Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey

by Robert Southey

  The “Lyrical Ballads” were published about Midsummer, 1798. In September of the same year, Mr. Coleridge and Mr. Wordsworth left England for Germany, and I quitted the business of a bookseller. Had I not once been such, this book would never have appeared.

  * * * * *

  The narrative of Mr. Coleridge being concluded to the time when he left Bristol, with Mr. Wordsworth, to visit Germany, I shall now, for the present, leave him; and direct the reader’s attention to Mr. Southey, by introducing a portion of his long-continued correspondence with myself; but it may not be inappropriate to offer a few preliminary remarks: —

  The following letters will exhibit the genuine character of Mr. Southey through the whole of his literary life. In the earlier periods, a playful hilarity will be found; but this buoyancy of spirit, when prevailing to excess, (in the constitutionally cheerful, such as was Mr. S.) is generally modified, if not subdued, by the sobering occurrences of after life. Letters, like the present, possess some peculiar advantages. Whenever, as in this instance, epistles are written through a series of years, to one person, the writer’s mind is presented, under different aspects, while the identity is preserved. This benefit is greatly diminished, when, in a promiscuous correspondence, letters are addressed to a diversity of persons; often of different habits, and pursuits, where the writer must be compelled, occasionally, to moderate his expressions; to submit in some measure to mental restraint, by the necessity he is under to curb the flow of his spontaneous feeling. Besides this freedom from comparative bondage, one other advantage is derived from these continuous, and unconstrained letters to a single friend. A writer, in all his letters, from addressing one, for the most part, of congenial sympathies, expresses himself with less reserve; with more of the interior poured out; and consequently he maintains a freedom from that formality of essay-like sentences, which often resemble beautiful statues, fair, but cold and wanting life.

  When, during the Revolutionary war, disgusted with the excesses of the Trench, Mr. Southey saw it right, from a Foxite, to become a Pittite, some who did not know him, ascribed his change of sentiment to unworthy motives; of this number was my esteemed friend the late Rev. John Foster, who whilst freely admitting Mr. Southey’s great attainments and distinguished genius, regarded his mind as injuriously biassed. He thought Mm a betrayer of his political friends. No countervailing effect was produced by affirming his uprightness, and the temperance with which he still spake of those from whom he was compelled to differ. He was told that Mr. Southey was no blind political partisan, but an honest vindicator of what, in his conscience, he believed to be right — that no earthly consideration could have tempted him to swerve from the plain paths of truth and justice. An appeal was made to his writings, which manifested great moderation: and as it respected the Church, the London, and the Baptist Missionary Societies, it might be said, that he courageously stood forth to vindicate them in the Quarterly, at a critical time, when those Societies had been assailed by Sydney Smith, in the Edinburgh Review. All proved unavailing. At length I submitted to Mr. Foster’s inspection, Mr. Southey’s correspondence for more than forty years, where, in the disclosure of the heart’s deepest recesses, the undisguised character distinctly appears. He read, he admired, he recanted. In a letter to myself on returning the MS. he thus wrote: “The letters exhibit Southey as a man of sterling worth, — of sound principles; — faithfulness to old friendship, generosity, and, I trust I may say, genuine religion.” And Mr. F. ever after expressed the same sentiments to his friends. It is confidently hoped that similar instances of unfavourable prepossession, may be corrected by the same means.

  In his “Friend” Mr. Coleridge thus refers to his early schemes of

  Pantisocracy.

  ”Truth I pursued, as fancy led the way

  And wiser men than I went worse astray.”

  “From my earliest manhood I perceived that if the people at large were neither ignorant nor immoral, there could be no motive for a sudden and violent change of Government; and if they were, there could be no hope but a change for the worse. My feelings and imagination did not remain unkindled in this general conflagration (the French Revolution) and I confess I should be more inclined to be ashamed than proud of myself if they had. I was a sharer in the general vortex, though my little world described the path of its revolution in an orbit of its own. What I dared not expect from constitutions of Government and whole nations, I hoped from religion, and a small company of chosen individuals, formed a plan, as harmless as it was extravagant, of trying the experiment of human perfectibility on the banks of the Susquehannah; where our little society, in its second generation, was to have combined the innocence of the patriarchal age with the knowledge and genuine refinements of European culture; and where I dreamt that in the sober evening of my life, I should behold the cottages of Independence in the undivided dale of liberty,

  ’And oft, soothed sadly by the dirgeful wind

  Muse on the sore ills I had left behind.’

  Strange fancies! and as vain as strange! Yet to the intense interest and impassioned zeal, which called forth and strained every faculty of my intellect for the organization and defence of this scheme, I owe much of whatever I at present possess, — my clearest insight into the nature of individual man, and my most comprehensive views of his social relations, of the true uses of trade and commerce, and how far the wealth and relative power of nations promote or impede their inherent strength.”

  The following is Mr. Coleridge’s estimate of Mr. Southey.

  “Southey stands second to no man, either as an historian or as a bibliographer; and when I regard him as a popular essayist, I look in vain for any writer who has conveyed so much information, from so many and such recondite sources, with so many just and original reflections, in a style so lively and poignant, yet so uniformly classical and perspicuous; no one, in short, who has combined so much wisdom, with so much wit; so much truth and knowledge, with so much life and fancy. His prose is always intelligible, and always entertaining. It is Southey’s almost unexampled felicity, to possess the best gifts of talent and genius, free from all their characteristic defects. As son, brother, husband, father, master, friend, he moves with firm, yet light steps, alike unostentatious, and alike exemplary. As a writer he has uniformly made his talents subservient to the best interests of humanity, of public virtue, and domestic piety; his cause has ever been the cause of pure religion, and of liberty, of national independence, and of national illumination.” — Bio. Lit.

  The reader has several times heard of Pantisocracy; a scheme perfectly harmless in itself, though obnoxious to insuperable objections. The ingenious devisers of this state of society, gradually withdrew from it their confidence; not in the first instance without a struggle; but cool reflection presented so many obstacles, that the plan, of itself, as the understanding expanded, gradually dissolved into “thin air.” A friend had suggested the expediency of first trying the plan in Wales, but even this less exceptionable theatre of experiment was soon abandoned, and sound sense obtained its rightful empire.

  It was mentioned in a former part, that Mr. Southey was the first to abandon the scheme of American colonization; and that, in confirmation, towards the conclusion of 1795, he accompanied his uncle, the Rev. Herbert Hill, Chaplain to the English factory at Lisbon, through some parts of Spain and Portugal; of which occurrence, Mr. S.’s entertaining “Letters” from those countries are the result; bearing testimony to his rapid accumulation of facts, and the accuracy of his observations on persons and things.

  The very morning on which Mr. Southey was married to Miss Edith Fricker, he left his wife in the family of kind friends, and set off with his Uncle, to pass through Spain to Lisbon. But this procedure marks the delicacy and the noble character of his mind; as will appear from the following letter, received from him, just before he embarked.

  “Falmouth, 1795.

  My dear friend,

  I have learnt from Lovell the news from Bristol,
public and private, and both of an interesting nature. My marriage is become public. You know that its publicity can give me no concern. I have done my duty. Perhaps you may think my motives for marrying (at that time) not sufficiently strong. One, and that to me of great weight, I believe was not mentioned to you. There might have arisen feelings of an unpleasant 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 other casualty, I have relations whose prejudices would then yield to the anguish of affection, and who would then love and cherish, and yield all possible consolation to my widow. Of such an evil there is but a possibility, but against possibility it was my duty to guard.

  Farewell,

  Yours sincerely,

  Robert Southey.”

  Mr. Southey having sent me two letters from the Peninsula, they are here presented to the reader.

  “Corunna, Dec. 15th, 1795.

  Indeed my dear friend, it is strange that you are reading a letter from me now, and not an account of our shipwreck. We left Falmouth on Tuesday mid-day; the wind was fair till the next night, so fair that we were within twelve hours’ sail of Corunna; it then turned round, blew a tempest, and continued so till the middle of Saturday. Our dead lights were up fifty hours, and I was in momentary expectation of death. You know what a situation this is. I forgot my sickness, and though I thought much of the next world, thought more of those at Bristol, who would daily expect letters; daily be disappointed, and at last learn from the newspapers, that the Lauzarotte had never been heard of.

  Of all things it is most difficult to understand the optimism of this difference of language; the very beasts of the country do not understand English. Say “poor fellow” to a dog, and he will probably bite you; the cat will come if you call her “Meeth-tha,” but “puss” is an outlandish phrase she has not been accustomed to; last night I went to supper to the fleas, and an excellent supper they made; and the cats serenaded me with their execrable Spanish: to lie all night in Bowling-Green Lane, would be to enjoy the luxury of soft and smooth lying.

  At sight of land a general shaving took place; no subject could be better for Bunbury than a Packet cabin taken at such a moment. For me, I am as yet whiskered, for I would not venture to shave on board, and have had no razor on shore till this evening. Custom-house officers are more troublesome here than in England, I have however got everything at last; you may form some idea of the weather we endured; thirty fowls over our head were drowned; the ducks got loose, and ran with a party of half naked Dutchmen into our cabin: ’twas a precious place, eight men lying on a shelf much like a coffin. Mr. Wahrendoff, a Swede, was the whole time with the bason close under his nose.

  The bookseller’s shop was a great comfort; the Consul here has paid me particular attentions, and I am to pass to-morrow morning with him, when he will give me some directions concerning Spanish literature. He knows the chief literary men in England, and did know Brissot and Petion. Of the dramatic poet whom Coates’s friend Zimbernatt mentioned as rivalling Shakspeare, I hear nothing; that young Spaniard seems to exaggerate or rather to represent things like a warm-hearted young man, who believes what he wishes. The father-in-law of Tallien is a banker, what you call a clever fellow; another word, says the most sensible man here, for a cheat; the court and the clergy mutually support each other, and their combined despotism is indeed dreadful, yet much is doing; Jardine is very active; he has forwarded the establishment of schools in the Asturias with his Spanish friends. Good night, they are going to supper. Oh, their foul oils and wines!

  Tuesday morning. I have heard of hearts as hard as rocks, and stones, and adamants, but if ever I write upon a hard heart, my simile shall be, as inflexible as a bed in a Spanish Posada; we had beef steaks for supper last night, and a sad libel upon beef steaks they were. I wish you could see our room; a bed in an open recess, one just moved from the other corner. Raynsford packing his trunk; Maber shaving himself; tables and chairs; looking-glass hung too high even for a Patagonian, the four evangelists, &c. &c. the floor beyond all filth, most filthy.

  I have been detained two hours since I began to write, at the custom house. Mr. Cottle, if there be a custom house to pass through, to the infernal regions, all beyond must be, comparatively, tolerable….

  Adieu,

  Robert Southey.”

  “Lisbon, February 1st, 1796.

  ‘Certainly, I shall hear from Mr. Cottle, by the first packet’ said I. Now I say, ‘probably I may hear by the next,’ so does experience abate the sanguine expectations of man. What, could you not write one letter? and here am I writing not only to all my friends in Bristol, but to all in England. Indeed I should have been vexed, but that the packet brought a letter from Edith, and the pleasure that gave me, allowed no feeling of vexation. What of ‘Joan?’ Mr. Coates tells me it gains upon the public, but authors seldom hear the plain truth. I am anxious that it should reach a second edition, that I may write a new preface, and enlarge the last book. I shall omit all in the second book which Coleridge wrote.

  Bristol deserves panegyric instead of satire. I know of no mercantile place so literary. Here I am among the Philistines, spending my mornings so pleasantly, as books, only books, can make them, and sitting at evening the silent spectator of card playing and dancing. The English here unite the spirit of commerce, with the frivolous amusements of high life. One of them who plays every night (Sundays are not excepted here) will tell you how closely he attends to profit. ‘I never pay a porter for bringing a burthen till the next day,’ says he, ‘for while the fellow feels his back ache with the weight, he charges high; but when he comes the next day the feeling is gone, and he asks only half the money.’ And the author of this philosophical scheme is worth £200,000!

  This is a comfortless place, and the only pleasure I find in it, is in looking on to my departure. Three years ago I might have found a friend, Count Leopold Berchtold. This man (foster brother of the Emperor Joseph) is one of those rare characters, who spend their lives in doing good. It is his custom in every country he visits, to publish books in its language, on some subject of practical utility; these he gave away. I have now lying before me the two which he printed in Lisbon; the one is an Essay on the means of preserving life, in the various dangers to which men are daily exposed. The other an Essay on extending the limits of benevolence, not only towards men, but towards animals. His age was about twenty-five; his person and his manners the most polished. My uncle saw more of him than any one, for he used his library; and this was the only house he called at; he was only seen at dinner, the rest of the day was constantly given to study. They who lived in the same house with him, believed him to be the wandering Jew. He spoke all the European languages, had written in all, and was master of the Arabic. From thence he went to Cadiz, and thence to Barbary; no more is known of him.

  We felt a smart earthquake the morning after our arrival here. These shocks alarm the Portuguese dreadfully; and indeed it is the most terrifying sensation you can conceive. One man jumped out of bed and ran down to the stable, to ride off almost naked as he was. Another, more considerately put out his candle, ‘because I know,’ said he ‘the fire does more harm than the earthquake.’ The ruins of the great earthquake are not yet removed entirely.

  The city is a curious place; a straggling plan; built on the most uneven ground, with heaps of ruins in the middle, and large open places. The streets filthy beyond all English ideas of filth, for they throw everything into the streets, and nothing is removed. Dead animals annoy you at every corner; and such is the indolence and nastiness of the Portuguese, that I verily believe they would let each other rot, in the same manner, if the priests did not get something by burying them. Some of the friars are vowed to wear their clothes without changing for a year; and this is a comfort to them: you will not wonder, therefore, that I always keep to the windward of these reverend perfumers.

  The streets are very disagreeable in wet weather. If you walk under the h
ouses you are drenched by the waterspouts; if you attempt the middle, there is a river; if you would go between both, there is the dunghill. The rains here are very violent, and the streams in the streets, on a declivity, so rapid as to throw down men; and sometimes to overset carriages. A woman was drowned some years ago, in one of the most frequented streets of Lisbon. But to walk home at night is the most dangerous adventure, for then the chambermaids shower out the filth into the streets with such profusion, that a Scotchman might fancy himself at Edinburgh. You cannot conceive what a cold perspiration it puts me in, to hear one dashed down just before me; as Thomson says, with a little alteration:

  ”Hear nightly dashed, amid the perilous street,

  The fragrant stink pot.”

  This furnishes food for innumerable dogs, that belong to nobody, and annoy everybody. If they did not devour it, the quantities would breed a pestilence. In a moonlight night, we see dogs and rats feeding at the same dunghill.