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<title type="main">The Collected Letters of Robert Southey. Part 1: 1791-1797 </title>
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<name>Southey, Robert, 1774-1843</name>
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<idno type="nines">rce259</idno>
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<p>Bodleian Library, MS Eng. Lett.
                        c. 23.  Previously  published: Kenneth Curry (ed.), New
                            Letters of Robert Southey, 2 vols (London and New York, 1965),
                        I, pp. 149–151.</p>
<p>These letters were edited with the assistance of Carol Bolton, Tim Fulford and Ian Packer</p>
<p>For permission to publish the text of MSS in their possession, the editor wishes to thank the Beinecke Rare
											Books and Manuscript Library, Yale University; Berg Collection of English and American Literature, The New
											York Public Library, Astor, Lenox and Tilden Foundations; the Bodleian Library Oxford University; the
											British Library; Boston Public Library; the Syndics of Cambridge University Library; the Syndics of the
											Fitzwilliam Museum Cambridge; Haverford College, Connecticut; the Historical Society of Pennsylvania; the
											Hornby Library, Liverpool Libraries and Information Services; the Houghton Library, Harvard University;
											the John Rylands Library, Manchester; the Kenneth Spencer Research Library, University of Kansas; Luton
											Museum (Bedfordshire County Council); Massachusetts Historical Society; McGill University Library; the
											National Library of Scotland; the Newberry Library, Chicago; the New York Public Library (Pforzheimer
											Collections); the Pierpont Morgan Library, New York; the Public Record Offices of Bedford, Suffolk (Bury
											St Edmunds) and Northumberland, the Master and Fellows of Trinity College, Cambridge; the Society of
											Antiquaries of Newcastle upon Tyne; the Trustees of the William Salt Library, Stafford, the Wisbech and
											Fenland Museum; the University of Virginia Library.</p>
<p>A research grant from the British Academy made much of the archival work possible, as did support from the
											English Department of Nottingham Trent University.</p>
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<div n="259" type="letter">
<head>259. Robert Southey to <ref target="people.html#BedfordGrosvenorCharles">Grosvenor Charles Bedford</ref>, <date when="1797-09-30">30 September
                        1797</date>
<note place="foot" resp="editors" type="headnote">Address: To/ G
                        C Bedford Esq<hi rend="sup">r</hi>/ Brixton Causeway/ Stockwell/ near/
                        London./ Single./ ις
                        θις
                        διρεκτεδ
                        ριτε; [A transliteration
                        from English to Greek of ‘Is this directed right’.] <lb/>Stamped: BATH;
                        10oClock/ OC 3/ 97 F. Noon<lb/> Postmark: AOC/ 3/ 97<lb/>Endorsement: 30
                            Sept<hi rend="sup">r</hi> 1797<lb/>MS: Bodleian Library, MS Eng. Lett.
                        c. 23<lb/>Previously published: Kenneth Curry (ed.), <title level="m">New
                            Letters of Robert Southey</title>, 2 vols (London and New York, 1965),
                        I, pp. 149–151.</note>
</head>
<opener>
<dateline rend="right">
<address>
<placeName>Bath.</placeName>
</address>
<date when="1797-09-30">30 Sept. 1797.</date>
</dateline>
</opener>
<p rend="indent1"> God speed you Grosvenor! send me the proces-verbal of your
                    proceedings — &amp; believe that these few words express a great deal.
                    &amp; now for egotism. a man may know himself — but it <del rend="strikethrough">x</del> may be doubted if he can know any one else.</p>
<p rend="center">———</p>
<p rend="indent1"> My birth day was Friday 12 August. 1774. the time of my birth
                    half past eight in the morning according to the family bible — according to my
                    astrological friend <ref target="people.html#GilbertWilliam">Gilbert</ref> it
                    was a few minutes before the half hour, in consquence of which I am to have a
                    pain in my bowels when about thirty, &amp; <del rend="strikethrough">have
                        a</del> &lt;Jupiter is my&gt; deadly antagonist <del rend="strikethrough">in Jupiter</del>, but I may thank the stars for “a
                    gloomy capability of walking thro desolation.”</p>
<p rend="indent1"> I am no believer in the Helvetian system.<note n="1" place="foot" resp="editors">Southey had criticised the belief that the mind at birth was
                        a <hi rend="ital">tabula rasa</hi> in a letter to the Editor of the <title level="j">Monthly Magazine</title>, 2 (September 1796) (Letter
                        172).</note> developement is the term I apply to the progress of the human
                    character, &amp; it explains my <del rend="strikethrough">opin</del>
                    opinions upon the subject. I think I can trace it in myself — I was stubborn —
                    obstinate — by the blessing of God I have continued so.</p>
<p rend="indent1"> now have I <ref target="people.html#BedfordGrosvenorCharles">Grosvenor</ref> like a blockhead suffered a kitten to play with the pen I
                    write with — &amp; her paws have blurred the writing. you must thank Puss
                    for the blots.</p>
<p rend="indent1"> my feelings were very acute. they used to amuse themselves by
                    making me cry at sad songs &amp; dismal stories. I remember Death &amp;
                    the Lady<note n="2" place="foot" resp="editors">The popular ballad ‘Death and
                        the Lady’.</note> — Billy Pringles Pig<note n="3" place="foot" resp="editors">
<title level="m">The Tragical History of the Life and Death
                            of Billy Pringle’s Pig</title>.</note> — Three children sliding on the
                    ice all on a Summers day<note n="4" place="foot" resp="editors">The nursery
                        rhyme ‘Three children sliding on the ice’.</note> — &amp; Witherington
                    fighting on his stump<del rend="strikethrough">t</del>s at Chevy Chace.<note n="5" place="foot" resp="editors">An incident from <title level="m">Chevy
                            Chace.</title>
</note> this was at two years old — where my recollection
                    begins — prior identity I have none. they tell me I used to beg them not to
                    proceed. I know not whether our feelings are blunted or renderd less acute by
                    action. in either case these pranks are wrong with children. I cannot now hear a
                    melancholy tale in silence, but I have learnt to whistle.<note n="6" place="foot" resp="editors">In Laurence Sterne (1713–1768; <title level="m">DNB</title>), <title level="m">The Life and Opinions of Tristram
                            Shandy, Gentleman</title> (1759–1767), the eponymous hero’s Uncle Toby
                        avoided painful subjects by whistling tunes.</note>
</p>
<p rend="indent1">
<ref target="people.html#TylerElizabeth">My Aunt</ref> was very fond of me. it
                    was a mischievous fondness. she made me sleep with her. now <ref target="people.html#TylerElizabeth">my Aunts</ref> bed room was a sanctum
                    sanctorum accessible to none. so when she went out to &lt;an&gt; evening
                    visit, which was often or rather always — I was at 8 o clock put into the Maids,
                    &amp; then removed when she returned. a hideous transportation! there was I
                    to be without moving head or foot till eleven the next morning. luckily fingers
                    were at liberty — &amp; I used to play with them from six o clock — for wise
                    Nature woke me betimes. or else fancy pictures in the green squares of the check
                    curtains.</p>
<p rend="indent1"> I must tell you two quaint dreams of this period, because they
                    have made a deeper impression upon my memory than any circumstances of infancy.
                    I thought my head was cut off for cursing the King — &amp; after it was done
                    I laid my head down in <ref target="people.html#SoutheyMargaret">my
                        mothers</ref> lap — &amp; every now &amp; then lookd up &amp;
                    cursed &lt;him&gt; — <del rend="strikethrough">xxx xxxxxxx xx xxxxx
                        xxxx</del>.</p>
<p rend="indent1"> In the other I was in a room with only <ref target="people.html#PalmerMiss">Miss Palmer</ref>. you know her by name,
                    this is not the place for a character of that good Lady. I was sitting with her
                    when the Devil came to pay her a morning visit. she put him a chair — “dear M<hi rend="sup">r</hi> Devil — pray sit down M<hi rend="sup">r</hi> Devil”
                    &amp; smirked &amp; smiled all politeness while I sat &amp; looked
                    at his cloven foot, &amp; perspired at every pore.</p>
<p rend="indent1"> My time was mostly passed at Bath with <ref target="people.html#TylerElizabeth">my Aunt</ref>. I had no playmates there.
                    if <ref target="people.html#TylerElizabeth">my Aunt</ref> was writing letters, I
                    was to sit silent. there was a garden — but in playing there my cloaths might be
                    soiled, <del rend="strikethrough">&amp; perhaps</del> all this must
                    necessarily have injured the young animal. <ref target="people.html#SoutheyRobertSnr">my father</ref> once when he came to
                    see me found me pale &amp; thin. I had just recovered from a fever &amp;
                    have not yet forgotten the tea-cup in which the bark was given me, &amp; a
                    foul sweet medicine, I have the resurrection of its cursed maukishness now on my
                    minds tongue. he returned home in a rage — swore <ref target="people.html#TylerElizabeth">my Aunt</ref> would kill “the boy”
                    &amp; in consequence I was transported to Bristol. this was great joy to me.
                    I had a play-mate in poor <ref target="people.html#SoutheyEliza">Eliza</ref> —
                    my sister a year younger than myself. I could dirt my cloaths — &amp; might
                    play in my grandmothers garden at Bedminster.</p>
<p rend="indent1"> they sent me to school — to Ma’am Powell<note n="7" place="foot" resp="editors">Mrs Powell (dates unknown) ran a Dame School in Bristol,
                        which Southey attended between the ages of 3–6 years old.</note> — an old
                    woman who had no eye lashes. my nurse maid Pat took me there — I loved her
                    dearly; she had neither temperance soberness or chastity — but she was fond of
                    me, &amp; stood behind the school door to watch my behaviour with a heart
                    ready to break. I was in a passion — the old womans face did not please me —
                    “wheres Pat — take me to Pat — I don’t like ye” — &amp; this was accompanied
                    by an angry jig or stamping which I inherited, &amp; which my maternal
                    relations call the Southey jig.</p>
<p rend="indent1"> here I was at intervals till my sixth year, &amp; formd a
                    delectable plan with two school-mates for going to an island &amp; living by
                    ourselves. we were to have one mountain of gingerbread &amp; another of <del rend="strikethrough">xxx</del> candy. at the age of 23 I think of
                    Utopia.</p>
<p rend="indent1"> I had a great desire to be a soldier. Colonel Johnes<note n="8" place="foot" resp="editors">Probably the translator, agriculturist and
                        colonel of the Cardigan militia, Thomas Johnes (1748–1816; <title level="m">DNB</title>).</note> once gave[MS torn] me his sword — I took it to bed
                    &amp; went to sleep in a state of most compleat happiness. in the morning it
                    was gone. once I sat upon the ground in what we call a brown study — at last out
                    it came with the utmost earnestness to my <ref target="people.html#SoutheyMary">Aunt Mary</ref> — “Auntee Polly — I sould like to have all the weapons of
                    war — the gun &amp; the sword &amp; the halbert &amp; the pistols
                    &amp; all the weapons of war.” once I got horsewhippd for taking a walk with
                    a journeyman barber <del rend="strikethrough">in the</del> who lived opposite,
                    &amp; promised to give me a sword. <del rend="strikethrough">th</del> this
                    took a strange turn when I was about nine years old. I had been reading the
                    historical plays of Shakespere — concluded that there must be civil war in my
                    own time &amp; resolved to be a very great man, like the Earl of
                        Warwick.<note n="9" place="foot" resp="editors">Richard Neville, Earl of
                        Warwick (1428–1471; <title level="m">DNB</title>), depicted in <title level="m">Henry VI, Parts I and II</title>.</note> now it would be
                    prudent to begin to make partizans. so I told my companions at school that my
                    mother was a very good woman &amp; had taught me to interpret dreams; they
                    used to come &amp; repeat their dreams to me, &amp; I was artful enough
                    to refer them all to great civil wars &amp; the appearance of one very great
                    man who was to appear — meaning myself. I had resolved that <ref target="people.html#SoutheyTom">Tom</ref> should be a great man too,
                    &amp; actually dreamt once of going into his tent to wake him the morning
                    before a battle, so full was I of these ideas.</p>
<p rend="indent1"> my Aunt took me often to the play. her acquaintance with <ref target="people.html#PalmerMiss">Miss Palmer</ref> gave her theatrical
                    connexions. Henderson<note n="10" place="foot" resp="editors">Probably the actor
                        John Henderson (c. 1747–1785; <title level="m">DNB</title>).</note> visited
                    her. I was very fond of the theatre &amp; by the time I was seven years old
                    thought that tho it was a great thing to be a warrior it was still greater to
                    write a play. at six they put me to Mr Footes<note n="11" place="foot" resp="editors">William Foot (d. 1781), Bristol Baptist minister,
                        schoolmaster and author of <title level="m">A Plain Account of the Ordinance
                            of Baptism</title> (1756–1758). He ran a school at the top of St
                        Michael’s Hill, Bristol.</note> — a day scholar to learn Latin; <del rend="strikethrough">tho I got</del> I was one of the least boys in the
                    school, used to fight a dozen battles a day &amp; of course got a dozen
                    threshings.</p>
<closer>
<salute rend="indent3"> God bless you.</salute>
<signed rend="indent5">RS.</signed>
</closer>
<postscript>
<p>write.</p>
</postscript>
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