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. Previously published: Roland Baughman, ‘Southey the Schoolboy’, Huntington Library Quarterly, 7 (1944), 269–273 ; Charles Cuthbert Southey (ed.), Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey, 6 vols (London, 1849–1850), I, pp. 178–190 [in part].
These letters were edited with the assistance of Carol Bolton, Tim Fulford and Ian Packer
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.
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.
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Had I my dear Collins the pen of Rousseau I would attempt to describe the various
scenes which have presented themselves to me & the various emotions
occasioned by them. that pen which instead of being pointed with fire was dipt
in the milk of human kindness & knew so well to describe all the joys
& agonies of sensibility was equal to any task — but enough of this
fill-paper style. it deserves no better epithet — instead of Rousseau believe me
plain democratic RS & be content with a little prose as unadorned
& unpolished as myself. on Wednesday morning about eight o clock we
sallied forth. my travelling equipage consisting of my diary — writing book, pen
& ink silk handkerchief & Miltons defence.
we walked by Mr Buttsconve family abroad. to this story he adhered.
Stinton still thought she was in London he went & carried music about
the town in hopes of discovering — frequently telling his story &
encouraged by every body. at last he gave up the search — his friends persuaded
him to stay one day more & whilst he sat at dinner he glimpsed his wife
in the street. he ran out with his pocket full of silver giving to one &
another to follow & watch that Lady — he followed them on — the wife
looked back & he hid his face with his hands. at length he housed them
& went to a coach makers opposite — is that house to be let? I want one
in this part of the town but should not chuse it unless it had a back door.
there is no back door to that the man replied — & Stinton was satisfied.
he now kept a coach & four at the end of the street & waited for
his wife the a coach was taken by the duenna to
carry them to Greenwich & thence abroad — so critical was the moment.
they came out. she saw her husband & ran to him but the duenna still
grasped her arm — a man struck the arm Stinton carried his wife to the coach
& away they drove — the pursuit was hot & the Uncle Severne the
only friend to protect them — he told the true case every where. Sir E
Winnington Ld Foley
I wish I could recollect all the intermediate adventures — no romance ever equalled them. the husband has one of the best of characters — his Uncle at Abberley is instructing him — they are noticed by all the first people round & with one of them till they can be settled in a farm. I like the mans spirit he wishes never to see his father in law & does not desire his wifes fortune.
here we staid three days — I rode with Mr
Severne to Kidderminster with intent to breakfast at Mr
Butts but all the family were out. we returned by Bewdley. there is an old
mansion once Ld Herberts
yesterday we walked 25 miles over Malvern hills to Ledbury. to
Sewards brother. here I am
before breakfast & how soon to be interrupted I know not. believe me I
shall return reluctantly to Oxford. these last ten days seem like years to look
back — so crowded with different picture — the mind always full of some
delightful image save when I look to the gallant Dumourier
you have heard of the crash — the shock which public credit has sustained. the first fruits of war. Mr Severne professes aristocracy & yet is constantly practising like a democrat. we baited him most delightfully. —
10 o clock. you remember Arthur Youngs reflection — it is the
fate of travellers just to glimpse those persons with whom he could wish to
dwell for ever & then depart perhaps never to see them more.
I never experienced the truth of this more forcibly than at
present — this spot is delightful. there are attractions to detain one for ever.
are not those persons happiest who have no souls like a friend of ours — who can
behold every person & every place with equal indifference & who
can tread over the hallowed grave of Rosamond
this peripatetic Philosophy pleases me more & more. the
26 miles I walked yesterday neither fatigued me then or now — who in the name of
common sense would travel stewed in a leathern box when they have legs &
those none of the shortest fit for use? what scene can be more calculated to
expand the soul than the sight of Nature in all her loveliest works? — we must
walk over Scotland it will be an adventure to delight us all the remainder of
our lives — we will wander over the hills of Morven & mark the driving
blast perchance bestridden by the sprite of Ossian.
this Knight errant way of travelling is in England however barren of adventures — there are no distressed damsels & all the caitiffs have the once hospitable castles — instead of the echoing hall & hospitable hearth we must put up with an inn — instead of the Barons fair daughter be content with a chambermaid — instead of the merry minstrels song be forced to make them yourself — in Scotland the scene will vary — where there is little refinement there is much hospitality — the climate is cold but the heart of the highlander tremblingly alive to all the feelings of generosity —
I have been to church — but as there are terrestial angels as well as celestial ones & as visible beings are most calculated to attract the most useful sense my devotion was not as it ought — what would the musical Charles Collins say to hear anthems sung to a bagpipe by voices if possible less harmonious than the instrument? to see a namesake with <a> red face & a large wig drawling along almost to the tune of moderation — verily I think his eyes would have wandered as well as mine & his senses strayed — as for sleeping it was too cold. do not you think I should make a capital field preacher? the idea never struck me so forcibly before. I will persuade myself that I have had a call — the imagination will be as strong as the reality — I will hold forth in the true declamatory style & be enrolld in the calender of enthusiasts & spirits. such a life would be pleasant — I might travels like the Apostles only with a staff — but here is company entered such as would tempt you to forget a friend & make me rely upon forgiveness
direct to me at Sewards Sapey. near Clifton. Worcestershire. & write immediately lest I miss the letter