and 
 others feed high and drink hard, and yet attain to 
 a robust old age ; but unquestionably the sparing 
 system has most facts in its fiivor, and I have 
 often remarked with wonder the great length of 
 life to which some of the hardest students and 
 most inveterate self-tormentors among the mo- 
 nastic orders have attained. Truly glad shall I be 
 if you derive from your system the permanent 
 benefit Avhich there seems such good reason to ex- 
 pect. Both you and I must wish to remain as long 
 as we can in this " tough world " for the sake of 
 others. Thank Heaven it is no rack to us, though 
 we have both reached that stage in our progress in 
 which the highest pleasure that this life can afford 
 is the anticipation of that which is to follow it. 
 
 You have made a wise determination for your 
 son William, for I believe that medical studies are 
 of all others the most unfavorable to the moral 
 sense. Anatomical studies are so revolting, that 
 men wdio carry any feeling to the pursuit are glad 
 to have it seared as soon as possible, 
 i 
 
 To C. W. W. Wynn. 
 
 November 4, 1818. 
 Wilberforce has been here with all his house- 
 hold, and such a household ! The principle of the 
 fomily seems to be that, provided the servants 
 have faith, good works are not to be expected 
 
294 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 from them, and the utter disorder which prevails 
 in consequence is truly farcical. The old coachman 
 would figure upon the stage. Upon making some 
 complaint about the horses, he told his master and 
 mistress that since they had been in this country 
 they had been solake-and-river-and-mountain-and- 
 valley-mad, that they had thought of nothing which 
 they ought to think of. I have seen nothing in 
 such pell-mell, topsy-turvy, and chaotic confusion 
 as "VVilberforce's apartments since I used to see a 
 certain breakfast-table in Skeleton Corner. His 
 wife sits in the midst of it like Patience on a monu- 
 ment, and he frisks about as if every vein in his 
 body were filled with quicksilver ; but, withal, 
 there is such a constant hilarity in every look and 
 motion, such a sweetness in all his tones, such a 
 benignity in all his thoughts, words, and actions, 
 that all sense of his grotesque appearance is pres- 
 ently overcome, and you can feel nothing but love 
 and admiration for a creature of so happy and 
 blessed a nature. 
 
 A few words now concerning myself. It was 
 my intention to have spent the Christmas in Lon- 
 don ; a very unexpected cause induced me to de- 
 lay my journey. More than six years have elapsed 
 since the birth of my youngest child ; all thoughts 
 of havino- another had naturally ceased. In Feb- 
 ruary or jSIarch, however, such an event may be 
 looked for. My spirits are more depressed by 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 295 
 
 this than they ought to be ; but you may well 
 imao-ine what reflections must arise. I am now in 
 my forty-fifth year, and if my life should be pro- 
 longed it is but too certain that I should never have 
 heart again to undertake the duty which I once 
 performed with such diligence and such delightful 
 hope. It is well for us that we are not permitted 
 to choose for ourselves. One happy choice, how- 
 ever, I made when I betook myself to literature 
 as my business in life. When I have a heart at 
 ease, there can be no greater delight thanitafibrds 
 me ; and when I put away sad thoughts and melan- 
 choly forebodings, there is no resource so certain. 
 I beo-in to be solicitous about making such a 
 provision as should leave me at ease m my ways 
 and means, if loss of health or any other calamity 
 should render me incapable of that constant labor, 
 from which, while health and ability may last, I 
 shall have no desire to shrink. When my next 
 poem is finished, I shall be able to do what has 
 never before been in my power, — to demand a 
 sum for it. 
 
 To John May. 
 
 November 16, 1818. 
 
 I have a fellow-feeling for , because I was 
 
 myself expelled from Westminster, not for a re- 
 bellion (though in that too I had my share), but 
 for an act of authorship. Wynn, Strachey (who 
 is now chief secretary at Madras), Bedford, and 
 
296 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 myself,* planned a periodical paper in emula- 
 tion of the Microcosm. It was not begun before 
 the two former had left school, and Bedford and I 
 were the only persons actually engaged in it. I 
 well remember my feelings when the first number 
 appeared on Saturday, March 1, 1792. It was 
 Bedford's writing, but that circumstance did not 
 l)revent me from feeling that I was that day borne 
 into the world as an author ; and if ever my head 
 touched the stars while I walked upon the earth it 
 was then. It seemed as if I had overleaped a 
 barrier, w hich till then had kept me from the fields 
 of inmiortality, wherein my career was to be run. 
 In all London there was not so vain, so happy, so 
 elated a creature as I was that day ; and, in truth, 
 it was an important day in my life ; far more so 
 than I, or than any one else could have anticipated, 
 for I was expelled for the fifth number. The sub- 
 ject of that number was flogging, and Heaven 
 knows I thought as little of giving offence by it, as 
 of causing an eclipse or an earthquake. I treated 
 it in a strange, whimsical, and ironical sort of 
 manner, Ijecause it had formed a part of the re- 
 ligious ceremonies of the heathens, and the Fathers 
 had held that the gods of the heathen were our 
 devils, and so I proved it to be an invention of the 
 Dgvil, and therefore unfit to be practised in 
 
 * These names were transposed in the correspondence, but 
 the mistake is so obvious that I have ventured to correct it. 
 — Ed. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 297 
 
 schools ; and though this was done with very little 
 respect for the Devil, or the Fathers, or the 
 heathen gods, or the schoolmasters, yet I as little 
 expected to offend one as the other. I Avas full 
 of Gibbon at the time, and had caught something 
 of Voltaire's manner. And for this I was privately 
 expelled from Westminster, and for this I was re- 
 fused admission at Christ Church, where Eandolph, 
 from the friendship which he professed for my 
 uncle, could not else have decently refused to 
 provide for me by a studentship : and so I went to 
 Balliol instead, in a blessed hour; for there I 
 found a man of sterling virtue (Edmund Seward), 
 who led me right, when it might have been easy 
 to have led me wrong. I used to call him TaJus 
 for his unbending morals and iron rectitude, and 
 his strength of body also justified the name. His 
 death in'the year 1795 was the first severe afflic- 
 tion that I ever experienced ; and sometimes even 
 now I dream of him, and wake myself by weeping, 
 because even in my dreams I remember that he is 
 dead. I loved him with my whole heart, and shall 
 remember him with gratitude and affection as one 
 who was my moral father, to the last moment of 
 my life ; and to meet him again will at that 
 moment be one of the joys to which I shall look 
 forward in eternity. My dear John IVIay, I have 
 got into a strain which I neither intended nor 
 foresaw. Misfortunes, as the story says, are good 
 
298 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 for something. The stream of my life would 
 certainly have taken a different direction, if I had 
 not been expelled, and I am satisfied that it could 
 never have held a better course. ... 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 December 5, 1818. 
 It is, between ourselves, a matter of surprise to 
 me that this bodily machine of mine should have 
 continued its operations with so few derangements, 
 knowing, as I well do, its excessive susceptibility 
 to many deranging causes. The nitrous oxide 
 approaches nearer to the notion of a neurometer 
 than anything which perhaps could be devised ; 
 and I was acted upon by a far smaller dose than 
 any person upon whom it had ever been tried, 
 when I was in the habit of taking it. If I did not 
 vary my pursuits and carry on many works of a 
 totally different kind at once, I should soon be in- 
 capal)le of proceeding with any, so surely does it 
 disturb my sleep and affect my dreams if I dwell 
 upon one with any continuous attention. The 
 truth is, that though some persons, whose knowl- 
 edge of me is scarcely skin-deep, suppose I have 
 no nerves, because I have great self-control as far 
 as regards the surface — if it were not for great 
 self-management, and what may be called a strict 
 intellectual regimen, I should very soon be in a 
 deplorable state of what is called nervous disease. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 299 
 
 and this would have been the case any time during 
 the hist twenty years. 
 
 Thank God I am well at present, and well era- 
 ployed : Brazil and Wesley l^oth at the press ; a 
 paper for the Quarterly Review in hand, and 
 Oliver N'ewman now seriously resumed ; while for 
 liofht readins: I am o-oino; throuoh SoutJi's Sermons 
 and the whole British and Irish part of the Acta 
 Sanctorum. 
 
 In the MSS. of Wesley, which passed through 
 Giflbrd's hands while you were absent, there was a 
 chapter which I wished you to have seen, because 
 both in matter and manner it is among the best 
 things I have written. It contained a view of our 
 religious history down to the accession of the pres- 
 ent family ; not the facts but the spirit of the 
 history. You will be pleased to see how I have 
 relieved and diversified this book, which will be 
 as elaborate as a Dutchman's work and as enter- 
 tainina: as a Frenchman's. 
 
 I want now to provide against that inability 
 which may any day or any moment overtake me. 
 You are not mistaken in thinking that the last 
 three years have considerably changed me ; the 
 outside remains pretty much the same, but it is 
 far otherwise within. If hitherto the day has been 
 sufficient for the labor, as well as the' labor for 
 the day, I now feel that it cannot always, and pos- 
 sibly may not long, be so. Were I dead there 
 
300 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 would be a provision for my family, which, though 
 not such as I yet hope to make it, would yet be a 
 respectable one. But if I were unable to work, 
 half my ways and means would instantly be cut oflf, 
 and the whole of them are needed. Such thoughts 
 did not use to visit me. My spirits retain their 
 strength, but they have lost their buoyancy, and 
 that forever. I should be the better for travel- 
 ling, but that is not in my power. At present the 
 press fetters me, and if it did not, I could not 
 afford to be spending money when I ought to be 
 earnino- it. But I shall work the harder to enable 
 me to do so. 
 
 To Walter Savage Landoi\ 
 
 January 3, 1819. 
 
 I was quite certain that you would appreciate 
 Wordsworth justly. Nations, you say, are not 
 proud of living genius. They are proud of it only 
 as far as they understand it ; and the majority, be- 
 ing incapable of understanding it, can never admire 
 it, till they take it upon trust : so that tw^o or 
 three generations must pass before the public affect 
 to admire such poets as Milton and Wordsworth. 
 Of such men the world scarcely produces one in a 
 millennium ; — has it, indeed, ever produced more 
 than two ? for Shakespere is of a different class. 
 But of all inferior degrees of poets no age and no 
 country was ever so prolific as our own : every 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 301 
 
 season produces some half-dozen poems, not one 
 of which obtains the slightest attention, and any 
 one of which would have [made] the author cele- 
 brated above all contemporaries five-and-twenty 
 years ago. 
 
 To Walter Scott. 
 
 March 11, 1819. 
 
 Our successors (for you and I are now old 
 enough in authorship to use this term) are falling 
 into the same faults as the Roman poets after the 
 Auo;ustan age, and the Italians after the o-olden 
 season of their poetry. They are overlaboring 
 their productions, and overloading them with 
 ornament, so that all parts are equally prominent, 
 everywhere glare and glitter, and no keeping and 
 no repose. Henry Milman has spoilt his Samor 
 in this way. It is full of power and of beauty, 
 but too full of them. There is another strikinof 
 example in a little volume called Nirjlit, w^here 
 some of the most uncouth stories imaginal)le are 
 told in a strain of continued tip-toe effort ; and 
 you are vexed to see such uncomm.on talents so 
 oddly applied, and such Herculean strength wasted 
 in preposterous exertions. The author's name is 
 Elliott, a self-taught man, in business (the iron 
 trade I believe) at Rotherham. 
 
 It was reported that you were about to bring 
 forth a play, and I was greatly in hopes that it 
 might be true ; for I am verily pursuaded that in 
 
302 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 this course you would run as brilliant a career as 
 you have already done in narrative, both in prose 
 and rhyme, for as for believing that you have a 
 double in the field, — not I ! Those same powers 
 would be equally certain of success in the drama ; 
 and w^ere you to give them a dramatic direction, 
 and reign for a third seven years upon the stage, 
 you w^ould stand alone in literary histor3^ Indeed, 
 already I believe that no man ever aiforded so nuich 
 delight to so great a nuniber of his contemporaries 
 in this or any other country. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 April 9, 1819. 
 I had a beautiful letter yesterday from poor 
 Walter Scott, who has l)een on the very brink of 
 the grave, and feels how likely it is that any day 
 or hour may send him there. If he is sufficiently 
 recovered I shall meet him in London ; but his 
 health is broken beyond all prospect or hope of 
 complete recovery. He entreats me to take warn- 
 ing, and beware of overworking myself. I am 
 afraid no person ever took that advice who stood 
 in need of it ; and still more afraid that the surest 
 way of bringing on the anticipated evil would be to 
 apprehend it. But I believe that I manage myself 
 well b}^ frequent change of employment, frequent 
 idling, and keeping my mind as free as I can from 
 any strong excitement. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 303 
 
 [A copy of the following letter was found among 
 Southey's papers, with no name attached to it. It 
 belongs, his biographer states, to this year.] 
 
 To a Lady. 
 You tell me that the whole of your happiness is 
 dependent upon literary pursuits and recreations. 
 It is well that you have these resources ; but were 
 we near each other, and were I to like you half as 
 well upon a nearer acquaintance, as it appears to 
 me at this distance that I should do, I think that 
 when I hud won your confidence I should venture 
 to tell you that something better than literature is 
 necessary for happiness. 
 
 To confess the truth, one of the causes which 
 have prevented me from writing to you earlier, 
 has been the wish and half intention of touching 
 upon this theme ; checked by that sort of hesitation 
 which sometimes (and that too often) prevents us 
 from doing what we ought for fear of singularity. 
 That you are a woman of talents I know ; and I 
 think you would not have given me the preference 
 over more fashionable poets, if there had not been 
 something in the general character of my writings 
 which accorded with your feelings, and which you 
 did not find in theirs. But you have lived in high 
 life ; you move in circles of gayety and fashion ; 
 and though you sympathize with me when I express 
 myself in verse, it is more than probable that the 
 
304 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 direct mention of religion may startle you, as 
 something miwarranted as well as unexpected. 
 
 I am no Methodist, no sectarian, no bigot, no 
 formalist. My natural spirits are buoyant beyond 
 those of any person, man, -vvomnn, or child, whom 
 I ever saw or heard of. They have had enough to 
 try them and to sink them, and it is by religion 
 alone that I shall be enabled to pass the remainder 
 of my days in cheerfulness and in hope. "Without 
 hope there can be no happiness ; and without re- 
 ligion no hope but such as deceives us. Your 
 heart seems to want an object ; and this would 
 satisfy it : and if it has been wounded, this, and 
 this on\y, is the cure. 
 
 Are you displeased with this freedom? Or 
 do you receive it as a proof that I am disposed to 
 become something more than a mere literary ac- 
 quaintance, and that you have made me feel an 
 interest concerning you which an ordinary person 
 would not have excited ? 
 
 To Wade Browne. 
 
 June 15, 1819. 
 Cuthbert, who is now four months old, is be- 
 arinnino- to serve me as well as his sisters for a 
 plaything. The country is in its full beauty at this 
 time ; perhaps in greater than I may ever again see 
 it, for it is reported that the woods on Casteletare 
 condemned to come down next year ; this, if it be 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 305 
 
 true, is the greatest loss that Keswick could 
 possibly sustain, and in no place will the loss be 
 more conspicuous than from the room wdierein I 
 am now writins;. But this neighborhood has suf- 
 fered much from the axe since you Avere here. 
 The woods about Lodore are gone ; so are those 
 under Castle-Crag; so is the little knot of fir-trees 
 on the way to church, which were so placed as to 
 make one of the features of the vale ; and worst of 
 all, so is that beautiful birch grove on the side of 
 the lake between Barrow and Lodore. Not a 
 single sucker is springing up in its place ; and, in- 
 deed, it would require a full century before another 
 grove could be reared which w^ould equal it in 
 beauty. It is lucky that they cannot level the 
 mountains nor drain the lake ; but they are doing 
 what they can to lower it, and have succeeded so 
 far as to render all the old landing-places useless. 
 If the effect of this should be to drain the marshy 
 land at the head and foot of the lake, without 
 leaving as much more swamp uncovered, it will do 
 good rather than harm. 
 
 Two cases so extraordinary as to appear almost 
 incredible occurred in the course of last month in 
 this country. A child four years old wandered 
 from its mother, who was cutting peat among the 
 Ennerdale jSIountains, and after four days was 
 found alive. A man upon the Eskdale Fells was 
 found after eighteen, still living, and able to wave 
 
306 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LEFE. 
 
 his hand as a signal, by which he was discovered. 
 He had fallen in a fit, and Avas incapable of moving 
 when he recovered his senses ; in both cases there 
 Avas water close by, by which life was preserved. 
 The child is doing well. Of the man I have heard 
 nothing since the day after he was found, when 
 Wordsworth was in Eskdale, and learnt the story ; 
 at that time there seemed to be no apprehension 
 that his life was in danger. 
 
 I think you will be pleased with "Wordsworth's 
 Warjonei', if it were only for the line of road * 
 which it describes. The master of the wagon Avas 
 my poor landlord, Jackson ; and the cause of his 
 exchanging it for the one-horse-cart was just as is 
 represented in the poem ; nobody but Benjamin 
 could manage it upon these ^hills, and Benjamin 
 could not resist the temptations by the way-side. 
 
 To C. H, Townshend. 
 
 July 20, 1819. 
 
 The third and last volume of my Opus Majus 
 will be published in two or three weeks ; they are 
 })rinting the index. What effect will it produce? 
 It may tend to sober the anticipations of a young 
 author to hear the faithful anticipations of an ex- 
 perienced one. None that will be heard of. It 
 will move quietly from the publishers to a certain 
 number of reading societies, and a certain number 
 * The road from Keswick to Ambleside. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 307 
 
 of private libraries ; enough between them to pay 
 the expenses of the publication. Some twenty 
 persons in Enghmd, and some half-dozen in Por- 
 tugal and Brazil will peruse it with avidity and 
 delight. Some fifty, perhaps, will buy the book 
 because of the subject, and ask one another if they 
 have had time to look into it. A few of those who 
 know me and love me, will wish that I had em- 
 ployed the time which it has cost in writing poems ; 
 and some of those who do not know me, will 
 marvel that in the ripe season of my mind, and in 
 the summer of reputation, I should have bestowed 
 so large a portion of lite upon a Avork which could 
 not possibly become either popular or profitable. 
 And is this all? No, Chauncey Townshend, it is 
 not all ; and I should deal insincerely with you if 
 I did not add, that ages hence it will be found 
 among those works which are not destined to 
 perish ; and secure for me a remembrance in other 
 countries as well as in my own ; that it will be read 
 in the heart of S. America, and communicate 
 to the Brazilians, when they shall have become a 
 powerful nation, much of their own history which 
 would otherwise have perished ; and be to them 
 what the work of Herodotus is to Europe. 
 
 To C. W. W. Wynn. 
 
 July 22, 1819. 
 
 I was not disappointed with Crabbe's Tales. He 
 
308 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 is a decided mannerist, but so are all original 
 writers in all ages ; nor is it possible for a poet to 
 avoid it if he writes much in the same key and 
 upon the same class of subjects. Crabbe's poems 
 will have a great and lasting value as pictures of 
 domestic life, elucidating the moral history of 
 these times, — times which must hold a most con- 
 spicuous place in history. He knows his own 
 powers, and never aims above his reach. In this 
 age, when the public are greedy for novelties, and 
 abundantly supplied with them, an author may 
 easily commit the error of giving them too much 
 of the same kind of thing. But this will not be 
 thought a fault hereafter, when the kind is good 
 and the thino^ orood of its kind. 
 
 o o 
 
 To Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 February 20, 1820. 
 A fashion of poetry has been imported which 
 has had a great run, and is in a fair way of being 
 worn out. It is of Italian growth, — an adaptation 
 of the manner of Pulci, Berni, and Ariosto in his 
 sportive mood. Frere began it. What be pro- 
 duced was too good in itself and too inoffensive to 
 become popular; for it attacked nothing and 
 nobody ; and it had the fault of his Italian models, 
 that the transition from what is serious to what is 
 burlesque was capricious. Lord Byron immedi- 
 ately followed : first with his Bejyi^o, which implied 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 309 
 
 the profligacy of the writer, and, lastl3% with his 
 Don Juan, which is a foul blot on the literature 
 of his country, an act of high treason on English 
 poetry. The manner has had a host of imitators. 
 The use of Iludibrastio rhymes (the only thing in 
 which it differs from the Italian) makes it very 
 easy. 
 
 My poems hang on hand. I want no monitor 
 to tell me it is time to leave off. I shall force 
 myself to finish what I have begun, and then — 
 good night. Had circumstances favored, I might 
 have done more in this way, and l)etter. But I 
 have done enough to be remembered among poets, 
 though my proper place will be among the his- 
 torians, if I live to complete the works upon 
 yonder shelves. 
 
CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 Southey at Oxford — Old Friendships — Advice to his Daughters — 
 Visits Holland — Is laid up at Leyden — A Dutch Poet and his 
 Wife — Advice to a Student — Jacob Cats. 
 
 [During the summer of 1820 Southey spent 
 some time in "Wales and in London and finally 
 received the honorary degree of D.C.L. at the 
 Oxford Commemoration. A long and full account 
 of the ceremony, written for the amusement of his 
 daughters, ends with the following passage.] 
 
 Oh, Bertha, Kate, and Isabel, if j'ou had seen 
 me that day ! I was like other issimis, dressed 
 in a great robe of the finest scarlet cloth, with 
 sleeves of rose-colored silk, and I had in my hand 
 a black velvet cap like a beef-eater, for the use of 
 which dress I paid one guinea for that day. Dr. 
 Phillimore, who was an old school-fellow of mine, 
 and a very good man, took me by the hand in my 
 turn, and presented me ; upon which there was a 
 great clapping of hands and huzzaing at m}^ name. 
 When that was over, the Vice-Chancellor stood up, 
 and said these words whereby I was ell-ell-deed : — 
 Doctissime et ornatissime vir, ego, pro auctoritate 
 mea et totius universitatis hujus, admitto te ad 
 gradum doctoris in jure civili, honoris causa. 
 
 310 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LITE. 311 
 
 These were the words which ell-ell-deed me ; and 
 then the bar was lifted up, and I seated myself 
 amonor the doctors. 
 
 Little girls, you know it might be proper for 
 me, now, to wear a large wig, and to be called 
 Doctor Southey, and to become very severe, and 
 leave off being a comical papa. And if you should 
 find that ell-ell-deeing has made this difference in 
 me you will not be surprised. However, I shall 
 not come down in a wig, neither shall I wear my 
 robes at home. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 July 29, 1820. 
 It is very seldom that a whole month elapses 
 without some interchange of letters between you 
 and me. And, for my part, on the present 
 instance, I cannot plead any unusual press of busi- 
 ness, or any remarkable humor of industry. 
 But, then, I can plead a great deal of enjoyment. 
 I have been staying in the house all day, — a 
 great happiness after the hard service upon which 
 my ten trotters were continually kept in London. 
 I have been reading — a great luxury for one who 
 during eleven weeks had not half-an-hour for 
 looking through a book. I have been playing 
 with Cuthbert, giving him the Cries of London to 
 the life, as the accompaniment to a series of prints 
 thereof, and enacting lion, tiger, bull, bear, horse. 
 
312 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 ass, elephant, rhinoceros, the laughing hyena, owl, 
 cuckoo, peacock, turkey, rook, raven, magpie, 
 cock, duck, and goose, etc., greatly to his delight 
 and somewhat to his edification, for never was 
 there a more apt or more willing pupil. When- 
 ever he comes near the study door, he sets up a 
 shout, which seldom fails of producing an answer ; 
 in he comes, tottering along, with a smile upon 
 his face, and pica pica in his mouth; and if the 
 picture-book is not forthwith forthcoming, he 
 knows its place upon the shelf, and uses most am- 
 bitious and persevering efforts to drag out a folio. 
 And if this is not a proper excuse for idleness, 
 Grosvenor, w hat is ? 
 
 But I have not been absolutely idle, onl}^ com- 
 paratively so. I have made ready about five 
 sheets of the Peninsular War for the press (the 
 main part, indeed, was transcription), and William 
 Nicol will have it as soon as the chapter is finished. 
 I have written an account of Derwent Water for 
 Westall's Vieivs of the Lakes. I have begun the 
 Book of the Churchy written half a dialogue be- 
 tween mj'self and Sir Thomas ]More, composed 
 seventy lines for Oliver JSTeivman, opened a Book 
 of Collections for the Moral and Literary History 
 of England, and sent to Longman for materials for 
 the Life of George Fox and the Origin and Prog- 
 ress of Quakerism, a work W'hich will be quite as 
 curious as the Wesley, and about half the length. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 313 
 
 Make allowances for letter writing (which con- 
 sumes far too great a portion of my time) , and for 
 the interruptions of the season, and this account 
 of the month will not be so bad as to subject me 
 to any very severe censure of my stewardship. 
 
 [In the first month of this year Southey received 
 from Madame St. Anne Holmes a French transla- 
 tion of Roderick.'] 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 January 26, 1821. 
 
 There is a part of the business which is so truly 
 booksellerish in general, and French in particular, 
 that it would be a sin to withhold it from you, and 
 you shall have it in the very words of my corre- 
 spondent, St. Anne. 
 
 " There is one part of the business I cannot pass 
 over in silence : it has shocked me much, and calls 
 for an apology ; which is, — The life of Robert 
 Southey, Esq., P.L. It never could have entered 
 my mind to be guilty of, or even to sanction, such 
 an impertinence. But the fact is this, the printer 
 and pul)lisher, Mr. Le Bel of the Royal Printing- 
 office Press in Versailles (printers, by-the-bye, 
 are men of much greater importance here than they 
 are in England) insisted upon having the life. 
 He said the French know nothing of M. Southey, 
 and in order to make the work sell, it must be 
 
314 THE STORY OF SOUTHET's LIFE. 
 
 manasred to interest them for the author. To get 
 rid of his iaiportunities we said we were not 
 acquainted with the life of INIr. Southej. Would 
 you believe it? this was verbatim his answer: — 
 ' N'importe ! ecrivez toujours, brodez ! brodez-la 
 un peu, que ce soit vrui ou non ce ne fait rien ; 
 qui prendra la peine de s'informer?' Terrified 
 lest this ridiculous man should succeed in his point, 
 I at last yielded, and sent to London to procure 
 all the lives; and from them, and what I had 
 heard from my dear departed friend Richard 
 Brinsley Sheridan, we drew up the memoir." 
 
 Grosvenor, whoever writes my life when the 
 subject has an end as well as a beginning, and does 
 not insert this biographical anecdote in it, may 
 certainly expect that I Avill pull his ears in a true 
 dream, and call him a jackass. 
 
 To John May, 
 
 December 10, 1821. 
 
 It is not often that I allow myself to wish the 
 accidents of fortune had been more in my favor, 
 and that I were in possession of that property 
 which, in the just ordinary course of things, ought 
 to have devolved upon me ; but I cannot help feel- 
 ing that wish now. 
 
 By this post I write to Bedford, desiring that he 
 will transfer to you 625/. in the three-per-cents. 
 I wish it was more, and that I had more at com- 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 315 
 
 mand in any way. I shall in the spring, if I am 
 paid for the first volume of my history as soon as 
 it is finished. One hundred I should, at all events, 
 have sent you then. It shall be as much more as 
 I may receiv^e. 
 
 One word more. I entreat you break away 
 from business if it be possible, as earl}^ in the 
 spring as you can, and put yourself in the mail for 
 this place. Though you cannot leave your anxie- 
 ties behind:' you, yet you may, by means of change 
 of air and scene, be assisted in bearing them, and 
 lay in here a store of pleasant recollections, which 
 in all moods of mind are wholesome. 
 
 I cannot write to you about indilFerent things, 
 troubled as you needs must be, and sympathizing 
 as I must do with you. Yet I trust that you now 
 know the extent of the evil ; and that when this 
 storm is weathered, there may be prosperity and 
 comfort in store for one who so eminently deserves 
 them. 
 
 To . 
 
 February 8, 1822. 
 I heard with sorrow of your ill health. Perhaps 
 you are at this time a happier man than if you 
 were in the enjoyment of vigorous health, and had 
 never known sickness or sorrow. Any price is 
 cheap for religious hope. The evidence for 
 Christianity is as demonstrative as the subject 
 admits : the more it is investigated, the stronger 
 
316 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 it appears. But the root of belief is in the heart, 
 rather than in the understanding ; and when it is 
 rooted there, it derives from the understanding 
 nutriment and support. Against Atheism, JNIate- 
 rialism, and the mortality of the soul, there is the 
 reductio ah ahsurdum in full force ; and for re- 
 vealed religion there is the historical evidence, 
 strong beyond the conception of those who have not 
 examined it ; and there is that perfect adaptation 
 to the nature and wants of man, which, if such a 
 revelation had not already been made, would in- 
 duce a wise and pious man to expect it, as fully 
 as a Jew expects the Messiah. For many years 
 my belief has not been clouded with the shadow 
 of a doubt. 
 
 When w^e obsei*ve what things men will believe, 
 who will not believe Christianity, it is impossible 
 not to acknowledge how much belief depends upon 
 the will. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 July 12, 1822. 
 
 My old friend Lightfoot is with me, whom you 
 remember at Oxford, and whom I had not seen 
 since we parted upon leaving Oxford eight-and- 
 twcnty years ago. The communication between 
 us had never been broken. I had a great reo;ard 
 for him, and talked of him often, and oftener 
 thought of him ; and, as you may suppose, the 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 317 
 
 more I became known and talked of in the world, 
 the larger part I occupied in his thoughts. So at 
 length he mustered up resolution to make a 
 journey hither from Crediton during his midsum- 
 mer holidays, being master of the grammar school 
 there. 
 
 He declares me to be less altered in appearance 
 and manners than any man whom he ever saw. I 
 should not have known him ; and yet he has worn 
 better than I have ; but he is thinner, and alto- 
 gether less than when he was a young man, and 
 his face has lengthened, partly because he has lost 
 some of his hair. His life has been laborious, 
 uniform, successful, and singularly happy. 
 
 He trembled like an aspen leaf at meeting me. 
 A journey to Cumberland is to him as formidable 
 a thing as it would be for me to set off for Jeru- 
 salem, so little has he been used to locomotion. 
 And he has shocked Edith ^Nlay by wishing that 
 the mountains would descend to fill up the lakes 
 and vales, because then I should return to the 
 South and be within reach of him. 
 
 The only thing short of this which would be 
 likely to remove me from this country, would be, 
 if upon Giflord's giving up the management of the 
 QuarterJij Review, it were to be offered me and 
 made worth my acceptance. In that case I should 
 probably from prudential reasons think it proper 
 to accept the offer, and fix myself within ten or 
 
318 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 twelve miles of town. But this is not likely, 
 and I am not sure that it Avould be desirable. 
 
 What a pleasure it is in declining life to see the 
 friends of our youth such as we should wish them 
 to be ; and how infinitely greater will be the pleas- 
 ure of meeting them in another world, where pro- 
 gression in beatitude will be the only change ! 
 
 To John Rickman. 
 
 September 9, 1822. 
 
 Such "work as that of the population, in ad- 
 dition to your other labors, is enough to break 
 down anybody. The olijection to task-work is, 
 that it tempts the industrious to work beyond 
 their strength; and in intellectual, over-exertion 
 is worse than in bodily, labor. 
 
 I have spent a very idle summer, much to the 
 advantage of my health. A fellow collegian, for 
 whom I have a great regard, came to pass his 
 midsummer holidays with me, from Crediton, 
 where he is master of the grammar school. I be- 
 gan a course of exercise with him, and persevered 
 in it, much as it cost me, for some time, till at 
 length the effect which I looked for was produced ; 
 and my constitution recovering its tone, I became 
 once more a sound man. Jphn INIay came to me 
 just after Lightfoot's departure. I walked about a 
 hundred miles more with him, and am now in as 
 good trim for walking as any man of my years 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHET'S LIFE. 319 
 
 need be. This I hope will last till I visit London, 
 which I think of doing as soon as the rigor of the 
 winter shall be over. 
 
 [A visit of some months to London took place 
 at this time, and Southey was not in harness again 
 until February, 1824.] 
 
 To Edith May Southey. 
 
 London, Dec. 30, 1823. 
 
 I have sent you a Bible for a New- Year's gift, in 
 the hope that with the New Year you will begin 
 the custom of reading, morning and night, the 
 Psalms and Lessons for the day. It is far from 
 my wish that this should be imposed as a necessary 
 and burthensome observance, or that you should 
 feel dissatisfied and uneasy at omitting it, when 
 late hours or other accidental circumstances render 
 it inconvenient. Only let it be your ordinary 
 custom. You will one day understand feelingly 
 how beneficially the time has been employed. 
 
 The way which I recommend is, I verily believe, 
 the surest way of profiting by the Scriptures. In 
 the course of this easy and regular perusal, the 
 system of religion appears more and more clear 
 and coherent, its truths are felt more intimately, 
 and its precepts and doctrines reach the heart as 
 slow showers penetrate the ground. In passages 
 which have repeatedly been heard and read, some 
 
320 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 new force, some peculiar meaning, some home 
 application which had before been overlooked, will 
 frequently come out, and you will find, in thus re- 
 curring daily to the Bible, as you have done among 
 the lakes and mountains which you love so well, 
 in the Word of God, as in His works, beauties and 
 effects, and influences as fresh as they are inex- 
 haustible. I say this from experience. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 February 23, 1824. 
 Here then I am, nothing the worse for having 
 been wheeled over fifteen hundred miles in the 
 course of fifteen weeks. I no longer feel the effect 
 of motion in my head, nor of jolting in my tail. 
 I have taken again to my old coat and old shoes ; ^ 
 dine at the reasonable hour of four, enjoy as I used 
 to do the wholesome indulgence of a nap after 
 dinner, drink tea at six, sup at half-past nine, 
 spend an hour over a sober folio and a glass of 
 black-currant rum with warm water and sugar, and 
 then to bed. Days seemed like weeks while I was 
 away, so many and so various were my engage- 
 ments : and now that I am settling to my wonted 
 round of occupations, the week passes like a day. 
 If my life is not like that of the pnsca gens 
 morfalium, it is quite as hai:)py ; and when you 
 hear Qui Jit MecoRiias quoted, you may reply that 
 you know one man at least who is perfectly con- 
 tented with his lot. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 321 
 
 To the same. 
 
 March 27, 1824. 
 
 To-day I received the first volume of RodericJc, 
 in Dutch verse, translated by the wife of Bilder- 
 dijk, who is one of the most distinguished men of 
 letters in that country. The translation appears 
 to be very well done, as fiir as I am able to judge ; 
 that is, I can see in the trying passages she has 
 fully understood the original ; and her command 
 of her own language is warranted by her husband's 
 approljation, who is a severe critic as well as a 
 skilful poet himself. He must be near eighty 
 years of age, for he tells me he has been now three 
 score years known as an author. His letter to me 
 is in Latin. The book comes in a red morocco 
 livery ; it is dedicated to me in an ode, and a very 
 beautiful one, describing the delight she had taken 
 in the poem, and the consolation she had derived 
 from it, when parts of it came home to her own 
 feelings in a time of severe afiliction. 
 
 To John Rickman. 
 
 October 10, 1824. 
 My literary employments have never, in the 
 slightest degree, injured my health. For, in 
 truth, I neither am, nor ever have been, a close 
 student. If I do not take sufficient exercise, it is 
 not from any love of the desk, but for the want of 
 
322 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 ;i companion or an object to draw me out when 
 the season is uninviting ; and yet I overcome the 
 dislike of solitary walking, and every day, unless 
 it be a settled rain, Avalk Ions: enousfh, and far 
 and fast enough, to require the wholesome process 
 of rubbing down on my return. At no time of my 
 life have I applied half so closely to my employ- 
 ments as you always do to yours. They impose 
 upon me no restrictions. There is nothing irksome 
 in them ; no anxiety connected with them ; they 
 leave me master of my time and of myself; nor do 
 I doubt but that they would prove conducive to 
 longevity if my constitution were disposed for it. 
 
 With regard to the prudence of working up 
 ready materials rather than laying in more, upon 
 whatever I employ myself, I must of necessity be 
 doing both. The work which I am most desirous 
 of completing is the History of Portugal , as being 
 that for which most preparation has been made, 
 and most time bestowed on it, and when the Pen- 
 insular War shall be completed, by God's blessing, 
 a "week shall not elapse before it goes to the press ; 
 for it has been long in much greater forwardness 
 than any work which I ever before began to print. 
 
 To George Ticknor. 
 
 December 30, 1824. 
 I have delayed thus long to acknowledge and 
 thank you for your last consignment of books, in 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHS y's LIFE. 323 
 
 the hope of telling you, what I am now at last 
 enal)]ed to do, that GifFord has finally given up the 
 Quarterhj Review, and that, after the forthcoming 
 number, it will be under John Coleridge's man- 
 ao-ement. This is a matter which I have had very 
 much at heart, that there might be an end to that 
 mischievous language concerning your country. I 
 opposed it always with all my might, and forced in 
 that pa})er upon DwigMs Travels; yet in the very 
 next number the old system was renewed. So far 
 is it from being the language or the wish of the 
 Government, that one of the Cabinet ministers 
 complained of it to me as most mischievous, and 
 most opposite to the course which they were desir- 
 ous of pursuing. There is an end of it now, and 
 henceforth that journal will do all in its power tow- 
 ards establishing that feeling which ought to exist 
 between the two nations. Let me be peacemaker ; 
 and use what influence you have that the right 
 hand of good-will may be accepted as frankly as it 
 is offered. 
 
 My niece desires me to thank you for the sweet 
 story of Undine, which is surely the most graceful 
 fiction of modern times. Some other pieces of the 
 same author have been translated here, all bearing 
 marks of the same originality and genius. 
 
 1 had made a half promise of going to Ireland, 
 to visit one of the best and ablest persons there, 
 the Bishop of Limerick. But it is not likely that 
 
324 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 the intention can be fulfilled. An Irishman, well 
 informed of the state of things there, writes to me 
 in these words, "Pray don't think of going to 
 Ireland. I would not insure any man's life for 
 three months in that unhappy country. The 
 populace are ready for a rebellion ; and if their 
 leaders should for their own purpose choose to 
 have one, they may have to-morrow a second 
 edition of the Irish massacre." 
 
 Wordsworth was with me lately, in good health, 
 and talked of you. Ilis brother, the Master of 
 Trinity, has just published a volume concerning 
 the Eixotv BdcaiXtxi], a question of no trifling 
 importance both to our political and literary his- 
 tory. As far as minute and accumulative evidence 
 can amount to proof, he has proved it to be 
 genuine. For myself, I have never, since I read 
 the book, thought that any unprejudiced person 
 could entertain a doul)t concerning it. I am the 
 more gratified that this full and satisfactory investi- 
 gation has been m:ide, because it grew out of a 
 conversation between the two WordsAVorths and 
 myself at Rydal, a year or two ago. 
 
 To Mrs. Hughes. 
 
 February 24, 1825. 
 I have had so many fair words in my time, that 
 if they would butter parsnips (which it is well 
 known they will not) they would have been enough 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 325 
 
 for the produce often good acres; and I have, on 
 the other hand, had as many foul ones as would 
 certainly manure those acres. There is as much 
 abuse of me in print as would break the back of an 
 elephant, and as many lies as a brewer's team 
 could draw. And for absurdities, what think you 
 of an American critic (a D.D. at Baltimore) 
 seriously asserting and endeavoring to prove that 
 the Life of Wesley was written in imitation of — 
 the Iliad! 
 
 I have retained a good many childish tastes, 
 Heaven be thanked for it. I like gooseberry-pie 
 as well as ever I did, and sweetmeats and fruit; 
 and can even eat gingerbread, and am very ready 
 to play the fool wherever I feel myself sufficiently 
 at home. And I like praise, too ; but then it 
 must be of the right kind, that is, it must fit. A 
 sentence of Kirke White's concerning Thalaha 
 pleased me more than all the criticism I ever saw 
 upon my own Avritings : it was to the effect that I 
 appeared always to think of what was fitting to be 
 said, and of nothing else. A letter of Mrs. Piozzi 
 was shown me once, in which, speaking of my Let- 
 ter to Wm. Smith, she said, "Oh, how I delight 
 to see him trample on his enemies ! " and that was 
 worth all the panegyric in the world. 
 
326 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 To Henry Taylor.* 
 
 March 28, 1825. 
 
 Now then for my summer movements. Do not 
 think me actuated by mere fickleness, if I propose 
 crossing the Channel instead of the Severn, and 
 drinking Rhenish Avine instead of Welsh ale. I 
 want to see Holland, Avhich is a place of man's 
 making, country as well as towns. I want mo- 
 nastic books, which it is hopeless to look for in 
 England, and which there is everv probability of 
 finding at Brussels, Antwerp, or Leyden. In the 
 course of three or four Aveeks, going sometimes by 
 trekschuits and sometimes upon Avheels, Ave might 
 see the principal places in the Dutch Netherlands, 
 visit the spot Avhere Sir Philip Sidne}^ fell, talk of 
 the Dousas and Scaliger at Leyden, and obtain 
 such a general notion of the land as Avould enable 
 us better to understand the history of the Low 
 Country AA^ars. Neville White would perhaps join 
 us ; and alwaA^s in traA'elling three persons are 
 better than tAvo, especially as neither you nor I 
 (I suspect) are such good men of business as not 
 to be glad if a better could be found to officiate as 
 paymaster. Tell me if a^ou like this scheme. If 
 you do I will write to Neville without delay, and 
 be ready to start from London by the 1st of June. 
 
 * Afterwards Sir Henry Taylor, the well known author of 
 Philip Van Artvelde. — Ed. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 327 
 
 To the same. 
 
 May 2, 1825. 
 
 You do not expect enough from Holland. It is 
 a marvellous country in itself, in its history, and 
 in the men and works which it has produced. The 
 very existence of the country is at once a natural 
 and a moral phenomenon. Mountaineer as I am, 
 I expect to feel more in Holland than in Switzer- 
 land. Instead of climbing mountains, we shall 
 have to ascend church -towers. The panorama 
 from that at Harlaem is said to be one of the most 
 impressive in the world. Evening is the time for 
 seeing it to most advantage. 
 
 I have not yet forgotten the interest which 
 Watson's Histories of Philip II. and III. excited 
 in me when a school-boy. They are books which 
 I have never looked into since ; but I have read 
 largely concerning the Dutch war gainst the 
 Spaniards, on both sides, and there is no part of 
 Europe which could be so interesting to me as his- 
 torical ground. Perhaps my pursuits may have 
 made me more alive than most men to associations 
 of this kind ; but I would go fjir to see the scene 
 of any event which has made ray heart throb with 
 a generous emotion, or the grave of any one whom 
 I desire to meet in another state of existence. 
 
 [To Holland, Southey went accordingly, and at 
 Leyden he was laid up with a bad foot, and for 
 
328 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 three weeks was hospitably entertained by the poet 
 Bilderdijlv and by his poet wife, who, as we have 
 seen, had translated Roderick.'] 
 
 To Mrs. Southey. 
 
 Leyden, June 30, 1825. 
 You will now expect to hear something of the 
 establishment into which I have been thus — un- 
 luckily shall I say, or luckily ? — introduced. The 
 house is a good one, in a cheerful street, with a 
 row of trees and a canal in front : large, and with 
 every thing good and comfortable about it. The 
 only child, Lodowijk Willem, is at home, Mr. 
 Bilderdijk being as little fond of schools as I am. 
 The boy has a peculiar and to me an interesting 
 countenance. He is evidently of a weak constitu- 
 tion ; his dress neat but formal, and his behavior 
 towards me amusing from his extreme politeness, 
 and the evident pleasure with which he receives 
 any attempt on my part to address him, or any 
 notice that I take of him at taljle. A young vrouw 
 waits at table. I wish you could see her, for she 
 is a much odder figure than iSIaria Rosa * appeared 
 on her first introduction, only not so cheerful a 
 one. Her dress is bhick and white, perfectly neat, 
 and not more s^raceful than a Beo;uine's. The 
 cap, which is very little, and has a small front not 
 projecting farther than the green shade which I 
 * A Portuguese servant. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHS y'S LIFE. 329 
 
 wear soraetiraes for my eyes, comes down to the 
 roots of the hair, which is all combed back on the 
 forehead; and she is as white and wan in com- 
 plexion as her cap ; slender and not ill-made ; and 
 were it not for this utter paleness she would be 
 rather handsome. Another vrouw, who appears 
 more rarely, is not in such plain dress, but quite 
 as odd in her way. Nothing can be more amusing 
 than Mr. Bilderdijk's conversation. Dr. Bell is 
 not more full of life, spirits, and enthusiasm ; 
 I am reminded of him every minute. He seems 
 delio-hted to have a guest who can understand, and 
 will listen to him ; and he is not a little pleased at 
 discerning how many points of resem1)lance there 
 are between us. For he is as laborious as I have 
 been ; has written upon as many subjects ; is just 
 as much abused by the Liberals in his country as I 
 am in mine, and does "contempt" them as heartily 
 and as merrily as I do. I am growing intimate 
 with Mrs. Bilderdijk, about whom her husband in 
 the overflowing of his spirits tells me everything. 
 He is very fond of her, and very proud of her, as 
 well he may be, and on her part she is as proud 
 of him. 
 
 To tJie same. 
 
 Leyden, July 7, 1825. 
 This is our manner of life. At eight in the 
 morning Lodowijk knocks at my door. My 
 movements in dressing are as regular as clock- 
 
330 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 work, and when I enter the adjoining room break- 
 fast is ready on a sofa-table, which is phiced for 
 m}^ convenience close to the sofa. There I take 
 my place, seated on one cushion, and with my leg 
 raised on another. The sofa is covered with black 
 plush. The family take coffee, but I have a jug 
 of boiled milk. Two sorts of cheese are on the 
 table, one of which is very strong, and highly 
 flavored with cummin and cloves ; this is called 
 Ley den cheese, and is eaten at breakfast laid in 
 thin slices on bread and butter. The bread is 
 soft, in rolls, which have rather skin than crust ; 
 the butter very rich, but so soft that it is brought 
 in a pot to table, like potted meat. Before we be- 
 gin Mr. B. takes off a little gray cap, and a silent 
 grace is said, not longer than it ought to be ; when 
 it is over he generally takes his wife's hand. They 
 sit side by side opposite me ; Lodowijk at the end 
 of the table. About ten o'clock Mr. Droesa comes 
 and dresses my foot, which is swathed in one of my 
 silk handkerchiefs. I bind a second round the 
 bottom of the pantaloon, and if the weather be 
 cold I put on a third ; so that the leg has not 
 merely a decent, but rather a splendid appearance. 
 After breakfast and tea Mrs. B. washes up the china 
 herself at the table. Part of the morning Mr. B. 
 sits with me. During the rest I read Dutch, or, 
 as at present, retire into my bedroom and write. 
 Henry Taylor calls in the morning, and is always 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTH EY's LIFE. 331 
 
 pressed to dine, which he does twice or thrice in 
 the week. We dine at half-past two or three, and 
 the dinners, to my great pleasure, are altogether 
 Dutch. You know I am a valiant eater, and having 
 retained my appetite as well as my spirits during 
 this confinement, I eat everything which is put be- 
 fore me. The dinner lasts very long. Strawber- 
 ries and cherries always follow. After coiFee, they 
 leave me to an hour's nap. Tea follows. Supper 
 at half-past nine, when Mr. B. takes milk, and I 
 a little cold meat with pickles, or the gravy of the 
 meat preserved in a form like jell}'-, and at half- 
 past ten I go to bed. My host's conversation is 
 amusing beyond anything I ever heard. I cannot 
 hope to describe it so as to make you conceive it. 
 The matter is always so interesting, that it would 
 alone suffice to keep one's attention on the alert ; 
 his manner is beyond expression animated, and his 
 language the most extraordinary that can be imag- 
 ined. Even my French cannot be half so odd. 
 It is English pronounced like Dutch, and with 
 such a mixture of other languages, that it is an even 
 chance whether the next word that comes be French, 
 Latin, or Dutch, or one of either tongues shaped 
 into an English form. Sometimes the oddest 
 imaginable expressions occur. When he would 
 say "I was pleased," he says "I was very pleas- 
 ant" ; and instead of saying that a poor woman was 
 wounded, with whom he was overturned in a 
 
332 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 stage-coach in England, he said she was severely 
 blessed. "Withal, whatever he says is so full of in- 
 formation, vivacity, and character, and there is 
 such a thorough good nature, kindness, and frank- 
 ness about him, that I never felt myself more 
 interested in any man's company. The profits of 
 literature here are miseraljly small. In that respect 
 I am in relation to them what Sir Walter Scott is 
 in relation to me. I can never sufficiently show 
 my sense of the kindness which I am experiencing 
 here. Think what a difference it is to be confined 
 in an hotel, with all the discomforts, or to be in 
 such a family as this, who show by every word 
 and every action that they are_ truly pleased in 
 having me under their roof. 
 
 To Miss Katherine Southey. 
 
 Amsterdam, July 16, 1825. 
 
 Thursday I settled my business as to book- 
 sellers. — Oh, joy! when that chest of glorious 
 folios shall arrive at Keswick — the pleasure of un- 
 packing, of arranging them on the new shelves that 
 must be provided, and the whole year's repast after 
 supper which they will afford ! 
 
 Yesterday our kind friends accompanied us a 
 little way in the trekschuit on our departure, and 
 we parted with much regret on both sides. If ^Ir. 
 Bilderdijk can muster spirits for the undertaking, 
 they will come and pass a summer with me, — ■ 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 333 
 
 which of all things in the world would give me 
 most pleasure, for never did I meet with more true 
 kindness than they have shown me, or with two 
 persons who have in so many essential respects so 
 entirely pleased me. Lodowijk, too, is a very en- 
 gaging boy, and attached himself greatly to me ; 
 he is the only survivor of eight children whom Mr. 
 Bilderdijk has had by his present wife, -and of 
 seven by the fii'st ! I can truly say, that unpleas- 
 ant as the circumstance was which l)rought me un- 
 der their roof, no part of my life ever seemed to 
 pass away more rapidly or more pleasantly. 
 
 To Caroline Bowles. 
 
 October 14, 1825. 
 My rks arrived a fortnight ago. A son of 
 my old friend Lightfoot who happened to be here 
 and assisted in unpacking them told his father he 
 had never seen any man look so happy as I did 
 upon that occasion. Now I was as happy as the 
 arrival of eighty-nine folios and about as many 
 smaller fry could make me. The honeymoon is 
 not over yet. O dear Caroline, what a blessing it 
 is to have an insatiable appetite of this kind, which 
 grows by what it feeds on, and for which food can 
 never be wanting ! With such })ursuits nothing is 
 wanting to my enjoyment, and the only thing I 
 wish for is — now and then — the presence of 
 some one who could fairly enter into my views and 
 
334 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 feelings, and partake the interest which I take in 
 such researches. 
 
 To Henry Taylor. 
 
 October 22, 1825. 
 
 Canning came here from Lowther, and sat about 
 half an hour with me. My acquaintance Avith him 
 is of some five years' standing, and of course slight, 
 as it is very rarely that circumstances bring me in 
 his way. Had w^e been thrown together in early 
 life, — that is, if I had been three years older, and 
 had been sent to Eton instead of Westminster, — 
 we might prol)a))ly have become friends. " Yevy 
 ordinary intelligence " has never sufficed for me in 
 the choice of my associates, unless there Avas 
 extraordinary kindness of disposition, or strength 
 of moral character to compensate for what was 
 wanting. When these are found, I can do very 
 well without great talents ; but without them the 
 greatest talents have no attractions for me. If 
 Canning w^ere my neighbor, w^e might easily be- 
 come familiar, for we should find topics enough 
 of common interest, and familiarit}' grows naturally 
 out of an easy intercourse where that is the case. 
 But I am very sure that his good opinion of me 
 would not be increased by anything that he would 
 see of me in general society. 
 
 With regard to my writings, I am well aware 
 that some of them are addressed to a comparatively 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 335 
 
 small part of the public, out of which they will not 
 be read. Probably not half-a-dozen even of those 
 persons who are most attached to me, ever read all 
 that I have published. But if immediate reputa- 
 tion were my object, I know not how it could more 
 surely be attained than by writing to such different 
 classes as those among whom my different books 
 find readers for the sake of the subject matter. 
 The truth, however, is, that this never enters into 
 my consideration. I take up a subject because it 
 interests me. I treat it in the manner which 
 seemeth best in my own eyes, and when it has 
 been sent forth to take its chance, the only care 
 which I have concerningit is to correct and improve 
 it in case it should be reprinted. 
 
 The Bishop of Chester has been here, and 
 Mackintosh breakfasted with me and spent an 
 evening also. He has been in Holland, but knows 
 Bilderdijk only by name and by reputation. 
 
 My books arrived about a month ago, and I 
 have been in a high state of enjoyment ever since. 
 
 To Henry Taylor. 
 
 December 31, 1825. 
 I have pursued so little method in my own 
 studies at any time of my life that I am in truth 
 very little qualified to direct others. Having been 
 from youth, and even childhood, an omnivorous 
 reader, I found myself when I commenced man 
 
336 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 with a larger stock of general information than 
 young men usually possess, and the desultory 
 reading in which I have always indulged (making 
 it indeed my whole and sole recreation,) has proved 
 of the greatest use when I have been pursuing a 
 particular subject through all its ramifications. 
 
 With regard to metaphj'sics I know nothing, 
 and therefore can sav nothins:. Coleridofe I am 
 sure knows all that can be known concerninsf 
 them ; and if your friend can get at the kernel of 
 his Friend and his Aids to Reflection, he may crack 
 peach-stones without any fear of breaking his 
 teeth. For logic — that may be considered indis- 
 pensable, but how far that natural logic which 
 belongs to good sense is assisted or impeded by 
 the technicalities of the schools, others are better 
 al)le to determine than I am, for I learned very 
 little, and nothing which I ever learnt stuck by me 
 unless I liked it. 
 
 The rules for composition appear to me very 
 simple ; inasmuch as any style is peculiar, the pe- 
 culiarity is a fault, and the proof of this is the 
 easiness with which it is imitated, or, in other 
 words, cauijht. You foro-ive it in the original for 
 its originality, and because originality is usually 
 connected with power. Sallust and Tacitus are ex- 
 amples among the Latins, Sir T. Browne, Gibbon, 
 and Johnson among our own authors ; but look at 
 the imitations of Gibbon and Johnson ! My ad- 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 337 
 
 vice to a young writer is, that he should weigh 
 w^ell what he says, and not be anxious concerning 
 how he says it : that his first object should be to 
 express his meaning as perspicuously, his second, 
 as briefly, as he can, and in this everything is in- 
 cluded. 
 
 One of our exercises at Westminster was to 
 abridge the book which we were reading. I be- 
 lieve that this was singularly useful to me. The 
 difficulties in narration are to select and to arrange. 
 The first must depend upon your judgment. For 
 the second, my way is, when the matter does not 
 dispose itself to my liking, and I cannot readily 
 see how to connect one part with another naturally, 
 or make an easy transition, to lay it aside. What 
 I should bungle at now may be hit off to-morrow ; 
 so when I come to a stop in one work I lay it 
 down and take up another. 
 
 For a statesman the first thing requisite is to be 
 well-read in history. Our politicians are continu- 
 ally striking upon rocks and shallows, which are 
 all laid down in the chart. As this is the most 
 important and most interesting branch of knowl- 
 edge, so also is it one to which there is no end. 
 The more you read the more you desire to read, 
 and the more you find there is to be read. And yet 
 I would say this to encourage the student, not to 
 dismay him, for there is no ])leasure like this per- 
 petual acquisition and perpetual pursuit. For an 
 
338 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 Englishman there is no single historical work with 
 which it can be so necessary for him to he well and 
 thoroughly acquainted as with Clarendon. I feel 
 at this time perfectly assured that if that hook had 
 been put into my hands in youth it would have 
 })reservcd me from all the political errors which I 
 have outgrown. 
 
 The advice I would give any one who is disposed 
 really to read for the sake of knowledge, is, that 
 he should have two or three books in course of 
 reading at the same time. He will read a s^reat 
 deal more in that time and Avith much greater profit. 
 All travels are Avorth reading, as sul)sidiary to 
 reading, and in fact essential parts of it : old or 
 new, it matters not — something is to be learned 
 from all. And the custom of making brief notes 
 of reference to ever3'thingof interest or importance 
 would be exceeding useful. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 February 18, 1826. 
 Do you remember my buying a Dutch grammar 
 in the "cool May" of 1799, and how Ave Avere 
 amused at Brixton Avith the Dutch grammarian 
 who pitied himself, and loved his good and rich 
 brother? That grammar is in use noAV ; and 
 Cuthbertandl have begun upon Jacol) Cats ; Avho, 
 in spite of his name, and of the ill-looking and 
 not-much-better-sounding languaoe in Avhich he 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 339 
 
 wrote, I verily believe to have been the most use- 
 ful poet that any country ever produced. In 
 Biklerdijk's youth, Jacob Cats was to be found in 
 every respectable house throughout Holland, 
 lying beside the hall Bible. One of his longer 
 poems, which describes the course of female life, 
 and female duties, from childhood to the grave, 
 was in such estimation, that an ornamented edition 
 of it was printed solely for bridal presents. He is, 
 in the best sense of the word, a domestic poet ; 
 intelliirible to the humblest of his readers, while 
 the dexterity and felicity of his diction make him 
 the admiration of those who are best able to ap- 
 preciate the merits of his style. And for useful 
 practical morals, maxims for every-day life, lessons 
 that find their way through the understanding to 
 the heart, and fix themselves there, I know of no 
 poet who can be compared to him. Mi Cats inter 
 omnes. Cedite Romani Scriptores. cedite Graii ! 
 
 To John Rickman. 
 
 April 26, 1826. 
 
 You have had more than your share of this 
 world's business. I doubt whether any other man 
 who has worked so hardly has worked so continu- 
 ously and so long. Our occupations withdraw us 
 all too much from nearer and more lasting con- 
 cerns. Time and nature, especially when aided 
 by any sorrows, prepare us for better influences ; 
 
340 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 and when we feel what is w^anting, we seek and 
 find it. The clouds then disperse, and the even- 
 ing is calm and clear, even till night closes. 
 
 Long and intimate conversance with Romish and 
 sectarian history, with all the varieties of hypo- 
 critical villany and religious madness, has given 
 me the fullest conviction of the certainty and im- 
 portance of those truths, from the perversion and 
 distortion of which these evils and abuses have 
 grown. There is not a spark of fanaticism left in 
 my composition : whatever there was of it in 
 youth spent itself harmlessly in political romance, 
 lam more in danger, therefore, of having too little 
 of theo})athy than too much, — of having my re- 
 ligious faith more in the understandino: than in the 
 heart. In the understanding I am sure it is ; I 
 hope it is in both. This good in myself my 
 ecclesiastical pursuits have certainly effected. 
 And if I live to finish the whole of my plans, I 
 shall do better service to the Church of England 
 than I could ever have done as one of its ministers, 
 had I kept to the course which it was intended 
 that I should pursue. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Holland — Declines a Seat in Parliament — Death of a Daughter — 
 Letter to his Children — Death of his Uncle — Favorite Authors- 
 A Dutch Bookseller— James Barry — The Evangelical Party — 
 Literary Style. 
 
 [In the summer of this year Southey paid 
 another short visit to Holland, accompanied by his 
 friends Henry Taylor (afterwards Sir Henry) and 
 Mr. Rickman. AVhile absent on this tour an ad- 
 mirer of the Booh of the Church, who afterwards 
 proved to be Lord Radnor, managed to get him 
 returned for the Borough of Downton. This will 
 explain the next letter written from London where 
 he first received the news : — ] 
 
 To Richard White. 
 
 July 1, 1826. 
 I heard accidentally at Brussels that I had been 
 returned for the Borough of Downton, and on my 
 arrival here, on Wednesday last, I found a letter, 
 announcing, in the most gratifying and honorable 
 manner, that this distinction had been conferred 
 upon me through the influence of the writer, 
 whose name had not been aflixed; had that how- 
 ever been doubtful, the writing was recognized by 
 my old and intimate friend Mr. John May. 
 
 241 
 
342 THE STORY OF SOUTHS y's LIFE. 
 
 Our first impulses in matters which involve any 
 question of moral importance, are, I believe, 
 usually right. Three days allowed for mature 
 consideration have confirmed me in mine. A seat 
 in Parliament is neither consistent with my cir- 
 cumstances, inclinations, ha])its, or pursuits in life. 
 The return is null, because I hold a pension of 
 200?. a 3'ear during pleasure. And if there were 
 not this obstacle, there would be the want of a 
 qualification. That pension is my only certain 
 income; and the words of the oath (which I have 
 looked at) are too unequivocal for me to take 
 them upon such grounds as are sometimes supplied 
 for such occasions. 
 
 For these reasons, which are and must be con- 
 clusive, the course is plain. AVhen Parliament 
 meets a new writ must be moved for, the election 
 as relating to myself being null. I must otherwise 
 have applied for the Chiltern Hundreds. 
 
 It is, however, no inconsiderable honor to have 
 been so distinguished. This I shall always feel ; 
 and if I do not express immediately to j'our friend 
 my sense of the obligation he has conferred upon 
 me, it is not from any want of thankfulness, but 
 from a doubt how far it might be proper to reply 
 to an unsigned communication. May I therefore 
 request that you will express this thankfulness for 
 me, and say at the same time, that I trust, in my 
 own station, and in the quiet pursuance of my own 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 343 
 
 scheme of life, by God's blessing, to render better 
 service to those institutions, the welfare of which 
 I have at my heart, than it would be possible for 
 me to do in a public assembly. 
 
 [On arriving at Keswick this most affectionate 
 of fathers found his daughter Isabel dving. She 
 did not live many days : — ] 
 
 To Edith May, Bertha, and Katharine Soutliey. 
 
 July 19, 1826. 
 
 I write rather than speak to you on this oc- 
 casion, because I can better bear to do it, and be- 
 cause what is written will remain, and may serve 
 hereafter for consolation and admonishment, of 
 which the happiest and best of us stand but too 
 often in need. 
 
 If anything could at this time increase my sor- 
 row, for the death of one who was the pride of my 
 eyes and the joy of my heart, it Avould be that 
 there are so many who have their full share in it. 
 When your dear mother and I were last visited 
 with a like affliction, you were too young to com- 
 prehend its nature. You feel and understand it 
 now ; but you are also capable of profiting by it ; 
 and laying to your hearts the parental exhorta- 
 tions which I address to you, while they are 
 wounded and open. 
 
 This is but the first trial of many such which 
 
344 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 are in store for you. Who may be summoned 
 next is known only to the All-wise Disposer of all 
 things. Some of you must have to mourn for 
 others ; some one for all the rest. It may be the 
 "will of God that I should follow more of my chil- 
 dren to the grave ; or in the ordinary course of 
 nature and happiest issue, they may see their 
 parents depart. Did we consider these things 
 "wisely, we should perceive how little it imports 
 "who may go first, "svho last ; of how little conse- 
 quence sooner or later is, in what must be. We 
 umst all depart when our time comes, — all to be 
 re-united in a better state of existence, where we 
 shall part no more. 
 
 Our business here is to fit ourselves for that 
 state, — not by depreciating or renouncing those 
 pleasures which may innocently and properly be 
 enjoyed, but by correcting the faults to which we 
 are prone, cultivating our better dispositions, do- 
 ing the will of God by doing all we can for the 
 good of others, and fixing our dearest hopes on 
 Heaven, which is our resting-i)lace, and our ever- 
 lasting home. 
 
 My children, you have all brought into the 
 world good dispositions : I bless God for it, more 
 than for all the other blessings which he has vouch- 
 safed me. But the best dis})Ositions require self- 
 Avatchfulness, as there is no garden but what 
 produces weeds. Blessed be God, I have never 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 345 
 
 seen in either of you any one symptom of an evil 
 nature. Agiiinst great sins tliere is no occasion to 
 warn you ; but it is by guarding against little ones 
 that we acquire a holy habit of mind, which is the 
 sure foundation of happiness here and hereafter. 
 
 You know how I loved your dear sister, my 
 sweet Isabel, who is now gathered to that part of 
 my family and household (a large one now !) 
 which is in Heaven. I can truly say that my de- 
 sire has ever been to make your childhood happy, 
 as I would fain make your youth, and pray that 
 God would make the remainder of your days. 
 And for the dear child who is departed, God 
 knows that I never heard her name mentioned, nor 
 spoke, nor thought of her, without affection and 
 delight. Yet this day, when I am about to see 
 her mortal remains connnitted earth to earth, it is 
 a grief for me to think that I should ever, by a 
 harsh or hasty word, have given her even a mo- 
 mentary sorrow which might have been spared. 
 
 Check in yourselves, then, I beseech you, the 
 first impulses of impatience, peevishness, ill-humor, 
 anger, and resentment. I do not charge you with 
 being prone to these sins, — far from it, — but 
 there is proneness enough to them in human 
 nature. They are easily subdued in their begin- 
 nings ; if they are yielded to they gather strength 
 and virulence, and lead to certain unhappiness in 
 all the relations of life. A meek, submissive, 
 
346 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 obliging disposition is worth all other qualities. 
 I beseech you, therefore, to bear and forbear, care- 
 fully to guard against giving offence, and more 
 carefully (for this is the more needful admonition) 
 to guard against taking it. A soft answer turneth 
 away wrath. There is no shield against wrongs so 
 effectual as an unresisting temper. You Avill soon 
 find the reward of any conquest which you shall 
 thus obtain over 3'ourselves : the satisfaction is 
 immediate ; and the hal)it of equanimity which is 
 thus easily acquired will heighten all your enjoy- 
 ments here, as Avell as enable you the better to 
 sup[)ort those afflictions which are inseparable 
 from humanitj'. 
 
 Your sister is departed in her innocence ; " of 
 such is the kingdom of Heaven." For you, if your 
 lives are prolonged, there will be duties and trials 
 in store, for wdiich you must prepare by self- 
 government, and for "which God will prepare you 
 if you steadfastly trust in His promises, and pray 
 for that grace Avhich is never withheld from humble 
 and assiduous prayer. 
 
 My children, God alone knows how long I may 
 be spared to you. I am more solicitous to provide 
 for your peace of mind, and for your everlasting 
 interest, than for your Avorldly fortunes. As I 
 have acted for myself in that respect, so do I feel 
 for 3'ou. The longer I may live, the more in all 
 likelihood will be the provision which may be made 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 347 
 
 for you ; large it can never be, though whenever 
 the hour comes there will be enough, with pru- 
 dence and good conduct, for respectability and 
 comfort. But were it less, my heart would be at 
 rest concerning you while I felt and believed that 
 you were imbued Avith those principles, and had 
 carefully cultivated in yourselves those dispositions, 
 which will make you heritors of eternal life. 
 
 I copy this letter for each of you with my own 
 hand. It will be read with grief now. But there 
 will come a time when you may think of it with a 
 solemn rather than melancholy pleasure, and feel 
 grateful for this proof of love. Take it, then, 
 with the blessing of 
 
 Your afflicted and atfectionate Father. 
 
 To Mrs. Hughes. 
 
 August 22, 1826. 
 
 Time is passing on ; we are in our usual course 
 of life, and I do w^hat I can to make the younger 
 part of my family resume that healthful cheerful- 
 ness which is the portion of youth. They have 
 been much shaken. Their mother seems as if a 
 weight of years had been laid suddenly upon her : 
 and something of this effect I am sensible of in mv- 
 self. Afflictions of this kind seem to come the 
 heavier when they are repeated, and they leave 
 behind a fearful and ever apprehensive anxiety ; 
 we have now lost four out of eight, and the best 
 
348 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 consolation is in the sure prospect of rejoining 
 them. 
 
 Do not, however, suppose that I give way to any 
 vain regrets. I know too well that my duties are 
 in this world, while my desires are toward a 
 better ; and I know also that in the present state 
 of the world, for those who depart in their inno- 
 cence, to die is best. All that we have to do 
 here being to make ourselves fit for imraortalitj', 
 they are happiest who are earliest removed from 
 the snares which beset us and the sorrows which 
 are inevitably our portion. The truth of this is 
 felt when sorrow overtakes us. But ^vith all the 
 efforts of reason and all the consolations of re- 
 ligion also, there remains a grief which will be 
 long in healing, and a loss which is daily and 
 hourly felt, and of which everything is continually 
 reminding us. Mine is a sad memory ; it treas- 
 ures up everything which I would wish to forget. 
 
 To G. W. W. Wynn, M. P. 
 
 August 24, 1826. 
 
 If you have ever met with the works of Dr. 
 Jackson, who was President of Corpus in Charles 
 the First's reign, they will need no recommenda- 
 tion to you ; but if you have not, you may thank 
 me for mentioning a writer who deserves to be 
 ranked in the very first class of our divines, 
 among whom surely are some of the strongest 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 349 
 
 minds that any country has ever produced. The 
 writinf];s were collected in three folios, 1672. 
 They ought to be reprinted at the Clarendon press. 
 Of late years I have been very fond of these 
 studies, and wish to have a great library at hand, 
 more for the desire of its old divinity than for any- 
 thing else. South is, perhaps, the author in Avhoni 
 I have found least that I could wish had not been 
 there, and who has kept my attention the most 
 continuously awake by a continual sense of excite- 
 ment and pleasure. Jeremy Ta3'lor gives me the 
 ofreatest occasional delio'ht ; but in no other do I 
 find such height and de[)th of divine philosophy as 
 in Jackson ; he had all the stores of learning and 
 all the arms of logic at command. You feel in his 
 writings what is known from his life, that his 
 whole conduct was conformed to the purest prin- 
 ciples of Christian faith ; nothing can be more in- 
 tellectual, more elevating, or more devout. 
 
 To Sharon Turner. 
 
 November 12, 1826. 
 On "Wednesday next I shall write to the Speaker, 
 and lay down ni}' ]M.P.-sliip. No temptation that 
 could have been offered would have induced me 
 to sacrifice the leisure and tranquillity of a studious 
 and private life. Free from ambition I cannot 
 pretend to be, but what ambition I have is not of 
 an ordinary kind : rank, and power, and office I 
 
350 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 would decline without a moment's hesitation, were 
 they proffered for my acceptance ; and for riches, 
 if I ever perceive the shadow of a wish for them, 
 it is not for their own sake, but as they would 
 facilitate my pursuits, and render locomotion less 
 inconvenient. The world, thank God, has little 
 hold on me. I would fain persuade myself that 
 even the desire of posthumous fame is now only the 
 hope of instilling sound opinions into others, and 
 scattering the seeds of good. All else I have out- 
 lived. I have suffered severely since we parted. 
 Little, indeed, when I breakfasted with you last 
 did I apprehend the affliction which Avas impending 
 over me, and which had even then begun its course. 
 But the Avill of God be done ! My bodily health 
 has not recovered the shock, nor will it speedily, 
 I fear. I am, however, now in full activity of 
 mind, and feel the perfect leisure which winter 
 brings with it in this place as a relief and comfort. 
 
 To Grovesnor Bedford. 
 
 December 8, 1826. 
 
 Hear the second part of the history of my par- 
 liamentary affairs : — 
 
 On Wednesday, I received a note from Harry, 
 saying that a plan had been formed for purchasing 
 a qualitication for me ; that Sir Robert Inglis had 
 just communicated this to him, and was then 
 gone to Lord R. to ask him to keep the borough 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 351 
 
 open : that be (Harry) doubted wbetber a suffi- 
 cieut subscription could l)e raised, l)ut sujiposed 
 that under these circumstances I should not refuse 
 the seat ; and desired ni}^ answer by return of 
 post, that he might be authorized to say I would 
 sit in Parliament if they gave me an estate of 
 300?. a year. 
 
 I rubbed my eyes to ascertain that I was awake, 
 and that this was no dream. I heard Cuthbert his 
 Greek lesson, and read his Dutch one with him. 
 I corrected a proof-sheet. And then, the matter 
 having had time to digest, I wrote in reply, as 
 follows : — 
 
 My DEAR H., — 
 
 An estate of 300?. a year would be a very agree- 
 able thing for me, Robert Lackland, and I would 
 willingly change that name for it : the convenience, 
 however, of having an estate is not the question 
 which I am called upon to determine. It is (sup- 
 posing the arrangement possible, — which I greatly 
 doubt) , whether I will enter into public life at an 
 age when a wise man would liegin to think of re- 
 tiring from it : whether I will place myself in a 
 situation for which neither my habits, nor talents, 
 nor disposition are suited ; and in which I feel and 
 know it to be impossible that I should fulfil the ex- 
 pectations of those who would raise the subscription. 
 Others ought to believe me, and you will, when I 
 
352 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 declare that in any pul)lic assembly I should have 
 no confidence in myself, no promptitude, none of 
 that presence of mind, Avithout which no man can 
 produce any effect there. This ought to be be- 
 lieved, because 1 have them all Avhen acting in my 
 proper station, and in my own way, and therefore 
 cannot be supposed to speak from timidity, nor with 
 anv affectation of humilitv. Sir Robert Ino-lis and 
 his friends have the Protestant cause at heart, and 
 imagine that I could serve it in Parliament. I have 
 it at heart also ; deeply at heart ; and will serve it 
 to the utmost of my power, " so help me God ! " 
 But it is not by speaking in public that I can serve 
 it. It is by bringing forth the knowledge which 
 so large a part of my life has been passed in ac- 
 quiring ; by exposing the real character and history 
 of the Romish Church, s^'stematicalh- and irre- 
 fragably (which I can and will do) in books which 
 will be read now and hereafter ; which must make 
 a part, hereafter, of every historical library ; and 
 which will live and act when I am gone. If I felt 
 that I could make an impression in Parliament, 
 even then I would not give up future utility for 
 present efiect. I have too little ambition of one 
 kind, and too much of another to make the sacri- 
 fice. But I could make no impression there. 
 
THE STORY OF SOiJtHEY'S LIFE. 353 
 
 To Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 February 21, 1827. 
 I know not how I have lost sight of you so long, 
 nor whether this may find you at Florence, nor 
 what may have befallen you in the interval since 
 we have communicated. No such affliction, I hope, 
 as has befallen me, in the loss of my youngest 
 daughter. Seven months have elapsed since we 
 suffered this bereavement. She was the flower 
 of my family, — and a lovelier flower this earth 
 never produced. It was long before I could re- 
 cover, heart for anything, and sometimes I fear that 
 lu}^ spirits will never again be what they have been. 
 jVly wife's, I have but too nmch cause to appre- 
 hend, have received a shock from which they will 
 not recover. Yet we have much left for which to 
 be thankful ; and, above all, I am thankful for that 
 settled and quiet faith which makes me look on to 
 the end of my journey as a point of hope. 
 
 To the Rev. Neville White. 
 
 May 5, 1827. 
 The question about National Education you will 
 see discussed in my Colloquies, when they are com- 
 pleted. Here is the gist of the question. The 
 human mind is like the earth, which never lies 
 idle. You have a piece of garden ground. 
 Neglect it, and it will be covered with weeds, use- 
 less to yourself and noxious to your neighbors. 
 
354 THE STOEY OF SCUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 To lay it out in floAvers and shrubbery is what you 
 do not want. Cultivate it then for common fruits 
 and culinary plants. So with poor children. 
 Why should they be made worse servants, worse 
 laborers, worse mechanics, for being taught their 
 Bible, their Christian duties, and the elements of 
 useful knowledge? I am no friend of the London 
 University, nor to Mechanics' Institutes. There 
 is a purpose in all these things of excluding re- 
 ligion, and preparing the way for the overthrow 
 of the Church. But God will confound their de- 
 vices ; and my principle is, that where a religious 
 foundation is laid, the more education the better. 
 Will you have the lower class Christians or 
 h7mtes? 
 
 To Henry Taylor. 
 
 September 13, 1827. 
 
 I am sorry to hear that cares have been knocking 
 at your door ; they must have gone out of their 
 way, methinks, to call there. I thought that you 
 had no thorns either in your sides or your pillow. 
 Tidings after an absence of a few weeks afford in- 
 deed at all times matter for uneasy apprehension ; 
 and if you and I had this to learn, the two journeys 
 which we have taken together would have taught 
 it us. 
 
 I found a great want of 3^ou (as they say in this 
 country) during your absence. One likes to have 
 one's friends in a local habitation where at any 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LITE. 355 
 
 time they may be found ; to be out of reach is too 
 like beinof out of the world. It often came into 
 my thoughts that if H. T. were in London I should 
 have written to him upon such and such occasions, 
 and quite as often that I should have had some 
 brief notices of the strange turns of the wheel. 
 
 You distrust opinions, you tell me, when you 
 perceive a strong tenor of feeling in the writer who 
 maintains them. The distrust is reasonable, and 
 is especially to be borne in mind in reading his- 
 tory. My opinions are (thank God!) connected 
 with stronar feelina^s concernino: them, but not such 
 as can either disturb my temper or cloud my dis- 
 cernment, much less pervert what I will venture 
 to call the natural equity of my mind. I proceed 
 upon these postulates, — 1. That revealed religion 
 is true; 2. that the connection between Church 
 and State is necessary; 3. that the Church of 
 England is the best ecclesiastical establishment 
 which exists at present, or has yet existed ; 4. 
 that both Church and State require great amend- 
 ments ; 5. that both are in sfreat danger ; and 6. that 
 a revolution would destroy the happiness of one 
 generation, and leave things at last worse than it 
 found them. 
 
 If our institutions are worth preserving we can- 
 not be attached to them too strongly, remembering 
 always that the only way to preserve them is by 
 keeping them in good repair. The two duties 
 
356 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 upon which I insist are those of conservation and 
 improvement. We must improve our institutions 
 if we would preserve them ; but if any go to work 
 upon the foundations, down must come the build- 
 ing. 
 
 To John May. 
 
 September 15, 1827. 
 You ought to become acquainted with my old 
 friend Jose})h Cottle, the best-hearted of men, with 
 whom my biographical letters will one day have 
 much to do. It would give him great pleasure to 
 see any one with whom he could talk about me. 
 Make an hour's leisure some day and call upon 
 him, and announce yourself to him and his sisters 
 as my friend. You will see a notable portrait of 
 me before my mane was shorn, and become ac- 
 quainted with one who has a larger portion of 
 original ofoodness than falls to the lot of most 
 men. 
 
 To 3Iis. Hodson. 
 
 August 14, 1828. 
 
 I wish there were but one ten thousand of those 
 persons in England who talk al)0ut new books and 
 buy them, whether they read, mark, and inwardly 
 digest them or not, that felt half as nmch interest 
 in any forthcoming or expected work of mine as 
 you are pleased to express, and as I should be un- 
 just, as well as ungrateful, if I did not give you 
 credit for. Alas ! my third volume of the Penin- 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 357 
 
 sular War is far from complete, very far. It must 
 be a close and bard winter's work tbat will make 
 it ready for publication in the spring. 
 
 ISIy way to London towards the latter end of 
 May was, I confess, through Ripon, but it was in 
 the mail-coach, for I performed the whole journey 
 without resting on the way. It was anything but 
 a pleasant one. I went to see an uncle (my best 
 friend) for the last time in this world; his con- 
 tinuance, at the age of fourscore, in pain, infirmity, 
 and earthly hopelessness, not being to be desired, 
 even though his deliverance must be, in a mere 
 worldly view, a great misfortune to his family. 
 He married in his sixtieth year, and has six chil- 
 dren. I went also in the secret determination of 
 undergoing a surgical operation, if it should be 
 deemed expedient, for an infirmity which had long 
 afflicted me. Thank God ! it has succeeded, and 
 I am once more a sound man, which I had not been 
 for some twelve years. 
 
 If I am now not quite as able to skip over the 
 mountains as I was when first my tent Avas pitched 
 here, it will be owing only to the gradual efiect of 
 time, not to any disablement from a painful and 
 danoerous cause. 
 
 To John May. 
 
 September 22, 1828, 
 
 Before this reaches you, you will have heard 
 
358 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 that my dear uncle is relieved from the burden of 
 age and infirmity which pressed upon him so 
 heavily in his latter days. This day brought me 
 the news of his deliverance, and it was the first 
 that I had of his illness ; but I was prepared for 
 it, knowing that the first breath of wind must shake 
 the dry leaf from the tree. 
 
 It is somewhat remarkable that, either on the 
 night before or after his decease (I am not certain 
 which, but think it was the former), I was very 
 much disturbed throughout the night in dreams 
 concerning him. I seldom remember to have suf- 
 fered so much in sleep, or to have wept more than 
 I did then, thinking that I saw him, as I had last 
 seen him, bent and suflering, hel})lessly and hope- 
 lessly, and that he reproved or rather reasoned 
 with me for allowing myself to be so affected. 
 This is perfectly explicable ; but it impressed me 
 strongly at the time ; and if in some of his latter 
 hours his thoughts were directed towards me (as 
 they may have been), I could find a solution which 
 would accord with my philosophy, though it may 
 not be dreamt of in that of other men. 
 
 I have long looked for this event, and how^ever 
 important in one point of view the prolongation 
 of his life might appear, I could not, if wishes or 
 prayers could have done it, have stretched him 
 upon the rack of this world longer. 
 
 There is some comfort in thinking that he now 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 359 
 
 knows, if he never knew it before, how truly I 
 loved and honored him. I often induloje the belief 
 that tow^ards our dead friends our hearts are open 
 and our desires known. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 November, 28, 1828. 
 
 You may get the w^hole of Sir Thomas Browne's 
 works more easily perhaps than the Hydriotaphia 
 in a single form. The folio is neither scarce nor 
 dear, and you will find it throughout a book to 
 your heart's content. If I were confined to a score 
 of English books, this I think would be one of 
 them ; nay, probably, it would be one if the selec- 
 tion were cut down to twelve. My library, if re- 
 duced to those bounds, would consist of Shak- 
 speare, Chaucer, Spenser, and Milton; Lord 
 Clarendon; Jackson, Jeremy Taylor, and South; 
 Isaac Walton, Sidney's Arcadia., Fidler's Church 
 History, and Sir Thomas Browne; and what a 
 wealthy and Avell-stored mind would that man have, 
 what an inexhaustible reservoir, what a Bank of 
 England to draw upon for profitable thoughts and 
 delightful associations, who should have fed upon 
 them ! 
 
 I am glad you have passed six weeks pleasurably 
 and profitably, though grudging a little that they 
 were not spent at Keswick, where, among other 
 things, I should like you to see the additional 
 
360 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 book-room that we have fitted up, and in which I 
 am now wanting, dividing my time between the 
 two book-rooms by spells, so that both may be 
 kept well aired. It would please you to see such 
 a display of literary wealth, which is at once the 
 pride of my eye, and the joy of my heart, and the 
 food of my mind ; indeed, more than metaphoric- 
 ally, meat, drink, and clothing for me and mine. 
 I verily believe that no one in my station was ever 
 so rich before, and I am very sure that no one in 
 my station had ever a more thorough enjoyment 
 of riches of any kind, or in any Avay. It is more 
 delightful for me to live with books than with men, 
 even with all the relish that I have for such society 
 as is worth having. 
 
 I broke ofl'this morning (not being a post day) 
 for the sake of walking to Lodore, to see the cata- 
 ract in its glory, tifter heavy rain in a wet season. 
 A grand sight it was, and a grand sound. The 
 Avalk, however, has just induced enough of agree- 
 able lassitude to disincline me for my usual 
 evening's pen work. 
 
 To the same. 
 
 December 8, 1828. 
 
 I do not w^onder that neither 3'ou nor your friend 
 are acquainted with the name of Jackson as a 
 divine, and I believe the sight of his works would 
 somewhat appal you, for they are in three thick 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 361 
 
 folios. He was Master ot Corpus (Oxford) and 
 vicar of Newcastle-upon-Tyne in the early part of 
 Charles the First's reign, but his works were not 
 published in a collective form till after the Restora- 
 tion, when they were edited by Barnabas Oley, 
 who was also the editor of George Herbert's 
 Remains. In our Old Divines there is generally 
 something that you might wish were not there : 
 less of this in Jackson, I think, than in any other, 
 except South ; and more of what may truly be 
 called divine philosophy than in any or all others. 
 Possibly you might not have the same relish for 
 Jackson that I have, and yet I think you would 
 find three or four pages per day a wholesome and 
 pleasant diet. 
 
 If you have not got the sermons of my almost- 
 namesake, Robert South (who was, moreover, of 
 Westminster), buy thou them forthwith, O Gros- 
 venor Charles Bedford ! for they will delight the 
 very cockles of thy heart. 
 
 To George Tichior. 
 
 March 17, 1829. 
 "When your consignment arrived at Keswick last 
 summer, I was in London under Copeland the 
 surgeon's hands. By an operation which some 
 years ago was one of the most serious in surgery, 
 but which he (more than any other person) has 
 rendered as safe as any operation can be, I have 
 
362 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 been effectually relieved from an infirmity which 
 had afflicted me about twelve years, and which 
 often rendered me incapable of walking half a mile. 
 Now I am able to climb the mountains ; and as 
 then I was never without a sense of infirmity when 
 I moved, I never walk now without a consciousness 
 of the blessing that it is to have been thus ren- 
 dered sound. This sort of second spring prevents 
 me from feeling the approach of age as I otherwise 
 might do. Indeed Time lays his hand on me 
 gently ; I require a glass only for distant objects ; 
 for work, my eyes serve me as well as ever they 
 did ; and this is no slight blessing when most of my 
 contemporaries have taken to spectacles. 
 
 This year, I trust, will see good progress made 
 in Oliver Newman, the poem being so far advanced 
 that it becomes an object to take it earnestly in 
 hand and complete it. With us no poetry now ob- 
 tains circulation except what is in the Annuals ; 
 these are the only books which are purchased for 
 presents, and the chief sale which poetry used to 
 have was of this kind. Here, however, we are 
 overrun with imitative talent in all the fine arts, 
 especially in fine literature ; and if it is not already 
 the case with you, it will very soon be so. I can 
 see some o-ood in this : in one or two orenerations 
 imitative talent will become so common that it will 
 not be mistaken, when it first manifests itself, for 
 genius ; and it will then be cultivated rather as an 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 363 
 
 embellishment for private life, than with aspiring 
 views of ambition. Much of that levelling is going 
 on with us which no one can more heartily desire 
 to promote than I do, — that which is produced by 
 raising the lower classes. Booksellers and print- 
 sellers find it worth while now to publish for a 
 grade of customers which they deemed ten years 
 as^o beneath their consideration. Good must result 
 from this in many ways ; and could we but hope 
 or dream of any thing like long peace, we might 
 dream of seeing England in a state of intellectual 
 culture and internal prosperity such as no country 
 has ever before attained. But all the elements of 
 discord are at work ; and though I am one of the 
 last men to despair, yet I have no hope of living 
 to see the end of the troubles which must ere long: 
 break out, — the fruits of this accursed Catholic 
 question, let it now take what course it may. 
 
 To Henry Taylor. 
 
 April 13, 1829. 
 I must not let you think ill of Verbeyst. He 
 had sundry books to provide for me, some of which 
 are not easily found ; for example, the continuators 
 of Baronius, a set of Siirius, and Colgar's very 
 rare Lives of the Irish Saints, without which I 
 could not review O'Connor's collection of the Res 
 Hibernicarum Sa-ipt. Last year, when he had 
 collected these, his wife fell ill and died. £ien 
 
364 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 des malheurs, he says, he has had since he saw 
 me, and that they had left him in a lethargic state, 
 from which he is only beginning to recover. 
 
 No, H. T., if you had bought as many books 
 of Verbeyst as I have, and had them in your eye 
 (as they are now in mine), and had talked with 
 him as much as I have done (and in as good 
 French), and had drunk his Rhenish wine and his 
 beer, which is not the best in the world because 
 there is, or was, as good at West Kennet, but than 
 which there is not, never was, and never can be 
 better; — no, H. T., if you remembered the beer, 
 the wine, and the man himself, as I do, you would 
 not and could not entertain even the shadow of an 
 ill or an angry thought towards Verbeyst. Think 
 ill of our fathers which are in the Row, think ill 
 of John ^Murray, think ill of Colburn, think ill of 
 the whole race of bil)liopoles, except Verbeyst, 
 who is always to be thought of with liking and 
 respect. 
 
 A joj'ful day it will be when the books come, 
 and he promises them by the first ship, — perhaps 
 it may be the second. But come they will at last, 
 if wind and waters permit ; and, if all be well, 
 when they arrive I shall not envy any man's happi- 
 ness (were I given to envy) on that day. 
 
 I have told you of the Spaniard Avho always put 
 on his spectacles when he was about to eat cherries, 
 that they might look the bigger and more tempting. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 365 
 
 In like manner I make the most of my enjoyments, 
 and, though I do not cast my cares away, I pack 
 them in as little compass as I can, carry them as 
 conveniently as I can for myself, and never let 
 them annoy others. God bless you ! 
 
 To Allan Cunningham. 
 
 July 23, 1829. 
 
 I have read your first volume, and with very 
 great pleasure. You need not ask any one how 
 biography ought to ])e written. A man with a 
 clear head, a good heart, and an honest under- 
 standing will always write well ; it is owing either 
 to a muddy head, an evil heart, or a sophisticated 
 intellect, that men write badly, and sin either 
 against reason, or goodness, or sincerity. 
 
 There may be secrets in painting, but there are 
 none in style. When I have been asked the fool- 
 ish question, what a young man should do who 
 wishes to acquire a good style, my answer has 
 been that he should never think about it ; but say 
 Avhat he has to say as perspicuously as he can, 
 and as briefly as he can, and then the style will 
 take care of itself. 
 
 Were you to leave nothing but these Lives, 
 you need not doubt of obtaining the remembrance 
 which you court and desire. 
 
 I wish I could tell you anything which might 
 be found useful in your succeeding volumes. I 
 knew Barry, and have been admitted into his den 
 
366 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 in his worst (that is to say, his maddest) days, 
 when he was employed upon his Pandora. He 
 wore at that time an old coat of green ])aize, but 
 from which time had taken all the green that 
 incrustations of paint and dirt had not covered. 
 His wig was one which you might suppose he had 
 borrowed from a scarecrow ; all around it there 
 projected a fringe of his own gray hair. He 
 lived alone, in a house which was never cleaned, 
 and he slept on a bedstead with no other furniture 
 than a blanket nailed on the one side. I wanted 
 him to visit me. "No," he said, "he would not 
 go out by day, because he could not spare time 
 from his great picture ; and if he went out in the 
 evening, the Academicians would waylay him and 
 murder him." In this solitary, sullen life he con- 
 tinued till he fell ill, very probably for want of 
 food sufficiently nourishing ; and after lying two 
 or three days under his blanket, he had just 
 strength enough left to crawl to his own door, 
 open it, and lay himself down Avith a paper in his 
 hand, on which he had written his wish to be car- 
 ried to the house of Mr. Carlisle (Sir Anthony) 
 in Soho Square. There he was taken care of; 
 and the danger from which he had thus escaped 
 seems to have cured his mental hallucinations. 
 He cast his slough afterwards ; appeared decently 
 dressed and in his own gray hair, and mixed in 
 such society as he liked. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 367 
 
 I should have told you that, a little before his 
 illness, he had with much persuasion been induced 
 to pass a night at some person's house in the coun- 
 try. When he came down to breakfast the next 
 morning, and was asked how he had rested, he 
 said, remarkably well ; he had not slept in sheets 
 for many years, and really he thought it was a 
 very comforta])le thing. 
 
 He interlarded his conversation with oaths as 
 expletives, but it was pleasant to converse with 
 him ; there was a frankness and animation about 
 him which won good-will as much as his vigorous 
 intellect commanded respect. 
 
 To Henry Taylor. 
 
 August 6, 1829. 
 
 You think me easily pleased with people. 
 Perhaps no one tolerates them more easily ; but I 
 am not often contented, in the full sense of that 
 term, any more with men than with books. In 
 both I am thankful for the good that is mixed 
 with ill ; but there are few of either which I like 
 well enough to take to my heart and incorporate 
 them, as it were, with it. 
 
 To the same. 
 
 October 8, 1829. 
 
 I have been jumping for joy : Verbeyst has kept 
 
 his word ; the bill of lading is in Longman's hands, 
 
 and by the time this reaches you I hope the vessel, 
 
 with the books on board, may be in the river, and 
 
368 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LITE. 
 
 by this clay month they will probably be here. 
 Then shall I be happier than if his Majesty King 
 George the Fourth were to give orders that I 
 should be clothed in purple, and sleep upon gold, 
 and have a chain about my neck, and sit next him 
 because of my wisdom, and be called his cousin. 
 
 Long live Verbeyst ! the best, though not the 
 most expeditious of booksellers ; and may I, who 
 am the most patient of customers, live long to deal 
 Avith him. And may yoa and I live to go to the 
 Low Countries again, that I may make Brussels in 
 the way, and buy more of his books, and drink 
 again of his Rhenish wine and of his strong beer, 
 better than which Jacob von Artevelde never had 
 at his own table, of his own brewing; not even 
 Avhen he entertained King Edward and Queen 
 Philippa at the christening. Would we have had 
 such a son as Philip if he had been a water-drinker, 
 or ever put swipes to his lips? 
 
 To . 
 
 October, 1829. 
 
 I am pleased to find 3'ou expressing an opin- 
 ion respecting INlilton and "Wordsworth which 
 I have never hesitated to deliver as mv oun when 
 I was not likely to do harm. A gi-eater poet 
 than "Wordsworth there never has been, nor ever 
 will be. I could point out some of his pieces 
 which seem to me ffood for nothing- and not a 
 few faulty passages, but I know of no poet in 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 369 
 
 any language who has written so much that is 
 good. 
 
 Now, , I want you and pray you to read 
 
 Berkeley's Minute PJdlosojjher ; I want you to 
 learn that the religious belief which AYordsworth 
 and I hold, and Avhich — I am sure you know in 
 my case, and will not doubt in his — no earthly 
 considerations would make us profess if we did 
 not hold it, is as reasonable as it is desirable ; is 
 in its historical grounds as demonstrable as any- 
 thing can be which rests upon human evidence ; 
 and is, in its life and spirit, the only divine phi- 
 losophy, the perfection of wisdom ; in which, and 
 in which alone, the understanding and tlie heart 
 can rest. 
 
 To Mrs. Hodson. 
 
 March 16, 1830. 
 
 I am inclined to think that the Church is in 
 more danger from the so-called Evangelical party 
 among its own clergy than it would be from lay- 
 assistance. These clergy are now about to form a 
 sort of union, — in other words, a convocation of 
 their own, that they may act as a body. They 
 have had a clerical breakfast in London. The 
 two Noels, StcAvart, who is brother-in-law to 
 Owen of Lanark and was here with him some 
 years ago, and Daniel Wilson were the chief 
 
370 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 movers. There have been two reports of the 
 speeches in the Record newspaper, and a Mr. 
 IM'Ncil, who very sensibly ol)jected to the whole 
 scheme, had the whole meeting against him. 
 
 Like 3'ou, I both dislike and distrust those Avho 
 call themselves professois. They are just what 
 the Pharisees were before them ; but I want to 
 embody in the service of the Church some of tliat 
 honest enthusiasm which will otherwise be em- 
 plo3'ed against it. I want field-preachers, while 
 Ave have an ignorant and brutal population : there 
 can be no other means of reclaiming them. They 
 will not go to church — the preacher must go to 
 them. 
 
 To Rev. J. W. Warter, 
 
 April 23, 1830. 
 
 As for composition, it has no difficulties for one 
 who will "read, learn, mark, and inwardly 
 digest" the materials upon wdnch he is to work. 
 I do not mean to say that it is easy to write Avell ; 
 but of this I am sure, that most men would write 
 much better if they did not take half the pains 
 they do. For myself, I consider it no compli- 
 ment when any one praises the simplicity of my 
 prose writings ; they are written, indeed, without 
 any other immediate ol)ject than that of express- 
 ing what is to be said in the readiest and most 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 371 
 
 perspicuous manner. But in tlie transcript (if I 
 make one), and always in the proof-sheet, every 
 sentence is then weighed upon the ear, euphony 
 becomes a second object, and ambiguities are re- 
 m.oved. But of what is called style, not a 
 thought enters my head at any time. Look to 
 the matter, and the manner takes care of itself. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Visits London — Letter to Lord Brougham — Joanna Baillie — Tlie 
 Howitts — National Education — University Education — White 
 Slavery — The Church of England. 
 
 [In the month of October, 1830, Southey vis- 
 ited London, where he had a taste of high Hfe, 
 dined at the Duchess of Kent's, and received a 
 pleasant compliment from the Princess Victoria, 
 then a child of eleven. In London he remained 
 until the end of the 3'ear, when, after a short stay 
 with his friend Rickman, in Sussex, he visited 
 Miss Bowles, in Hampshire. After that visit, he 
 went further west, and from Crediton wrote : — ] 
 
 To the Rev. J. W. Warter. 
 
 January 12, 183L 
 
 Here I arrived last night on my way home, and 
 at the farthest point from it to which my circuit 
 has extended ; and here, at last, I have some 
 hours upon which no demand will be made. This 
 is the first use of my first interval of leisure. 
 How I have been distracted in London no one can 
 fully understand, unless they have been living 
 with me there ; and how I have been busied tooth 
 and nail during eleven days after I left it and got 
 to Miss Bowles's, near Lymington, you may 
 
 372 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 373 
 
 judge when you know that in that time I wrote 
 the concluding article of the Quarterhj Review, 
 all but the first seven pages. 
 
 I leave this place (whither I came only to 
 spend three days with my old-fellow-collegian 
 Lightfoot) on Saturday morning for Taunton, 
 there to see my Aunt Mary, the last of my 
 father's generation ; a dear excellent old lady, in 
 whom I see what I am indebted for to the 
 Southey part of my blood. Monday I go to 
 Bristol, where I have not been for twenty years. 
 I mean once more to look at the scenes of my 
 birth and childhood, and have so much love for 
 the place that I have the serious intention of 
 writing a poem, descriptive, historical, and desul- 
 tory, in honor of my native city. 
 
 You may suppose how impatient I am to reach 
 home, and resume once more the even tenor of 
 my usual life. I bought a good many books in 
 London, three or four consignments of which have 
 arrived, and others are on the way. Some skill 
 in packing will be required for arranging them. 
 Neither my head nor hands were ever so full as at 
 this time, and I hope, with God's blessing, to get 
 through a world of work. 
 
 [On the homeward journey, Southey received 
 a letter from Brougham, then Lord Chancellor, to 
 which he replied from his home at Keswick.] 
 
374 THE STOKY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 2b the Lord ChcmceUoi' Brougham and Vaux. 
 
 February 1, 1831. 
 
 The letter which 3'our lordship did me the 
 honor of addressing to me at this place, found me 
 at Crediton, in the middle of last month, on a cir- 
 cuitous course homeward. It was not likely that 
 deliberation would lead me to alter the notions 
 wdiich I have long entertained upon the subject 
 that has, in this most unexpected manner, been 
 brouo;ht before me : but I should have deemed it 
 disrespectful to have answered such a communica- 
 tion without allowing some da^'s to intervene. 
 The distance between Devonshire and Cumberland, 
 a visit upon the way to my native city which I 
 had not seen for twenty years, and the engage- 
 ments arising upon my return home after an 
 absence of unusual length, will explain, and I 
 trust excuse, the subsequent delay. 
 
 Your first question is, whether Letters would 
 gain by the more avowed and active encourage- 
 ment of the Government ? 
 
 There are literary works of national importance 
 Avhich can only be performed by co-operative labor 
 and will never be undertaken by that spirit of 
 trade which at present preponderates in literature. 
 The formation of an English Etymological Dic- 
 tionary is one of those works ; others might be 
 mentioned ; and in this way literature might gain 
 much by receiving national encouragement; but 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 375 
 
 Government would gain a great deal more by 
 bestowing it. Revolutionary governments under- 
 stand this; I should be glad if I could believe 
 that our legitimate one would learn it before it is 
 too late. I am addressing one Avho is a statesman 
 as well as a man of letters, and who is well aware 
 that the time is come in which governments can no 
 more stand without pens to support them than 
 without bayonets. They must soon know, if they 
 do not already know it, that the volunteers as well 
 as the mercenaries of both professions, Avho are 
 not already enlisted in this service, will enlist 
 themselves against it ; and I am afraid they have 
 a better hold upon the soldier than upon the pen- 
 man ; because the former has, in the spirit of his 
 profession and in the sense of military honor, 
 something which not unfrequently supplies the 
 want of any higher principle ; and I know not that 
 any substitute is to be found among the gentlemen 
 of the press. 
 
 But neediness, my Lord, makes men dangerous 
 members of society, quite as often as atHuence 
 makes them worthless ones. I am of opinion that 
 many persons who become bad subjects because 
 they are necessitous, because " the world is not 
 their friend, nor the world's law," might be kept 
 virtuous (or, at least, withheld from mischief) by 
 being made happy, by early encouragement, by 
 holding out to them a reasonable hope of obtain- 
 
376 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 ing, in good time, an honorable station and a 
 competent income, as the reward of literary pm*- 
 suits, when followed with abihty and diligence, and 
 recommended by good conduct. 
 
 My Lord, 3'ou are now on the Conservative 
 side. Minor differences of opinion are infinitely 
 insignificant at this time, when in truth there are 
 but two parties in this kingdom — the Eevolution- 
 ists and the Loyalists ; those who would destroy 
 the constitution and those who would defend it. 
 I can have no predilections for the present admin- 
 istration ; the}' have raised the devil, who is now 
 raging through the land : but, in their present 
 position, it is their business to lay him if they can ; 
 and so far as their measures may be directed to 
 that end, I heartily say, God speed them ! If 
 schemes like yours, for the encouragement of let- 
 ters, have never entered into their wishes, there 
 can be no place for them at present in their inten- 
 tions. Government can have no leisure now for 
 attending to anything l)ut its own and our preser- 
 vation ; and the time seems not far distant Avhen 
 the cares of war and expenditure will come upon 
 it once more with their all-engrossing importance. 
 But when better times shall arrive (whoever may 
 live to see them), it will be worthy the considera- 
 tion of any government whether the institution of 
 an Academy, with salaries for its memljcrs (in the 
 nature of literary or lay benefices) , might not be 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 377 
 
 the means of retaining in its interests, as con- 
 nected with their own, a certain number of in- 
 fluential men of letters, who should hold those 
 benefices, and a much greater number of aspirants 
 who would look to them in their turn. A yearly 
 grant of 10,000/. would endow ten such appoint- 
 ments of 500?. each for the elder class, and twen- 
 ty-five of 200?. each for younger men ; these 
 latter eligible of course, and preferablj^, but not 
 necessarily, to be elected to the higher benefices, 
 as those fell vacant, and as they should have ap- 
 proved themselves. 
 
 The good proposed by this, as a political mea- 
 sure, is not that of retaining such persons to act 
 as pamphleteers and journalists, but that of pre- 
 venting them from becoming such, in hostility to 
 the esta])lished order of thinijs : and of givinof men 
 of letters, as a class, something to look for beyond 
 the precarious gains of literature ; thereby induc- 
 ing in them a desire to support the existing insti- 
 tutions of their country, on the stability of which 
 their own welfare would depend. 
 
 Your Lordship's second question, — in what 
 way the encouragement of Government could 
 most safely and beneficially be given, — is, in the 
 main, answered by what has been said upon the 
 first. I do not enter into any details of the pro- 
 posed institution, for that would be to think of 
 fitting up a castle in the air. Nor is it worth 
 
378 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 while to examine how fur such an institution 
 might be perverted. Abuses there would be, as 
 in the disposal of all preferments, civil, military, 
 or ecclesiastical ; but there would be a more ob- 
 vious check upon them ; and where they occurred 
 they would be less injurious in their consequences 
 than they are in the State, the army, and navy, or 
 the Church. 
 
 "With regard to prizes, methinks they are better 
 left to schools and colleges. Honors are worth 
 something to scientific men, because they are con- 
 ferred upon such men in other countries ; at home 
 there are precedents for them in Newton and 
 Dav}^ and the physicians and surgeons have them. 
 In my judgment, men of letters are l)etter without 
 them, unless they are rich enough to bequeath to 
 their family a good estate with the bloody hand, 
 and sufiiciently men of the world to think such 
 distinctions appropriate. For myself, if we had a 
 Guelphic order, I should choose to remain a Ghi- 
 belline. 
 
 I have written thus fully and frankly, not 
 dreaming that your proposal is likely to be ma- 
 tured and carried into effect, but in the spirit of 
 o-ood-will, and as addressing one by whom there 
 is no danger that I can be misunderstood. One 
 thing alone I ask from the legislature, and in the 
 name of justice, — that the injurious law of copy- 
 rio-ht should be repealed, and that the family of 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 379 
 
 an author should not be deprived of their just and 
 natural rights in his works when his permanent 
 reputation is established. This I ask with the 
 earnestness of a man who is conscious that he has 
 labored for posterity. 
 
 To Mrs. Hodson. 
 
 February 7, 1S31. 
 
 You may infer how incessantly I was engaged 
 during my abode in town from the 1st of Novem- 
 ber to the 27th of December, when you are told 
 that I could not possibly find time for writing 
 more than the first six pages of that paper in the 
 Quarterly Review, though the number was wait- 
 ins; for it. The remainder was written at Caro- 
 line Bowles's, where I shut myself up for eleven 
 days, refusing all invitations, seeing no visitors, 
 and never going out, except when she mounted 
 her Shetland pony, and I walked by her side for an 
 hour or two before dinner. That paper, however, 
 is but the first fruits of my journey. I have a 
 great deal more to say, and am busily employed 
 in saying it. 
 
 AVhen I met Joanna Baillie at Rogers's, her 
 sister and my daughter Bertha constituted the 
 whole party ; for, as to literary parties, they are 
 my abomination. She is a person whom I ad- 
 mired as soon as I read her first volume of Plays, 
 and liked when I saw her as much as I had ad- 
 
380 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 mired her before. I never talk much in company, 
 and never carry aljroad with me the cheerful 
 spirits which never forsake me at home. But I 
 was not sad that morning, though perhaps my 
 thoughts might sometimes be more engaged than 
 they ought to have been by the engagements of 
 various kinds which were pressing upon me. 
 
 To the Rev. Neville Wiite. 
 
 March 21, 1831. 
 
 You know, my dear Neville, that I have en- 
 deavored always to impress upon the public the 
 necessity of educating the people. If that educa- 
 tion is either so conducted, or left so imperfect as 
 in many cases to do harm rather than good, the 
 fault is not in the principle, but in the mismanage- 
 ment of it. The great evil which at present it 
 produces is that of making young persons discon- 
 tented with the stations which they were intended 
 to fill, and thus producing more claimants for the 
 stations one degree higher than can be provided 
 for in that class. AVhenever the education which 
 such persons receive shall become universal, the 
 mischief must necessarily cease. It produced 
 nothino; but good in Scotland, because it was uni- 
 versal there. 
 
 A more difficult question is, how to render the 
 religious instruction which children receive at 
 school of more effect. And where parents neglect, 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 381 
 
 as they so very generally do in that station of life, 
 this duty, I do not see how this is to be done by 
 schools and teachers. AVe want a reformation of 
 manners to effect that without which manners, 
 alas ! cannot be reformed. This is evident, that 
 boys and girls are taken from school precisely at 
 that age when they become capable of, in some 
 degree, understanding and feeling what till then 
 they have only learnt by rote. Then it is that the 
 aid of catechists is wanting. In a small parish 
 the clergyman can do much ; in large ones I do 
 not wonder that they are deterred from attempt- 
 ing what with their utmost exertions they could 
 not possibly accomplish. 
 
 I am perfectly satisfied that no children ought to 
 be left without education ; so much as to enable 
 them to read, write, cij^her, and understand their 
 moral and religious duties. But about infant 
 schools I do not see my w\ay so clearly ; and am 
 not sure whether some harm is not done, both to 
 parent and child, l)y taking so much off* the par- 
 ent's hands. No doubt it is a choice between 
 evils. Of this I am sure, that half the crimes 
 which disgrace this nation are brought on by 
 street education, which goes on in villages as well 
 as in towns. So far as infant schools tend to pre- 
 vent this, they are greatly beneficial. 
 
382 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 To C. Bowles. 
 
 July 11, 1831. 
 
 You ask about the Howitts. The Words- 
 worths left them full of gratitude for their kind- 
 ness and fidl of liking for Maiy. But her husband, 
 Avhom they miglit otherwise have liked much, 
 though never quite so well, had the reform fever 
 upon him so strongly as to put the cloven-foot of 
 Quakerism offensively forward ; not Avhen Mr. 
 Wordsworth was there, for all these people would 
 as soon take a bull by the horns as to show theirs 
 either to Mr. Wordsworth or to me ; but to 
 poor Dora, who left the room one day when he 
 had been exulting on the near downfall of the 
 Church, and asserting that every person who was 
 a clergyman of the Establishment must be either a 
 fool or a hypocrite ; this to her, when her brother 
 and uncle are clergymen. He apologized to her 
 afterwards, and did not repeat the offence, having 
 been well reproved for it by his wife ; but the cir- 
 cumstance shows what these sectarians are when 
 the latent spirit is brought out. 
 
 Bertha is come home with a sad debility about 
 her ; her ankles swell and disable her for the exer- 
 cise which she requires. If they had not the 
 happy spirits of youth, these daughters of mine 
 would all be miserable invalids ; and of course I 
 cannot but think of the time when that season will 
 be over, and they may too probably have less 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 383 
 
 cheerful circumstances about them. Their mother 
 is better than she has been for many years, and 
 for that I am most truly thankful. 
 
 There is a story of a Spaniard who was fond of 
 cherries, and whenever he ate them put on spec- 
 tacles to make them look larger and liner. I do 
 this with all my enjoyments of every kind ; make 
 little pleasures into great ones, and put on dimin- 
 ishing classes when I look at inconveniences. Our 
 dangers are to be looked at in their own just mag- 
 nitude ; there is no trifling with them ; but this 
 Avay of mine adds largely to the comforts, and 
 diminishes in the same degree the annoyances, 
 of life. This my children seem to have inherited 
 or learned, and with this true worldly wisdom 
 and that better wisdom which, prepared as they 
 are, time will surely bring with it, of looking to 
 the next state of existence with a constant and 
 cheerful hope, they will so far be well fitted for 
 whatever may befall them when I am gone. 
 
 To Henry Taylor. 
 
 July 15, 1831. 
 Have you seen the strange book which Ana- 
 stasius Hope left for publication, and which 
 his representatives, in spite of all dissuasion, 
 have published? His notion of immortality and 
 heaven is, that at the consummation of all things 
 he, and you, and I, and John Murray, and Nebu- 
 
384 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 chadnezzar, and Lambert the fat man, and the 
 livmg skeleton, and Queen Elizabeth, and the 
 Hottentot Venus, and Thurtell, and Probert, and 
 the twelve Apostles, and the noble army of mar- 
 tyrs, and Genghis Khan, and all his armies, and 
 Noah with all his ancestors and all his posterity, — 
 yea, all men and all women and all children that 
 have ever been or ever shall be, saints and sin- 
 ners alike, — are all to be put together, and made 
 hito one great celestial eternal human l)eing. He 
 does not seem to have known how nearlj^ this 
 approaches to Swedenborg's fancy. I do not like 
 the scheme. I don't like the notion of being 
 mixed up with Hume, and Hunt, and Whittle 
 Harvey, and Philpotts, and Lord Althorpe, and 
 the Huns, and the Hottentots, and the Jews, and 
 the Philistines, and the Scotch, and the Irish. 
 God forbid! I hope to be I m^'self; in an 
 English heaven, with you yourself — you, and 
 some others, without whom heaven would be 
 no heaven to me. 
 
 To the same. 
 
 March 7, 1832. 
 Most men play the fool in some way or other, 
 and no man takes more delight in playing it than 
 I do, in my own w^ay. I do it well Avith children, 
 and not at all with women, towards whom, like 
 John Bunyan, " I cannot carry myself pleasantly," 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 385 
 
 unless I have a great liking for them. Most men, 
 I suspect, have different characters even among 
 their friends, — appearing in different circles in 
 different lights, or rather showing only parts of 
 themselves. One's character being feres atque 
 rotundiis, is not to be seen all at once. You 
 must know a man all round — in all moods and 
 all weathers — to know him well; but in the com- 
 mon intercourse of the world, men see each other 
 in only one mood — see only their manners in 
 society, and hear nothing lying in any deeper 
 part than the larnyx. Many people think they 
 are well acquainted with me who know little more 
 of me than the cut of my jib and the sound of my 
 voice. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 April 1, 1832. 
 
 As for the likings or dislikings, Grosvenor, 
 which are formed at first sight, or upon casual 
 acquaintance, no one who has lived long in the 
 world will attach more importance to them than 
 they deserve. Complicated as every human 
 character must be, we like or dislike just that 
 part of it which happens to present itself to our 
 observation ; and perhaps the same person, in 
 another point of view, makes a very different 
 impression. It is so with countenances ; and it is 
 so even with natural scenery. Upon a second 
 journey I have sometimes looked in vain for the 
 
S86 THE STOEY OF SOUTHEY'S LITE. 
 
 beauties which delighted me on the first ; and, on 
 the other hand, I have discovered pleasing objects 
 where I had formerly failed to perceive them. I 
 know very well in what very different lights I my- 
 self must appear to difterent people, who see me 
 but once, or whose acquaintance with me is very 
 slight : not a few go away with the notion that they 
 have seen a stiff, cold, reserved, disobliging sort of 
 a person ; and they judge rightly as far as they 
 yee, except that no one should be deemed diso- 
 bliging merely for taking no pains to make 
 himself asrreeable where he feels no inclination 
 to do so. 
 
 This I think is the ijreatest disadvanta2:e that 
 notorious authorship brings with it. It places 
 one in an unfair position among strangers : they 
 watch for Avhat you say, and set upon you to 
 draw you out, and whenever that is the case, 
 in I go like a tortoise or hodraandod into my 
 shell. 
 
 To Charles Swain. 
 
 May 1, 1832. 
 Do not look upon my invitation to you as a 
 matter of politeness, a motive from which I never 
 act further than the common law of society re- 
 quires. 
 
 Respect for you and your talents, and the 
 use you have made of them, was my motive. 
 Your poetry is made of the right materials. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHS Y'S LIFE. 387 
 
 If ever man was born to be a poet, you are ; 
 and if Manchester is not proud of you yet, 
 the time will certainly come when it will be so. 
 Come when you Avill and stay as long as you 
 can, I shall be sincerely happy to receive you 
 here. I Avish you were with us now ; the sun 
 shines, the birds are busy, the buds beginning to 
 open. There is a vernal spirit abroad which 
 carries joy to young hearts, and brings the best 
 substitute for it to those whose season for joy is 
 past not to return again. 
 
 To the Rev. J. W. Warier. 
 
 June 20, 1832. 
 
 Oxford and Cambridge are good places of resi- 
 dence for men who, having stored their minds well, 
 want Avell stored libraries which may enable them 
 to pursue their researches and bring forth the fruits 
 of them. But the plant which roots itself there 
 will never attain any vigorous growth. The mind 
 must be a very strong and a very active one, 
 which does not stand still while it is engaged in 
 tutoring, and both universities now are little more 
 than manufactories in which men are brought up 
 to a certain point in a certain branch of knowl- 
 edge ; and when they have reached that point, 
 they are kept there. 
 
 But, after all, knowledge is not the first thinsr 
 
388 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 needful. Provided we can get contentedly 
 through the world, and (be the ways rough or 
 smooth) to heaven at last, the sum of knowledge 
 that we may collect on the wa}^ is more infinitely 
 insignificant than I like to acknowledge in my 
 own heart. Indeed, it is not easy for me always 
 to bear sufficiently in mind that the pursuits in 
 which I find constant interest and increasing 
 enjoyment, must appear of no interest whatever 
 to the greater part, not merely of mankind, but of 
 the educated part even of our own countrymen. 
 I forget this sometimes when I am wishing for 
 others opportunities by which perhaps they would 
 not be disposed to profit. 
 
 If I could follow my inclinations, a week would 
 not elapse before the History of Portugal would 
 be in the press. But this work can only have 
 that time allotted to it which can be won from 
 works of necessity, and that not 3'et. I hope my 
 affiiirs are in such a train that next year it will 
 become my chief object in those snbsecive hours, 
 for which I can find no English word. Once in 
 the press it would go on steadily ; for the subject 
 has been two-and-thirty years in my mind. So 
 long is it since I began not merely to collect ma- 
 terials, but to digest them, and, for at least two 
 thirds of the history, I have only to recompose in 
 the process of transcribing what has long been 
 written. I believe no history has ever yet been 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 389 
 
 composed that presents such a continuous interest 
 of one kind or another as this woukl do, if I 
 should live to complete it. The chivalrous por- 
 tion is of the very highest beauty ; much of what 
 succeeds has a deep tragic interest ; and then 
 comes the o-radual destruction of a noble national 
 character brought on by the cancer of Romish 
 superstition. 
 
 To the Rev. Neville White. 
 
 August 19, 1832. 
 
 It rarely happens in these times that the post 
 brings me any matter for rejoicing ; but it never 
 at any time brought me a communication which 
 gave me more thorough delight than your letter 
 which arrived this morning. You have now the 
 reward of your deserts, and it is no slight comfort 
 to see that desert has been thus rewarded. All 
 circumstances, too, are as you could have wished 
 them to be. For though your lot has not fallen 
 in a beautiful country, it is near Norwich, and 
 therefore a desirable location for you. Walpole 
 is a name which ft'om childhood I have regarded 
 with good-will, and henceforth I shall regard it 
 with still better. 
 
 I shall certainly look in upon 3^ou on my next 
 journey to London. When that may be, I know 
 not ; but certainly not before the spring, and per- 
 haps not so soon. Engagements will keep me to 
 
390 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 the desk, and, happily, inclination would never 
 take me from it. 
 
 I shall like dearly to see you in your Rectory : 
 to a certain degree you will once more have to 
 form new habits ; but in this instance the change 
 is likely to be salutary. 
 
 I dare say that the duties of your parish will be 
 much less fatiguing than those in which you 
 engaged as a volunteer in Norwich ; and they will 
 be more agreeable, because, in a little while, as 
 soon as your parishioners know you, you will 
 perceive the fruits of them. Any clergyman who 
 does his duty as you will do it, must soon be 
 loved by his flock, and then no other station in 
 life can be so happy . 
 
 I wish James M^ere emancipated from his bond- 
 age, and settled as his bishop ought to settle him, 
 where he might enjoy the Avell-deserved reward of 
 his labors, and some rest from them. 
 
 Much against my will, I am going to Lowther 
 Castle on Friday next to remain till Monday. 
 Lord Lonsdale asks me in so kind a manner, say- 
 ing that he is always unwilling* to take me from 
 my employments, that I cannot refuse to go ; and 
 his object is to introduce me to Lord Mahon, 
 whom I know only by letter, but whose way of 
 thinking and pursuits make him desire to become 
 acquainted with me. It is gratifying to perceive 
 that there are persons growing up whose minds 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 391 
 
 have been influenced by my writings, and that 
 here and there the seed which during so many 
 years I have been casting on the waters, has 
 taken root, and is beginning to bring forth fruit 
 after its kind. 
 
 To John May. 
 
 March 1, 1833. 
 I have o;one throuofh the whole evidence con- 
 cerning the treatment of chikh'en in the factories, 
 and nothino^ so bad was ever broug-ht to lisfht 
 before. The slave-trade is mercy to it. We 
 know how the slave-trade began and impercep- 
 tibly increased, nothing in the beginning being 
 committed that shocked the feelings and was con- 
 trary to the spirit of the age. Having thus 
 grown up, it went on hy succession, and of later 
 years has rather been mitigated than made worse. 
 But this white slavery has risen in our own days, 
 and is carried on in the midst of this civilized 
 and Christian nation. Herein it is that our dan- 
 ger consists. The great body of the manufactur- 
 ing populace, and also of the agricultural, arc 
 miserabhj poor ; their condition is worse than it 
 ought to be. One after another we are destroy- 
 ing all the outworks by which order and with it 
 property and life are defended ; and this brutal- 
 ized populace is ready to break in upon us. The 
 prelude which you witnessed at Bristol was a 
 
392 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 manifestation of the spirit that exists among them. 
 But in the manufacturing districts, where the 
 wages of the adults are at a starvation rate, and 
 their children are literally worked to death, — 
 murdered by inches, — the competition of the 
 masters being the radical cause of these evils, 
 there is a dreadful reality of oppression, a dread- 
 ful sense of injustice, of intolerable misery, of 
 intolerable Avrongs, more formida])le than any 
 causes which have ever moved a people to insur- 
 rection. Once more I will cry aloud and spare 
 not. These are not times to be silent. Lord 
 Ashley has taken up this Factory Question with 
 all his heart, under a deep religious sense of duty. 
 I hear from him frequently. If we are to be 
 saved, it will be, I will not say by such men, but 
 for the sake of such men as he is, — men who 
 have the fear of God before their ej'es and the 
 love of their fellow-creatures in their hearts. 
 
 To the Rev. Neville White. 
 
 April 10, 1833. 
 Now, my dear Neville, to the other part of 
 your letter, the uses and the danger of the 
 Church Establishment. I will touch upon one of 
 its uses which happened to be noticed in conversa- 
 tion yesterday with Wordsworth, by the Avay- 
 side. He mentioned of what advantao:e the 
 Church of England had been to that great body 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 393 
 
 of Dissenters, among whom the Unitarian heresy 
 has spread ; and your county was particularly 
 instanced. A great part of the Presbyterian con- 
 gregations lapsed with their preachers, as sheep 
 follow the bell-wether ; but of those who re- 
 mained orthodox, the majority found their way 
 into the right fold. They held the doctrines of 
 the Church before in the main, differing from 
 them only in points where our Articles most 
 wisely have left room for difference ; and they 
 now found by experience the insufficiency of their 
 own discipline ; and the want of such a standard 
 as the Establishment preserves. 
 
 Public property the Church indeed is ; most 
 truly and most sacredly so ; and in a manner the 
 very reverse of that in which the despoilers con- 
 sider it to be so. It is the only property which is 
 public ; which is set apart and consecrated as a 
 public inheritance, in which any one may claim 
 his share who is properly qualified. You have 
 your share of it, I might have had mine. There 
 is no respectable family in England, some of 
 whose members have not, in the course of two or 
 three generations, enjoyed their part in it. And 
 many thousands are at this time qualifying them- 
 selves to claim their portion. Upon w^hat princi- 
 ple can any government be justified in robbing 
 them of their rights ? 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Publication of The Doctor — Marriage of Edith Southey — Henry 
 Taylor — Mrs. Southey's Loss of Reason — Declines a Bai-onetage 
 — Letter to Sir R. Peel — An Additional Pension — The Words- 
 worth Family — The Life of Cowper. 
 
 [At the beginning of 1834, Edith May, 
 Southey's eldest daughter, nuirried the Rev. J. W. 
 Warter, and left for her Sussex home ; about the 
 same time the first two volumes of Tlie Doctor 
 were published, anonymously.] 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 January 10, 1834. 
 The books arrived a few days since ; this I 
 believe you have already been told. But I have 
 not told you how much amusement Cuthbert af- 
 forded us on this occasion. The whole business 
 of transcribing, receiving, correcting, and return- 
 ing proof sheets (to say nothing of the original 
 composition), has been so well concealed from 
 him, that whenever he knows the truth it will be 
 difficult for him to conceive how he can possibly 
 have been kept in ignorance. From this ignorance 
 we anticipated much entertainment, and have not 
 been disappointed. When I went down to dinner 
 he told me with great glee that the book which 
 
 394 
 
THE STOKY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 395 
 
 had come that morning was one of the queerest he 
 had ever seen. He had only looked into it, but 
 he had seen that there was one chapter without a 
 beginning, and another about Aballiboozonorri- 
 bang (for so he had got the word), which, whether 
 it was something to eat, or wdiether it was the 
 thing in the title-page, he could not tell ; for in 
 one place it was called the sign of the book, and 
 in another you were told to eat beans if you liked 
 but to abstain from Aballiboozo. 
 
 To-day he says that there is more sense in the 
 second volume, but he does not like it so well as 
 the first. That there is not much in the book 
 about the Doctor ; and, indeed, he does not know 
 what it is about, except that it is about everything 
 else ; that it was very proper to put &c. in the 
 title-page ; that the author, whoever he is, must 
 be a clever man, and he should not wonder if it 
 proved to be Charles Lamb. You may imagine 
 how heartily we have enjoyed all this, 
 
 A letter from Wordsworth tells us that the 
 book has just arrived there, and that one of W.'s 
 nephews (a Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, 
 and a very clever and promising person,) had got 
 hold of it, was laughing while he looked over the 
 contents, and had just declared that the man who 
 wrote the book must be mad. 
 
396 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 To Henry Taylor. 
 
 January 16, 1834. 
 
 Edith departed yesterday from the house in 
 which she was born. God grant that she may find 
 her new home as happy as this has been to her, — 
 though the cheerfullest days of this have long 
 been past. Her prospects are fair ; and, what is 
 of most consequence, she is entrusted to safe 
 hands. 
 
 As my househohl diminishes, there will be room 
 for more books. These I shall probably continue 
 to collect, as long as I can ; living in the past, 
 and conversing with the dead, — and the Doctor. 
 
 . To Grosvenor Bedford, 
 
 July 3, 1834. 
 
 The day before yesterday I commanded a cart 
 party to Honister Crag, and walked the whole 
 way mj^self, twenty-one and a half miles by Ed- 
 ward Hill's pedometer, without difficulty or fatigue. 
 So you see that, notwithstanding a touch of the 
 hay-asthma, I am in good condition, and have a 
 pair of serviceal)le legs. 
 
 Henry Taylor's Tragedies are of the very best 
 kind. I am exceedingly glad that you have taken 
 to one another so well. He is the only one now 
 living, of a generation younger than yours and 
 mine, whom I have taken into my heart of hearts. 
 
 I certainly hope that you may be set free from 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 397 
 
 all official business, with such a pension as your 
 long services and your station entitle you to. For 
 I have no fears of your feeling any difficulty in the 
 disposal of your time, or any other regret for the 
 cessation of your long-accustomed business, than 
 what always belongs to the past, and what in this 
 case maj'^ arise from the dissolution of an old es- 
 tablishment, which for the very sake of its anti- 
 quity ought to have been preserved. You will 
 get more into the country than you otherwise 
 could have done ; and you will come here and 
 take a lease of health and good spirits from the 
 mountains. I shall pass through London with 
 Cuthbert, on our way to the west, in the autumn. 
 Our stay will hardly exceed a week. 
 
 Just now I am very busy, finishing a third vol- 
 ume of Naval History. This is my sheet anchor. 
 In the way of sale The Doctor has clearly failed ; 
 yet it may be worth while to send out another 
 volume, and so from time to time, at long inter- 
 vals, till the design is completed. This may be 
 worth while, because the notice that each will 
 excite will keep the name alive, and act advan- 
 tageously when it comes to be included in the 
 posthumous edition of my works. Meantime, the 
 pleasure that I and my household, and a very few 
 others who are behind the curtain, will receive, 
 will be so much gain. It will not be amiss to 
 throw out hints that Henry Taylor may be the 
 
398 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 author ; having shown in his plays both the seri- 
 ous and comic disposition and power. 
 
 My cousin, Georgiana Hill, is here for the first 
 time, and as happy as you may suppose a gn-1 of 
 eighteen is likely to be on such an occasion. Did 
 I tell you that I have a pony, the liest of ponies 
 (given me by Sir T. Acland) ? and I have bought 
 a light chair, in which Cuthbert or Bertha drive 
 out their mother. If I could give you a good ac- 
 count of her, all would be well. But her spirits 
 are so wretchedly nervous, and I begin to fear so 
 hopelessly so, that I have need of all mine. 
 
 To the same. 
 
 October 2, 1834. 
 
 After what Henry Taylor has imparted to you, 
 you will not be surprised at learning that I have 
 been parted from my wife by something worse 
 than death. Forty years has she been the life of 
 my life ; and I have left her this day in a lunatic 
 asylum. 
 
 God who has visited me with this atfliction, 
 has given me strength to bear it, and will, I know, 
 support me to the end — whatever that may be. 
 
 Our faithful Betty is left with her. All that 
 can be done by the kindest treatment, and the 
 greatest skill, we are sure of at the Retreat. I do 
 not expect more than that she may be brought 
 into a state which will render her perfectly man- 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 399 
 
 ageable at home. More is certainly possible, but 
 not to be expected, and scarcely to be hoped. 
 
 To-morrow I return to my poor children. 
 There is this great comfort, — that the disease is 
 not hereditary, her family having within all mem- 
 ory been entirely free from it. 
 
 I have much to be thankful for under this vis- 
 itation. For the first time in my life I am so far 
 beforehand with the world, that my means are 
 provided for the whole of next year ; and that I 
 can meet this additional expenditure, considerable 
 in itself, without any difficulty. As I can do this, 
 it is not worth a thought ; but it must have cost 
 me much anxiety had my aflairs been in their for- 
 mer state. 
 
 To Henry Taylor. 
 
 York, October 2, 1834. 
 
 The call upon me for exertion has been such, 
 that, by God's help, I have hitherto felt no weak- 
 ness. 
 
 That this is a far greater calamity than death 
 would have been, I well know. But I perceive 
 that it can be better borne at first, because there 
 is a possibility of restoration, and, however feeble, 
 a hope. Therefore that collapse is not to be ap- 
 prehended which always ensues when the effort 
 which the circumstances of a mortal sickness, and 
 death, and burial, call forth in the survivor, is at 
 an end. 
 
400 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 INIine is a strong heart. I will not say that the 
 last week has been the most trying of my life ; but 
 1 will say, that the heart which could bear it can 
 bear anything. 
 
 It.is remarkable that the very last thing I wrote 
 before this affliction burst upon me in its full 
 force was upon Resignation, little foreseeing, God 
 knows, how soon and how severely my own prin- 
 ciples were to be put to the proof. The occasion 
 was this : — jNIrs. Hughes thought it would gratify 
 me to peruse a letter which she had just received 
 from one of her friends, — a clergyman who had re- 
 cently suflered some severe domestic affliction. He 
 said that his greatest consolation had been derived 
 from a letter of mine which she had allowed him 
 to transcribe some years ago, and which he ver- 
 ily believed had at that time saved his heart from 
 breakins:. The letter must have been written 
 upon my dear Isabel's death.* I have no recollec- 
 tion of it ; but that must have been the subject, be- 
 cause ]Mrs. Hughes and her husband had both been 
 exceedingly struck with her, and declared, — when 
 such a declaration could without unfitness be made, 
 — that she was the most radiant creature they had 
 ever beheld. 
 
 * See page 347. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 401 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 December 18, 1834. 
 I find it a grievous thing that I must now, for 
 the first time, think about imys as well as means. 
 For the last eight and thirty years I had nothing 
 to do but provide the means in my own quiet way, 
 and deliver them over to one of the best stewards 
 that ever man was blest with. The ways were 
 her concern, and her prudence and foresight ex- 
 empted me from all trouble as well as from all 
 care. My daughters cannot yet stand here in 
 their poor mother's place, and I must be more 
 accustomed to my new situation before I intro- 
 duce them to it. Nothing can possibly exceed 
 the good sense and good feeling which they have 
 manifested under our present affliction ; but their 
 attentions to me give me a painful sense of how 
 much importance I am to their happiness. Cuth- 
 bert, also, is a great comfort to me. 
 
 [In the month of January, 1835, Southey re- 
 ceived two letters from Sir Robert Peel, as honora- 
 ble to the statesman as to the poet. He had, he 
 said, advised the king " to adorn the distinction of 
 baronetage with a name the most eminent in litera- 
 ture, and which has claims to respect and honor 
 which literature alone can never confer." And in 
 the second letter, marked private, he wrote: 
 "Will you tell me, without reserve, whether the 
 
402 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 possession of power puts within my reach the 
 means of doing anything which can be serviceable 
 or acceptable to you ; and whether you will allow 
 me to find some compensation for the many heavy 
 sacrifices which office imposes upon me, in the 
 opportunity of marking my gratitude as a public 
 man for the eminent services you have rendered, 
 not only to literature, but to the higher interests 
 of virtue and religion."] 
 
 To Sir Robert Peel. 
 
 February 3, 1835. 
 
 No communications have ever surprised me so 
 much as those which I have this day the honor of 
 receiving from }'ou. I may truly say, also, that 
 none have ever gratified me more, though they 
 make me feel how difficult it is to serve any one 
 who is out of the way of fortune. An unreserved 
 statement of my condition will be the fittest and 
 most respectful reply. 
 
 I have a pension of 200?. conferred upon me 
 through the good offices of my old friend and 
 benefactor, Charles "\V. W}'nn, when Lord Gren- 
 ville W'ent out of office ; and I have the Laureate- 
 ship. The salar}^ of the latter was immediately 
 appropriated, as far as it went, to a life insurance 
 for 3000L This, with an earlier insurance for 
 1000/., is the whole provision that I have made 
 for my family ; and what remains of the pension 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 403 
 
 after the annual payments are made, is the whole 
 of my certain income. All beyond must be de- 
 rived from my own industry. Writing for a 
 livelihood, a livelihood is all that I have gained ; 
 for, having also something better in view, and 
 therefore never having courted popularity, nor 
 written for the mere sake of gain, it has not been 
 possible for me to lay by anything. Last year, 
 for the first time in my life, I was provided with a 
 year's expenditure beforehand. This exposition 
 might suffice to show how utterly unbecoming and 
 unwise it would be to accept the rank which, so 
 greatly to my honor, you have solicited for me, 
 and which his Majesty would so graciously have 
 conferred. But the tone of your letter encour- 
 ages me to say more. 
 
 My life insurances have increased in value. 
 With these, the produce of my library, my 
 papers, and a posthumous edition of my works, 
 there will be probably 12,000L for my family at 
 ray decease. Good fortune, with great exertions 
 on the part of my surviving friends, might possi- 
 bly extend this to 15,000?., beyond which I do not 
 dream of any further possibility. I had bequeathed 
 the whole to my wife, to be divided ultimately be- 
 tween our four children; and having thus pro- 
 vided for them, no man could have been more 
 contented with his lot, nor more thankful to that 
 Providence on whose especial blessing he knew 
 
404 THE STORY OF SOUTIIEY'S LIFE. 
 
 tha^ he was constantly, and as it were immedi- 
 ately, dependant for his daily bread. 
 
 But the confidence which I used to feel in 
 myself is now failing. I was young, in health 
 and heart, on my last birth-day, when I com- 
 pleted my sixtieth year. Since then I have been 
 shaken at the root. It has pleased God to visit 
 me with the severest of all domestic afflictions, 
 those alone excepted into which guilt enters. 
 ]\Iy wife, a true helpmate as ever man was blessed 
 with, lost her senses a few months aofo. She 
 is now in a lunatic asylum ; and broken sleep, and 
 anxious thoughts, from which there is no escape 
 in the night season, have made me feel how 
 more than possible it is that a sudden stroke 
 may deprive me of those faculties, by the exercise 
 of which this poor family has hitherto been sup- 
 ported. Even in the event of my death, their 
 condition would, by our recent calamity, be 
 materially altered for the worse ; but if I were 
 rendered helpless, all our available means would 
 procure only a respite from actual distress. 
 
 Under these circumstances, 3'our letter, Sir, 
 would in other times have encouraged me to ask 
 for such an increase of pension as might relieve 
 me from anxiety on this score. Now that lay 
 sinecures are in fact abolished, there is no other 
 way by which a man can be served, who has no 
 profession wherein to be promoted, and whom any 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 405 
 
 official situation would take from the only emplo}^- 
 ment for which the studies and the habits of forty 
 years have qualified him. This way, I am aware, 
 is not now to be thought of, unless it were prac- 
 ticable as part of a plan for the encouragement of 
 literature ; but to such a plan perhaps these times 
 might not be unfavorable. 
 
 The length of this communication would require 
 an apology, if its substance could have been com- 
 pressed ; but on such an occasion it seemed a duty 
 to say what I have said ; nor, indeed, should I 
 deserve the kindness which you have expressed, if 
 I did not explicitly declare how thankful I should 
 be to profit by it. 
 
 To Henry Taylor. 
 
 April 7, 1835. 
 
 To-day has brought Sir R. Peel's announce- 
 ment that he has signed the warrant for an addi- 
 tional pension of 300?. This is just what I 
 thought likely, what I think reasonable, and 
 what, if I had been desired to name the sum for 
 myself, I should have fixed on, with this difference 
 only, that I would have had the amount of both 
 pensions without deductions.* 
 
 They give me, however, an income of 375?. a 
 
 *The Eev. Cutlibert Southey writes: " This proved to be the 
 case with respect to the latter pension, and he received out of 
 a nominal income of 500L, 444Z., to which the Laureateship 
 being added, made in all 534i." 
 
406 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 year, subject to no other contingencies than 
 those of the State, — and I am contented and 
 thankful. 
 
 To William Wordsicorth. 
 
 May 9, 1835. 
 
 Thank you for your new volume which it is 
 needless for me to praise. It will do good now 
 and hereafter ; more and more as it shall be more 
 and more widely read ; and there is no danger of 
 its ever being laid on the shelf. I am glad to 
 see that you have touched upon our white sla- 
 very, and glad that you have annexed such a post- 
 script. 
 
 My good daughters, who, among their other 
 virtues, have that of being good correspondents, 
 send full accounts to Rydal of our proceedings. 
 We shall lose hope so gradually, that if we lose 
 it we shall be hardly sensible when it is lost. 
 There is, however, so great an improvement in 
 their poor mother's state fi'om what it was at any 
 time during her abode in the Retreat, that we 
 seem to have fair grounds of hope at present. It 
 is quite certain that in bringing her home I have 
 done what was best for her and for ourselves. 
 
 I wish the late Administration had continued 
 long enough in power to have provided as well for 
 William* as it has done for me. It has placed 
 me, as far as relates to the means of subsistence, 
 
 * Wordsworth's son. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 407 
 
 at ease for the remainder of my days. Nor ought 
 any man who devotes himself, as I have done, to 
 literary pursuits, to think himself ill-recompensed 
 with such an income as I shall henceforward re- 
 ceive from the Treasury. My new pension is di- 
 rected to be paid without deductions. 
 
 To John May. 
 
 August 1, 1835. 
 Since my last letter we have had a severe shock 
 in the death of Miss Hutchinson, Mrs. Words- 
 worth's sister, who was one of the dearest friends 
 these poor girls had, and who was indeed to me 
 like a sister. She had been with us in all our 
 greatest afflictions. Her strength had been so 
 much exhausted in nursing Miss Wordsworth, the 
 elder, and with anxiety for Dora, that after a 
 rheumatic fever, from which she seemed to be 
 recovered, she sunk at once, owing to mere weak- 
 ness ; an effusion on the brain was the immediate 
 cause. Miss Wordsworth, whose death has been 
 looked upon as likely any day for the last two 
 years, still lives on. Her mind, at tiuics, fails 
 now. Dora, who is in the most precarious state 
 herself, cannot possibly amend while this anxiaty 
 continues, so that at this time Wordsworth's is a 
 more afflicted house than my own. They used to 
 be two of the happiest in the country. But there 
 is a time for all things, and we are supported by 
 God's mercy. 
 
408 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 If I could leave home with satisfaction, I should 
 go either to Harrogate or Shap (if Shap, which I 
 hope, would do,) for the sake of the waters. But 
 my poor Edith likes none of us to leave her, and 
 requests us not to do so. This, of course, would 
 induce me to bear with any thing that can be borne 
 without danger. Xor, indeed, should I willingly 
 leave my daughters, who stand in need of all that 
 can be done to cheer them in the performance of 
 their duty, and who are the better, because they 
 exert themselves to keep .up their own spirits for 
 my sake. 
 
 You will see hoAV unprofitable it would be for 
 me, under these circumstances, to look l)eyond 
 the present anywhere — except to another world. 
 In the common course of nature, it cannot be long 
 ])efore all the events of this life w^ill be of no 
 further importance to me, than as they shall have 
 prepared me for a better. To look back over the 
 nine-and-thirty years which have clasped since 
 you and I first met at Lisbon, seems but as 
 yesterday. Wednesday, the 12th, completes my 
 sixty-first year ; and the likelihood is, that before 
 a fourth part of the like interval has passed, you 
 and I shall meet — where there will be no more 
 sorrow nor parting. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 409 
 
 To Cuthhert C. Southey. 
 
 December 16, 1835. 
 
 Twice I wished for you yesterday ; first, at 
 breakfast, because it was a beautiful morning, and 
 my feet itched for a ten miles' walk. But you are 
 in Sussex, Davies is in Shropshire, and I have not 
 even a dog for a companion. 
 
 Secondly, you were wished for two hours after- 
 wards, when I had settled to my work, for then 
 came the box of books from Ulverston. You 
 would have enjoyed the unpacking. It is the best 
 batch they ever sent home : thirtj'-six volumes, 
 besides three for Bertha and five of Kate's.* I 
 should like, if it were possible, always to com- 
 municate my pleasures, and keep my troubles to 
 myself. Here was no one to admire the books 
 
 with us. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 January 1, 1836. 
 
 The best thing I can Avish for myself, on the 
 commencement of a new year (among those things 
 which "stand to feasible") is, that it may not pass 
 away without your making a visit to Keswick. 
 Other hojje for the year I have none, and not much 
 (to confess the truth) of this. Time, however, 
 passes rapidly enough ; and good part of it, by 
 help of employment, in a sort of world of my own, 
 
 * It is probable that Southey was in the habit of sending 
 portions of liis "ragged regiment" of books to a binder at 
 Ulverston. — Ed. 
 
410 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 wherein I seem abstracted from everything except 
 what occupies my immediate attention. The most 
 painful seasons are, when I lie down at night, and 
 when I awake in the morning. But ni}^ health 
 continues good, and my spirits better than I could 
 possibl}^ have expected, had our present circum- 
 stances been foreseen. 
 
 It is remarkable that, of all employments at this 
 time, the Life of Coicper should be that on which 
 I am en^ao^ed. Enous^h of this. 
 
 To John May. 
 
 January 30, 1836. 
 
 I am very glad to hear that you are reading Dr. 
 Thomas Jackson, an author with whom, more 
 almost than any other, one might be contented in 
 a prison. There is hardly anj'thing in his works 
 which I wished away, except one shocking passage 
 about the Jews. For knowledge and sagacity and 
 right-mindedness, I think he has never been sur- 
 passed. You will be much pleased, also, with 
 Knox's Remains^ and his correspondence with 
 Bishop Jebb. 
 
 There is no change for the better in our domes- 
 tic circumstances. All hope is extinguished, Avhile 
 anxiety remains unabated, so sudden are the trans- 
 itions of this awful malady. I can never be 
 sufficiently thankful that my means of support are 
 no longer precarious, as they were twelve months 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 411 
 
 ago. The fear of being disabled, which I never 
 felt before, might too probably have brought on 
 the evil which it apprehended, when my life 
 seemed to be of more consequence to my family 
 than at any former time, and my exertions more 
 called for. Thank God, Sir Robert Peel set me 
 at ease on that score. Would to God that you 
 were relieved from your cares in like manner ! 
 We have both cause to return thanks for the 
 happiness that we have enjoyed, and for the con- 
 solations that are left us. If the last stasfe of our 
 journey should prove the most uneasy, it will be 
 the shortest. It is just forty years since we met 
 in another country ; most probably before a fourth 
 part of that time has clasped, we shall meet in 
 another state of existence. 
 
 We have both great comfort in our children. 
 Perhaps one reason why women bear affliction (as 
 I think they generally do) better than men, is, 
 because they make no attempt to fly from the 
 sense of it, but betake themselves patiently to the 
 duties, however painful, which they are called 
 upon to perform. It is the old emblem of the 
 reed and the oak — they bend, and therefore they 
 are not broken ; and then comes peace of mind, 
 which is the fruit of resignation. 
 
 Secluded as Ave now are from society, my 
 daughters find sufficient variety of employment. 
 They transcribe a good deal for me : indeed, what- 
 
412 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LEFE. 
 
 ever I want extracted of any length from books — 
 most of my notes. One room is almost fitted up 
 with books of their binding : I call it the Cottoniaii 
 library ; no patchwork quilt was ever more diversi- 
 fied. They have just now attired two hundred 
 volumes in this fashion. Their pleasure, indeed, 
 in seeing the books in order, is not less than my 
 own ; and, indeed, the greater part of them are 
 now in such order, that they are the pride of my 
 eye, as well as the joy of my heart. God bless 
 you, my dear old friend ! ^lay I live to write a 
 great many more books ; and may you and your 
 daughters live, and read, and like them all. No 
 small part of the pleasure which I take in writing 
 arises from thinkinj? how often the work in which 
 I am engaged will make me present, in a certain 
 sense, with friends who are far away. 
 
 To Henry Taylor. 
 
 March 12, 1836. 
 When I went to Lisbon the second time (in 
 1800), it was for my health. An illness (the 
 only one I ever had) had weakened me, and I 
 was liable to sudden pulsations of the heart, Avhich 
 seemed to indicate some orijanic derangement. It 
 was inferred, or rather ascertained, that they 
 arose from nervous excitability, because the 
 moment I apprehended them they returned ; and 
 this conclusion was confirmed by a circumstance 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 413 
 
 which has led me to this rehition. Goino- out of 
 our sitting-room one morning, I happened to hear 
 the maid draw the bed-curtains, preparatory to 
 making the bed in the chamber opposite. From 
 that time, while I remained in those lodgings, I 
 never went out of the room in the early part of 
 the day without hearing the same sound, dis- 
 tinctly, though it came from within instead of 
 without. 
 
 Now let me tell you a more curious circum- 
 stance, of which I made a memorandum as soon 
 as I returned. About two months ago I was 
 going to the lake, and reading as I Avent. It was 
 a bright, frosty day, and my Scotch bonnet (in 
 which I appear like a Gaberlunzie man) afforded 
 no shelter to the eyes, but having been used to 
 wear it, I was not inconvenienced by the light. 
 Just on the rising ground, where the view of the 
 lake opens, I suppose the sun came more directly 
 upon my eyelids, but the page which I was read- 
 ing appeared to be printed in red letters. It hap- 
 pened to be a page in which one book of a Latin 
 poem ended and another began : the heading of 
 this latter was, of course, in considerably larger 
 types ; these changed their color first, and became 
 red as blood ; the whole page presently became 
 so, and the opposite page presented a confused 
 intermixture of red and black types when I 
 glanced on it, but, fixing my eyes, the whole 
 
414 THE STORY OF southey's life. 
 
 became rubic also, though there "was nothing then 
 so vivid as the large letters of the heading. The 
 appearance passed away as my position to the sun 
 was altered. 
 
 This phenomenon never occurred to me before, 
 but I observed it particularlj^ because, if my 
 memory does not deceive me, I have more than 
 once read of the same thing, and always as of 
 something supernatural, in the history of a Romish 
 saint, or a fanatic of some other denomination. 
 According to the mood of mind in which it oc- 
 curred, it would be taken for a manifestation of 
 grace or of wrath. 
 
 To John May. 
 
 June 13, 1836. 
 
 Time passes on so rapidly with me in the regu- 
 lar course of constant occupation, that it seems 
 only a few days since that letter arrived which 
 yours of this morning reminds me is two months 
 old. 
 
 There is no change in my poor Edith, nor is 
 there likely to be any. Thank God there is no 
 suffering, not even so much as in a dream (of this 
 I am fully convinced), and her bodily health is 
 better than it had been for very many years. 
 
 Only one of my daughters is with me at pres- 
 ent. Kate has been prevailed on to go to Rydal, 
 and if it be possible to remove poor Dora Words- 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 415 
 
 worth to the coast (which is her only chance of 
 recovery), she will go with her. The loss of Miss 
 Hutchinson, which was the greatest we could have 
 sustained out of our own nearest kin, has drawn 
 the bonds of affection closer between dear Dora 
 and my daughters, who w^ere almost equally dear 
 to the dead. 
 
 You will not wonder that the Life of Oowper 
 was a subject better suited to my own state of 
 mind at this time than almost any other could 
 have been. It was something like relief to have 
 thoughts, from which it is not possible that I 
 could escape, diverted as it were from home. 
 There are passages which I dare say you will 
 have perceived would not have been written un- 
 less I had had something more than a theoretical 
 knowledge of this most awful of all maladies. 
 
 I shall be very glad to see John Coleridge. 
 
 The bishop sent me his kind remembrances 
 from Demerara the other day. You ask if there 
 be any likelihood of seeing me in town ? Not at 
 present ; nor is it possible for me to say when it 
 may be fitting for me to leave home. My pres- 
 ence, though it may be little comfort to my poor 
 wife, is a very great one to my daughters ; my 
 spirits help to keep up theirs, and with what they 
 have to do for me in the way of transcribing, and 
 the arrival of letters and packets which would 
 cease during my absence, they would feel a great 
 
416 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 blank were they left to themselves. In her quiet- 
 er moods, too, my poor Edith shows a feeling 
 towards me, the last, perhaps, which will be 
 utterly extirpated. How often am I reminded of 
 my own lines, and made to feel what a woful 
 thing it is : — 
 
 "When the poor flesh, surviving, doth entomb 
 The reasonable soul." 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 \ Visits Cottle, Savage Landor, and the Poet Bowles — Old Haunts and 
 Old Friends — The Literary Profession — Charles Lamb — Death 
 of Mrs. Southe}' — Letter to his Son — Tour in France — Bertha 
 Southey's Marriage — Marries Miss Bowles — Failing Powers and 
 Death. 
 
 [A short and enforced journey from home at 
 this time, proved that Mvs. Southey was no longer 
 affected by her husl^and's absence. He needed a 
 change, and with his son Cuthbert as a companion 
 visited the haunts once so familiar to him in the 
 west of England. Savajje Landor was then 
 residing at Clifton, and in his society several 
 pleasant days were spent. For the sake of Cow- 
 per it will be seen that he also visited the neigh- 
 borhood of Birmingham.] 
 
 To Charles 8wain. 
 
 Grediiigton, October 27, 1836. 
 No compliment has ever been addressed to me 
 which gratified me more than your Dedicatory 
 Sonnet, and one only which gratified me so much 
 (that of Henry Taylor's Philip van Artevelde) ; 
 both for the same reason, because both are in 
 themselves singularly beautifid, and I know that 
 both were written with sincerity. 
 417 
 
418 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 This letter is Avritten from my first halting -place 
 on a very wide circuit. Cuthhert and I left home 
 on Monday, ])ound for the Land's End, from 
 whence I shall turn back with him to Sussex, and 
 having deposited him there, proceed to London. 
 There my purpose is to remain a fortnight, after 
 which I shall perform my promise of visiting 
 Neville White whenever I went again to town, 
 and then make the best of my way home. It is 
 an unfavoralile season for making such a journey, 
 but my brother, Dr. Southey, advised and urged 
 me to break from home, and not rely too confi- 
 dently upon a stock of health and spirits on which 
 there were large demands. 
 
 Being able to do this (which I hardly expected 
 till a fortunate subpoena to Lancaster put it to the 
 proof), I had the additional motive of going to 
 examine the only collections of Cowper's letters 
 which have not been entrusted to me, — those of 
 Mr. Bagot, which I am to peruse with his son, 
 near Birmingham, and those of Joseph Hill, Avhich 
 Avere bequeathed as an heir-loom, with a good 
 estate, to Jekyll. I go to Mr. Bagot's on Mon- 
 day next, and shall have access to Mr. Jekyll's 
 MSS. in London. There can be little doubt of 
 my finding in these collections (especially in the 
 latter) materials for my supplementary volume. 
 
 There was a third inducement for this journey. 
 I wished to show Cuthbert the scenes of my child- 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 419 
 
 hood and youth, which no one but myself could 
 show him, and to introduce him to a few old 
 friends, all that are left to me in that part of Eng- 
 land. Probably it may be my last journey to 
 those parts. We hope to reach Bristol on Thurs- 
 day, Nov. 3, and intend to remain a week there. 
 Direct to me at Mr. Cottle's, Bedminster, Bris- 
 tol. Cottle published my Joan of Arc in 1796, 
 and there are very few who entertain a warmer 
 regard for me than he has done from that time. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 Bedminster, November 10, 1836. 
 
 Thursday, we came to Bristol, and took up our 
 quarters here at Bedminster with Cottle. Here I 
 have been to the church which I used to attend 
 with my mother and grandmother more than half 
 a hundred years ago ; and I have shown Cuthbert 
 my grandmother s house, — what was once my 
 Garden of Eden. At church I was placed in a 
 seat exactly opposite the spot on which our pew 
 had stood ; but the whole interior of the church 
 had been altered. A few monuments only re- 
 mained as they had been. November 8, Tuesday, 
 we walked with Landor about the finest parts of 
 the neighborhood ; but the house which I inhab- 
 ited for one year at Westbury, and in which I 
 wrote more verses than in any other year of my 
 life, has been pulled down. Yesterday I took the 
 
420 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 North Pole * to Corston, and went into the house 
 in which I had been at school fifty-five 3'ears 
 ago. 
 
 We go on Saturday to visit Bowles at Bremhill, 
 and shall stay there till Wednesday. 
 
 To-day I have a letter from home with accounts 
 not on the whole unfavorable ; — but upon which 
 I must not allow myself to dwell. Right glad 
 shall I be, or rather right thankful (for gladness 
 and I have little to do with each other now), to find 
 myself at home again. I am well, thank God, 
 and my spirits seldom fail ; but I do not sleep 
 better than at home, and lose that after-dinner 
 nap, which has for some time been my soundest 
 and most refreshing sleep. On the whole, how- 
 ever, I expect to find myself the better for this jour- 
 ney, when I return to remain by the wreck. You 
 will not wonder that I am anxious to be there 
 again, and that I have a satisfaction in being there 
 — miserable as it is — which it is impossible to 
 feel any where else. 
 
 To Katharine Southey. 
 
 Wells, Xovember 16, 183G. 
 Much as I had heard of Bowles' peculiarities, I 
 should very imperfectly have understood his char- 
 acter if I had not passed some little time under 
 his roof. He has indulged his natural timidity to 
 * Cuthbert Southey, so called by Mr. Bedford. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 421 
 
 a degree little short of insanity, yet he sees how 
 ridiculous it makes him, and laughs himself at 
 follies which nevertheless he is continually repeat- 
 ing. He is literally afraid of everything. Plis 
 oddity, his untidyness, his simplicity, his benevo- 
 lence, his fears, and his good-nature, make him 
 one of the most entertaining and extraordinary 
 characters I ever met with. He is in his seventy- 
 third year, and for that age is certainly a fine old 
 man, in full possession of all his foculties, though 
 so afraid of being deaf, when a slight cold affects 
 his hearing, that he puts a watch to his ear twenty 
 times in the course of the day. Our reception 
 was as hospitable as possible, Mrs. Bowles was as 
 kind as himself, and every thing was done to make 
 us comfortable. 
 
 Tell your dear mother that I earnestly wish to 
 be at home again, and shall spend no time on the 
 way that can be spared. 
 
 Love to all. So good night : and God bless 
 you! 
 
 To the same. 
 
 Stockleigh Poraeroy, January 1, 1837. 
 
 Whichever it be to whom this letter is due (for 
 I keep ill account of such things), I begin with 
 such wishes to both, and to all others at home, 
 and all friends round Skiddaw or elsewhere, as 
 the first day of the year calls forth. 
 
 It was some comfort to hear that your dearest 
 
422 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 mother listened to my letters, and asked some 
 questions. And it is some comfort to know that 
 my presence is not wanted, while it is in vain to 
 wish that it were wished for. I shall be home by 
 the middle of February ; glad to be there, and 
 glad that I have taken a journey which has warmed 
 some old attachments, and been in many respects 
 of use. As for Cuthbert, he declares that it would 
 have been worth while to make the whole journey, 
 for the sake of seeing Mary Colling. Verily, I 
 never saw an}' person in and about whom every 
 thing was more entirely what you could wish, and 
 what it ought to be. She is the pattern of neat- 
 ness and propriet}^ simplicity and good sense. 
 Her old master, jNIr. Hughes, is as proud of her 
 as if she was his daughter. They live in a small 
 house, the garden of which extends to the river 
 Tavy, a beautiful stream ; and her kitchen is such 
 a kitchen for neatness and comfort, that you would 
 say at once no person who could not be happy 
 there deserved to be happy anywhere else. 
 Strangers (and there are many whom Mrs. Bray's 
 book* draws to Tavistock and Dartmoor) generally 
 inquire for her, and (ind means to see her, and she 
 has already a little library of books which have 
 been presented to her by such persons. 
 
 * Mrs. Bray edited Fables and Other Pieces in Verse, by 
 Mary Maria Colling, and Southey reviewed the volume in the 
 Quarterly. 
 
THE STOEY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 423 
 
 Mr. Bray's is the only house in which I have 
 eaten upon pewter since I was a child ; he has a 
 complete service of it, with his crest engraved 
 upon it, and bright as silver. The house (built 
 for him by the Duck, as the Duke of Bedford is 
 called in Tavistock,) is a very good one, the gar- 
 den large and pleasantly laid out ; it includes some 
 of the ruins, and a door from it opens upon a 
 delightful walk on the Tavy. In spite of the 
 weather we had two pleasant walks, one of about 
 ten miles, the other about six ; but of Dartmoor 
 we could see nothing. Our time passed pleas- 
 antly, Mary paying us a visit every day ; some 
 more Fables in her own handwriting will be among 
 the most interesting autographs that I have to 
 dispose of. 
 
 To Henry Taylor. 
 
 Buckland, January 8, 1837. 
 If I have learnt to look with indifference upon 
 those whom I meet in casual society, it is because 
 in early life circumstances (and disposition also) 
 made me retire into myself, like a snail into his 
 shell ; and in later years, because so many new 
 faces have come to me like shadows, and so de- 
 parted. Yet I was not slow in my likings when 
 young, nor has time rendered me so ; it has only 
 withheld me from making any advances towards 
 intimacy with persons, however likeable, whom it 
 is certain that I can have very few opportunities 
 
424 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 of seeinof ajjain, and no leisure for conversins^ with 
 by letter. 
 
 It is indeed most desira!)le to knit our friends 
 in a circle ; and one of those hopes which, thank 
 God, have in me the strength of certainties, is that 
 this will be done in the next stage of our existence, 
 when all the golden links of the chain will be 
 refined and rendered lasting. I have been travel- 
 ling for the last ten weeks through places w^here 
 recollections met me at every stage ; and this 
 certainty alone could render such recollections 
 endurable. jNIy faith in that future which cannot 
 be fiu' oft' never fails. 
 
 To Katharine Southey. 
 
 Tarring, February 8, 1837. 
 
 Yesterday I and Karl had a walk of some four- 
 teen or fifteen miles, to the Roman encampments 
 of Sisbury and Chankbury. The latter commands 
 a noble prospect over the AVeald. We had also a 
 remarkable view of Worthing, which appeared 
 like a ruined city (Balbec or Palmyra) in the 
 distance, on the edge of what we knew to be the 
 sea, but what might as well have been a desert ; 
 for it was so variegated Avith streaks of sunshine 
 and of shade, that no one ignorant of the place 
 could have determined whether it were sea or sky 
 that lay before us. 
 
 I shall come home hungry for work, for sleeping 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 425 
 
 after dinner, and for walking with a book in my 
 hand. The first thing I have to do is to write a 
 preface for Cowper's Homer; little more than an 
 evening's employment. Then I set about review- 
 ing Mrs. Bray's book, and carefully reading 
 through Joan of Arc^ that it may be sent imme- 
 diately to the press ; for the first volume of my 
 Poetical WorX's is to appear on July 11 {a month 
 after Cowper is finished) , and we wish to have two 
 or three more through the })ress, so as to prevent 
 all danger of delay in the publication. Then there 
 are two volumes of Coivperiana to prepare (for 
 which I am to have, as is fitting, separate pay), 
 and two volumes more of Admirals, besides other 
 things : enough to do, ])ut not too much ; for I 
 see my way through all, and was never in better 
 trim for work. 
 
 And now, God bless you all ! Eejoice, Baron 
 Chinchilla, for I am coming again to ask of you 
 whether you have everything that a cat's heart 
 can desire ! Rejoice, Tommy Cockbairn, for I 
 must have a new black coat ! and I have chosen 
 that it should be the work of thy hands, not of a 
 London tailor. Rejoice, Echo, for the voice 
 which thou lovest will soon awaken thee ajrain in 
 thy mountains ! Rejoice, Ben Wilson, for sample 
 clogs are to be sent into the west country, for the 
 good of the Devonshire men ! 
 
426 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 [After reaching home, Southey wrote the fol- 
 lowing characteristic letter ; — ] 
 
 To a Lady. 
 
 March, 1837. 
 
 It is not my advice that you have asked as to 
 the direction of 3'our talents, but my opinion of 
 them ; and yet the oi)inion may be worth little, 
 and the advice much. You evidently possess, 
 and in no inconsiderable degree, what Words- 
 worth calls " the faculty of verse." I am not 
 depreciating it when I say that in these times it 
 is not rare. ]\lany volumes of poems are now 
 published every year without attracting public 
 attention, any one of which, if it had appeared 
 half a century ago, would have obtained a high 
 reputation for its author. Whoever, therefore, is 
 ambitious of distinction in this way, ouijht to be 
 prepared for disappointment. 
 
 But it is not WMth a view to distinction that you 
 should cultivate this talent, if you consult your 
 own happiness. I, who have made literature my 
 profession, and devoted my life to it, and hav& 
 never for a moment repented of the deliberate 
 choice, think myself nevertheless bound in duty 
 to caution every young man who applies as an 
 aspirant to me for encouragement and advice, 
 against taking so perilous a course. You will 
 say that a woman has no need of such a caution : 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 427 
 
 there can be no peril in it for her. In a certain 
 sense this is true ; but there is a danger of which I 
 would, with all kindness and all earnestness, warn 
 you. The day-dreams in which you habitually 
 indulge are likely to induce a distempered state 
 of mind ; and in proportion as all the ordinary 
 uses of the world seem to you flat and unprofit- 
 able, you will be unfitted for them without be- 
 coming fitted for anj'thing else. Literature 
 cannot be the business of a woman's life, and 
 it ought not to be. The more she is engaged in 
 her proper duties, the less leisure will she have 
 for it even as an accomplishment and a recreation. 
 To those duties you have not yet been called, and 
 when you are you will be less eager for celebrity. 
 Y©u will not seek in imagination for excitement, 
 of which the vicissitudes of this life, and the 
 anxieties from which you must not hope to be 
 exempted, be your state what it may, will bring 
 with them but too much. 
 
 But do not suppose that I disparage the gift 
 which you possess ; nor that I would discourage 
 you from exercising it. I only exhort you so to 
 think of it, and so to use it, as to render it con- 
 ducive to your own permanent good. Write 
 poetry for its own sake ; not in a spirit of emula- 
 tion, and not with a view to celebrity : the less 
 you aim at that, the more likely you will be to 
 deserve, and finally to obtain it. So written it 
 
428 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 is wliolesome both for the heart and soul ; it 
 may be made the surest means, next to religion, 
 of soothing the mind, and elevating it. You may 
 embody in it your l)est thoughts and your wisest 
 feelings, and in so doing discipline and strengthen 
 them. 
 
 To Henry Taylor. 
 
 March 30, 1S37. 
 
 I too, as you may suppose, speculate (and 
 sometimes more largely than is wise) upon 
 Cuthbert's past, present, and future. The past 
 is past, and could not, I believe, all things con- 
 sidered, have been changed for the better ; for 
 the good and evil of public education and of 
 private, as compared with each other, are so 
 nearly balanced, that it would be difficult to 
 say on which side the advantages preponderate. 
 But life is uncertain, and it was a great object 
 with me, feeling that uncertainty, to make his 
 boyhood happy. INIoreover, the expense of a 
 public school would have cost me no little anx- 
 iety, and must have put me to my shifts. 
 
 For the future he knows my predilection, and 
 knows also that he is just as free to choose his 
 own profession as if I had none. I indulge in no 
 dreams respecting my life or his, — or into which 
 their prolongation enters. But if he lives I think 
 he would be happier in a country parsonage than 
 at the bar, or as a physician, or in a public office. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHS y'S LIFE. 429 
 
 He is free to choose. I may live to see his choice, 
 but not to know the result of it. 
 
 To Edward Moxon. 
 
 July 19, 1837. 
 
 I received Lamb's Letters yesterday evening, 
 and not very wisely looked through both volumes 
 before I went to bed ; for, as you may suppose, 
 they kept possession of me during the night. Of 
 late, I have seen much of myself in a way that 
 thus painfully brings back the past ; Sir Walter's 
 Memoirs first, then Joseph Cottle's Recollections * 
 of so many things which had better have been for- 
 gotten ; and now these Memorials of poor Charles 
 Lamb. What with these, and the preparation of 
 my own poems for an edition which I have set 
 about in the same mood of mind as if it were de- 
 signed for posthumous publication, my thoughts 
 and feelings have been drawn to the years that 
 are past far more than is agreeable or whole- 
 some. 
 
 I wish that I had looked out for Mr. Talfourd the 
 letter which Gifford wrote in reply to one in which 
 I remonstrated with him upon his designating 
 Lamb as a poor maniac. The words were used in 
 complete ignorance of their peculiar bearings, and 
 I believe nothing in the course of Gifford's life 
 
 * Cottle's volume is entitled Reminiscences of S. T. Coler- 
 idge and Robert Soidhey. 
 
430 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 ever occasioned him so much self-reproach. He 
 was a man with whom I had no literary sym- 
 pathies ; perhaps there was nothing upon which 
 we agreed, except great political questions ; but I 
 liked him the better ever after for his conduct on 
 this occasion. He had a heart full of kindness for 
 all living creatures except authors ; them he re- 
 garded as a fishmonger regards eels, or as Isaac 
 Walton did slugs, frogs, and worms. 
 
 Mr. Talfourd has performed his task as well as 
 it could be done, under all circumstances. The 
 book must be purely delightful to every one, the 
 very few excepted to whom it must needs recall 
 melancholy recollections. 
 
 To Caroline Boides. 
 
 July 23, 1837. 
 That you should like Cottle's book, dear Caro- 
 line, is as impossible as it would be for you to 
 dislike Cottle himself, if you knew him as I know 
 him ; but unless you knew him thus thoroughly 
 you could not believe that such simple-hearted- 
 ness and such inordinate vanity were to l)e found 
 in the same person. One thing he has made me 
 fully sensible of, and that is, how liable the most 
 cautious biographer is to be misled by what should 
 seem to be the most trustworthy documents. Such 
 a confusion of times and circumstances as he has 
 made in his Recollections, I never met with in any 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 43 1 
 
 other book, und for this reason, no doubt, that my 
 own knowledge could never, in any other instance, 
 enable me to detect it. 
 
 Wordsworth and I have always dreaded the 
 indiscretion of Coleridge's admirers, and the ex- 
 posure of his character which was certain to ensue. 
 Cottle has withheld a great deal, and he has struck 
 out more at my desire ; and yet the impression 
 which his book leaves is just what you describe 
 upon all those who feel that intellectual strength 
 affords no excuse for the disreo-ard of moral obli- 
 gation. 
 
 Charles Lamb's letters have just reached me. 
 If the whole story could have been told, this 
 would have been one of the most painfully inter- 
 esting books that ever came from the press. 
 When I saw Talfourd in January last, he seemed 
 fully aware how much better it would have been 
 to have delayed the publication for some years. 
 But in this age, when a person of any notoriety 
 dies, they lose as little time in making a book of 
 him as they used to do in making a mumnij*. 
 To be sure, there are some reputations that will 
 not keep, and must therefore be brought to 
 market while they are fresh. But poor Lamb's 
 is not of that kind. His memory will retain its 
 fragrance as long as the best spice that ever was 
 expended upon one of the Pharoahs. 
 
432 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 To Joseph Cottle.^ 
 
 November 16, 1837. 
 
 It pleased God to release my poor dear Edith 
 this morning from a pitiable state of existence, 
 though we have always had the consolation of 
 thinking it was more painful to witness than to 
 endure. She had long been wasting away, and 
 for the last month rapidly. For ten days she was 
 unable to leave her bed. There seemed to be no 
 suflering till excess of weakness became pain, and 
 at no time any distress of mind ; for, being sensi- 
 l)le Avliere she was and with whom, and of the 
 dutiful aff'ection Avith which she was attended, she 
 was sensible of nothino- more. 
 
 My poor daughters have been mercifully sup- 
 ported through their long trial. Now that the 
 necessity for exertion is over, they feel that pros- 
 tration which in such cases always ensues. But they 
 have discharged their duties to the utmost, and 
 they will have their reward. It is a blessed de- 
 liverance ! — the change from life to death, and 
 ftom death to life ! inexpressibly so for her. 
 
 To Grosvenor Bedford. 
 
 November 24, 1837. 
 This event could not have been regarded other- 
 wise than as a deliverance at any time since there 
 
 * This is endorsed, " Tlie last letter which Joseph Cottle re- 
 ceived from his old friend Robert Souihey." 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 433 
 
 ceased to be a hope of mental restoration ; and for 
 several weeks it was devoutly to be desired. Yet 
 it has left a sense of bereavement which I had not 
 expected to feel, lost as she had been to me for 
 the last three years, and worse than lost. During 
 more than two-thirds of my life she had been the 
 chief object of my thoughts, and I of hers. No 
 man ever had a truer helpmate ! no children a 
 more careful mother. No family was ever more 
 wisely ordered, no house-keeping ever conducted 
 with greater prudence, or greater comfort. Every 
 thing was left to her management, and managed 
 so quietly and so well, that except in times of 
 sickness and sorrow, I had literally no cares. 
 
 I always looked upon it as conducing much to 
 our happiness, that we were of the same age, for 
 in proportion to any perceptible disparity on that 
 point, the marriage union is less complete. And 
 so completely was she part of myself, that the 
 separation makes me feel like a dift'erent creature. 
 While she was herself I had no sense of g^rowino: 
 old, or at most only such as the mere lapse of 
 time brought with it ; there was no weight of 
 years upon me, my heart continued young, and 
 my spirits retained their youthful buoyancy. Now 
 the difference of five and thirty years between me 
 and Bertha continually makes me conscious of 
 being an old man. There is no one to partake 
 with me the recollections of the best and happiest 
 
434 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 portion of my life ; and, for that reason, were 
 there no other, such recollections must henceforth 
 be purely painful, except when I connect them 
 with the prospect of futurity. 
 
 You will not suppose that I encourage this 
 mood of mind. But it is well sometimes to look 
 sorrow in the face ; and always well to under- 
 stand one's own condition. 
 
 To Henry Taylor. 
 
 December 14, 1837. 
 It cannot often have happened that any one 
 should have a lost wife brought to his mind in the 
 w\ay that I am continually reminded of my poor 
 Edith. Before any of my children were old 
 enough to make extracts for me, it was one of her 
 pleasures to assist me in that way. Many hun- 
 dred notes in her writing (after so many have 
 been made use of) are arranged among the mate- 
 rials to which every day of my life I have occasion 
 to refer. And thus she will continue to be my help- 
 mate as long; as I live and retain mv senses. But all 
 these notes bring with them the vivid recollection 
 of the when and the where and the why they 
 were made ; and whether the sight of her hand- 
 writing will ever be regarded without emotion, is 
 more than I can promise myself. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 435 
 
 To Cuthbert C. 8outhey. 
 
 February 7, 1838. 
 
 It is right that you should clearly understand 
 what you have to reckon on for your ways and 
 means. Two hundred a year will be a liberal 
 allowance, probably above the average at Queen's, 
 which has not the disadvantage of being an expen- 
 sive college. Whether I live or die, this is pro- 
 vided for you. If I live and do well, my current 
 occupations will supply it. In any other event, 
 there is Dr. Bell's Legacy in the French Funds, 
 even if the Cowperage should not be forthcoming. 
 
 It is an uncomfortable thing to be straitened in 
 your situation ; but for most undergraduates it is 
 far more injurious to have too much. If you can 
 save from your income I shall be glad ; and I 
 have confidence enough in you to believe that 
 you would have much more satisfaction in saving 
 from it, than you could derive from any needless 
 expenditure. I do not mean that you should 
 receive less from me, if you find that you can 
 do with less ; but that you should lay by the sur- 
 plus for your own use. Next to moral and relig- 
 ious habits, habits of frugality are the most 
 important ; they belong, indeed, to our duties. 
 In this virtue your dear mother never was sur- 
 passed. Had it not been for her admirable man- 
 agement, this house could not have been kept up, 
 nor this family brought up as they were. God 
 
436 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 
 
 never blessed any man with a truer helpmate than 
 she was to me in this and in every other respect, 
 till she ceased to be herself. 
 
 I dwell upon this, not as supposing you need 
 any exhortation ujjon the subject, for I have the 
 most perfect confidence in you ; no father ever 
 had less apprehension for a son in sending him to 
 the University. But frugality is. a virtue which 
 will contril)ute continually and most essentially to 
 your comfort ; without it, it is impossible that 
 you should do well, and you know not how much 
 nor how soon it may be needed. It is far from 
 my intention, if I should live till you take your 
 degree, to hurry you into the world, and bid you 
 shift for yourself as soon as you can. On the 
 contrary, there is nothing on which I could look 
 forward with so much hope as to directing your 
 studies after you have finished your collegiate 
 course, and training you to build upon my foun- 
 dations. That object is one which it would be 
 worth wishing to live for. But when you take 
 your degree, I, if I should then be living, shall 
 be hard upon three score and ten. My whole 
 income dies with me. In its stead there would 
 be (at this time) about 8000Z. immediately from 
 the Insurance, and this is all there will be (except 
 200Z. or 300Z. for current expenses) till my papers 
 and copyrights can be made available. At first, 
 therefore, great frugality will be required, though 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 437 
 
 eventually there may be a fair provision for all. 
 I make no estimate of my library, because if it 
 please God that you should make use of the books 
 in pursuing my course, they would be of more 
 value to you than any sum that could be raised by 
 dispersing them. 
 
 It is fitting that you should bear all this in 
 mind ; but not for discouragement. Your pros- 
 pects, God be thanked, are better than if you 
 were heir to a large estate, — far better for your 
 moral and intellectual nature, your real welfare, 
 your happiness here and hereafter. 
 
 To Henry Taylor. 
 
 June 10, 1838. 
 Whether Hope and I shall ever become intimate 
 again in this world, except on the pilgrimage to 
 the next, is very doubtful ; nor ought it to be of 
 much importance to a man in his sixty-fourth 
 year. I have had a large portion of happiness, 
 and of the highest kind : five-and-thirty years of 
 such happiness few men are blest with. I have 
 drunk, too, of the very gall of bitterness ; yet not 
 more than was wholesome : the cup has been often 
 administered, no doubt because it was needed. 
 The moral discipline through which I have passed 
 has been more complete than the intellectual. 
 Both began early ; and, all things considered, I 
 do not think any circumstances could have been 
 
438 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 more beneficial to me than those in which I have 
 been placed. If not hopeful, therefore, I am 
 more than contented, and disposed to welcome 
 and entertain any good that may yet be in store 
 for me, without any danger of being disappointed 
 if there should be none. 
 
 [In the course of this summer, Southey en- 
 deavored to recruit his health and spirits by a 
 tour in France. A party of six was formed, 
 including the familiar names of Kenyon and Crabb 
 Eobinson. Mr. Cuthbert Southey accompanied 
 his father and " observed for the first time an inde- 
 cision in his manner and an unsteadiness in his 
 step which was w^holly unusual w^ith him."] 
 
 To John Rickman. 
 
 Buckland, Lymington, October, 1838. 
 
 I heard good accounts of you on my journey, 
 and having since seen that you were present at 
 the prorogation, venture to infer that you are no 
 longer under the oculist's care. 
 
 Nothing could be more fortunate than my 
 expedition was in everj^thing. The weather was 
 as fine as it could be. During six weeks there 
 was not one wet day ; what rain fell was generally 
 by night, and never more than sufficed for laying 
 the dust and cooling the air. We got to Carnac. 
 Chantrey had desired me to look for some small 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 439 
 
 red stones, which Buckland, or some of his dis- 
 ciples, had been much puzzled about, because they 
 are not pebbles of the soil, and have all evidently 
 been rubbed down to diflerent angles. Just such 
 stones so rubbed are used by Chantrey's own 
 people in polishing the finer parts of their statu- 
 ary ; and he fancied this was proof that the 
 people who erected the stones at Carnac must 
 have used them for some similar purpose. I 
 came to the conclusion that the Celts, which are 
 so hard and so highly polished, were brought to 
 that high polish by these instruments. 
 
 The Bretons are the most miserable people I 
 have ever seen, except those inhabitants of the 
 Alps who suffer with goitres, and among whom 
 the Cretins are found. They look, indeed, as if 
 they lived in an unhealthy country, and as if 
 they were only half fed. 
 
 I derived all the benefit that I hoped for from 
 my journey, and am in good condition in all 
 respects. 
 
 To Mrs. Hodson. 
 
 February 18, 1839. 
 My movements last year did not extend beyond 
 Normandy and Bretagne, and when I turned my 
 face towards England, it was in a steam-packet 
 from Havre to Southampton, by good fortune 
 just before that stormy weather set in, which, 
 with few intervals and those but short, has con- 
 
440 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 tinued ever since. Normandy pleased me as 
 much as I had expected, and my expectations 
 were pitched high. We were six in company, 
 and no journey could have been more prosperous 
 in all respects. The weather never prevented us 
 from seeing anything that we wished, and we met 
 with no mishap of any kind. 
 
 Cuthbert and I parted when we left the steam- 
 packet. He made the best of his way to Oxford ; 
 I remained some weeks in Hampshire, and on 
 returning to Keswick found my youngest daugh- 
 ter suffering under a serious attack of the influ- 
 enza ; an insidious disease, from which, though 
 we were assured that she was well recovered, she 
 has not yet regained strength. You may possibly 
 have heard from the newspapers that I have 
 resolved upon a second marriage. I need not say 
 that such a marriage must be either the wisest or 
 the weakest action of a man's life. But I may 
 say that in the important points of age, long and 
 intimate acquaintance, and conformity of opinions, 
 principles, and likings, no persons could be better 
 suited to each other. The newspapers, indeed, 
 have stated that INIiss Bowles is thirty years 
 younger than me, which, if it were true, would 
 prove me to be something worse than an old fool. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 441 
 
 To Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 Buckland, March 31, 1839. 
 
 The portrait of Savonarola is safely lodged at 
 Keswick ; I should have thanked you for it sooner, 
 if I had known whither to direct to you. I have 
 seldom seen a finer picture or a finer face ; the 
 countenance seems to bespeak credit for one 
 whose character may perhaps be still considered 
 doubtful. 
 
 My daughter Bertha's marriage to her cousin, 
 Herbert Hill, is especially fortunate in this respect, 
 that for a few years it will remove her no farther 
 from Keswick than Eydal. Very difierent has 
 been her elder sister's lot ; for being, to all like- 
 lihood, fixed upon the coast of Sussex (and the 
 very worst part of it) , she has been lost to us ever 
 since. I have now only one daughter left, and 
 my son divides the year between college and 
 home. Oxford has done him no harm ; indeed, I 
 never apprehended any. Reduced in number as 
 my family has been within the last few years, my 
 spirits would hardly recover their habitual and 
 healthful cheerfulness, if I had not prevailed upon 
 Miss Bowles to share my lot for the remainder of 
 our lives. There is just such a disparity of age as 
 is fitting ; we have been well acquainted with each 
 other more than twenty years, and a more perfect 
 conformity of disposition could not exist ; so that, 
 in resolving upon what must be either the weakest 
 
442 THE STORY OF SOUTHEY'S LIFE. 
 
 or wisest act of a sexagenarian's life, I am well 
 assured that, according to human foresight, I have 
 judged well and acted wisely, both for myself and 
 my remaining daughter. 
 
 [The marriage with IMiss Bowles took place on 
 the 5th of June, and in August Southey returned 
 with her to Keswick. Knowing what we now 
 know, this may appear to have been a foolish 
 step.* On the other hand Southey and Caroline 
 Bowles had for years been true friends. She was 
 lonely, and so was he, for only one daughter re- 
 mained to cheer him in the once happy Keswick 
 home. The sympathy between the two poets was 
 one of heart as well as intellect, and it was 
 surely no forgetfulness of the wife of his youth — 
 as true a wife as ever man was blessed with — that 
 led him in old age to form this new connection. He 
 did not know, neither did she, that the gallant 
 vessel so long battered with the storms of life was 
 about to become a wreck. 
 
 The failure in Southey 's case was gradual, 
 but his son states that for more than a year 
 before his death he passed his time as in a dream, 
 
 * Professor Dowden has kindly pointed out to me that, since 
 printing the volume of Southey's correspondence with Miss 
 Bowles, he has ascertained from a letter of hers "that she was 
 wholly unaware of Southey's failing power of mind when she 
 married him.", — Ed. 
 
THE STORY OF SOUTHEY's LIFE. 443 
 
 with little if any knowledge of what went on around 
 him. " One circumstance," he adds, " connected 
 with the latter years of his life, deserves to be 
 noticed as very singular. His hair, which pre- 
 viously was almost snowy white, grew perceptibly 
 darker, and, I think, if anything, increased in 
 thickness and a disposition to curl." 
 
 He died on the 21st of March, 1843, and was 
 buried, as every visitor to Keswick knows, in the 
 churchyard of Crossthwaite. It was a stormy 
 morning, but the weather did not prevent Words- 
 worth from crossing the hills to be present at the 
 funeral of his old friend.] 
 
In 1833 the wife of Horace Mann spent the 
 winter in Cuba under circumstances extremely 
 favorable to an intimate linowledge of life there ; 
 but was under a double restraint from making a 
 book, a close and sympathetic friendship and nu- 
 merous hospitalities. 
 
 Nevertheless the book was written, but kept for 
 
 fifty years till the death of the last of her friends 
 
 who figured in it 
 
 Juanita, a Romance of Real Life in Cuba Fifty Tears Ago. 
 By Mary Mann (wife of Horace Manu, sister of Mrs. Ilaw- 
 tliorne and of tlie venerable Elizabeth Peabody). 436 pages. 
 12mo, cloth, $1.50. 
 
 It is less a romance than a fragment of history ; 
 less a history than an impassioned picture of hu- 
 man life above and below incredible greed and 
 cruelty ; less a picture than protest. And, commg 
 at this late day wlien freedom has blessed both 
 slave and master, it gives a new zest to liberty. 
 It draws the reader from page to page not so 
 much by the arts and resources of fiction as by an 
 overmastering sympatliy. 
 
 It is not another Uncle Tom's Cabin; and the 
 times are kindlier. But the book must be read. 
 
 A writer who keeps his name to himself had 
 been telling his children what heraldry had to do 
 with our stars and stripes, witli tlie seals of the 
 United States, and of the States themselves. " It 
 occurred to him" — what are we not indebted to 
 children for? — " that heraldry, brilliant witli mem- 
 ories of tournaments and hard-won victories, 
 miglit interest " otlier youngsters. Hence a play- 
 ful book of careful enough research into heraldic 
 history, legends, usages, meanings, proprieties. 
 
 Dame Heraldry 117 illustrations, 271 pages. 8vo, cloth, 
 $2.50. 
 
There is nothing more refreshing to pick up In 
 odd minutes than a briglit collection out of the 
 poetry of all time of the brightest on almost no 
 matter what subject, even the weather. 
 
 Through the Year with the Poets, edited by Oscar Fay 
 Adams. A volume a month of about 140 pages cacli, with 
 ample indices. 16mo, cloth, 75 cents each ; parti-colored cloth, 
 $1.00. 
 
 And dainty book-making has much to do with 
 the pleasure of scrappy reading. 
 
 New Every Morning, a year-book for girls, by 
 Annie H. Ryder, is a helpful thought or two, out of 
 current writers mainly, for every day in the year ; 
 not religious, but chosen for serious aptitude to 
 the state of things in the world we live in. 196 
 pages. Square 16mo, cloth. $1.00. 
 
 Notable Prayers of Christian History. By Hez- 
 ekiah Butterworth. So far as we know, there is 
 no other book in which are gathered the notable 
 prayers of devout men of all times with their 
 biographical and historical connections. 304 pages. 
 16mo, cloth, 1.00. 
 
 Let not the bookseller venture a word on so ab- 
 struse a subject as Browning. 
 
 Christmas Eve and Easter Day, and Other Poems. By 
 Robert Browning. Introduction by W. J. Kolfe. The Theory 
 of Robert Browning concerning Personal Immortality by 
 Ileloisc Edwina Hersey. With notes. 175 pages. 16mo, cloth, 
 75 cents. 
 
 For Browning Classes and Clubs. The text is 
 in very generous type. 
 
 Faith and Action is an F. D. Maurice Anthology. 
 Preface by Phillips Brooks. The subjects are : 
 Life, Men, Reforms, Books, Art, Duty, Aspira- 
 tion, Faith. 269 pages. 12rao, cloth, $1.00. 
 
Quite a new sort of history. School days over, 
 foiu- girl friends return to their homes and life 
 begins. As often happens, life is not as they 
 picture it. What it was for the four and how 
 they met it you shall read in the quiet booli. 
 
 After School Days. By Christina Goodwin. 196 pages. 
 12mo, cloth, $1.00. 
 
 It is a comforting fact a thousand times that 
 nobody knows, to be sure of it, what is good for 
 him or her. Disappointments are often shoni of 
 their bitterness by the remembrance of it. Often 
 what we look forward to, hope for, strive for, 
 make ourselves anxious about, turns out to be of 
 no particular value ; and what we fear and strive 
 against turns out good fortune. Earely is this 
 practical wisdom made so sure as in this whole- 
 some history out of the stuff that dreams are 
 made of. 
 
 A practical help for a girl to surround herself 
 with pleasant things without much shopping. The 
 book is mainly filled with ways to exercise taste 
 on waste or picked-up things for use with an eye 
 to decoration as well. 
 
 For a Girl's Room. By Some Friemls of the Girls. 236 
 pages. 12mo, cloth, $1.00. 
 
 A friendly sort of a book to fill odd minutes, 
 whether at home or out, for herself or another. 
 By no means on " fancy-work " — not all work — 
 Chapter XXI is How to Tame Buxls and XXV is 
 What to Do in Emergencies. 
 
When & novel-writer makes a girl so uncon- 
 sciously bright and catching in the very first chap- 
 ter he must not complain if the reader mixes her 
 up in a plot of his own. 
 
 Romance of a Letter. By Lowell Choate. 356 pages. 12mo, 
 doth, $1.25. 
 
 But we are not going to spoil a good story by 
 letting the least of its secrets out. 
 
 Whether city boys go to the country or country 
 boys go to the city wonderful things are experi- 
 enced. 
 
 Boys of Gary Farm. By Minna Caroline Smith. 313 pages. 
 12mo, cloth, $1.25. 
 
 The story lies between Chicago and Iowa. 
 The boys get mixed up variously. It is a Sunday 
 School book to this extent : The boys are good 
 boys and the girls are good girls ; the seeing and 
 doing are all well meant if they are a trifle ad- 
 venturous here and there. 
 
 The Spare Minute series of anthologies Is en- 
 riched by one from Ruskin. 
 
 Thoughts of Beauty from John Ruskin. By Rose Porter. 
 286 pages. 12mo, cloth, $1.00. 
 
 *' I have confined myself to his discoveries on 
 Nature, Morals and Religion ; gathering for your 
 perusal revelations of the blessed wonders of sky 
 and cloud, mountain and rock, trees, mosses, and 
 the green grass, birds of the air, and flowers, and 
 the marvelous coloring all these display which in 
 beauty of hue and delicacy of tinting as far out- 
 pass the works of man as the heavens are higher 
 than the earth." — From The Introduction. 
 
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