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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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<p>Bodleian
                        Library, MS Eng. Lett. c. 22.  Previously  published: Charles Cuthbert
                        Southey (ed.), Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey,
                        6 vols (London, 1849–1850), I, pp. 180–182 [in part].</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="47" type="letter">
<head>47. Robert Southey to <ref target="people.html#BedfordGrosvenorCharles">Grosvenor Charles Bedford</ref>, <date when="1793-04-04">4–20 April
                        1793</date>
<note place="foot" resp="editors" type="headnote">Address:
                        Grosvenor Charles Bedford Esq<hi rend="sup">r</hi>/ New Palace Yard/
                        Westminster/ Single<lb/>Stamped: OXFORD<lb/>Postmark: BAP/ 22/
                        93<lb/>Watermarks: Figure of Britannia; W T<lb/>Endorsement: Rec<hi rend="sup">d</hi>. 22<hi rend="sup">d</hi> April 1793<lb/>MS: Bodleian
                        Library, MS Eng. Lett. c. 22<lb/>Previously published: Charles Cuthbert
                        Southey (ed.), <title level="m">Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey</title>,
                        6 vols (London, 1849–1850), I, pp. 180–182 [in part].</note>
</head>
<opener>
<dateline rend="right">
<address>
<placeName>
<ref target="places.html#SapeyW">Sapey.</ref>
</placeName>
</address>
<date when="1793-04-04">Sunday. April 4<hi rend="sup">th</hi>. 1793</date>
</dateline>
</opener>
<p rend="indent1"> In sober sadness my dear friend you deserve a letter as little as
                    any lazy mortal ever yet did — but perhaps there is one waiting for me at Oxford
                    — I will think so at least — it is easy to deceive ourselves when we wish to be
                    deceived — I expect to find one upon my return in acknowledgement of this</p>
<p rend="indent1"> my philosophy which has so long been of a kind peculiar to myself
                    neither of the school of Plato Aristotle Westminster or the Miller<note n="1" place="foot" resp="editors">The traditional song sometimes known as ‘The
                        Miller of Dee’, particularly its lines ‘I care for nobody, no not I,/If
                        nobody cares for me’.</note> is at length settled. I am a peripatetic
                    philosopher far however from adopting the tenets of any self sufficient cynic or
                    puzzling sophist my sentiments will be found more enlivened by the brilliant
                    colours of Fancy Nature &amp; Rousseau than the positive dogmas of the
                        Stagyrite<note n="2" place="foot" resp="editors">Aristotle (384–322 BC); his
                        ‘antagonist’ is probably Plato (427–348 BC).</note> or the metaphysical
                    refinements of his antagonist — I aspire not to the honourary title of subtle
                    disputant or divine Doctor — I wish to found no school to drive no scholars mad
                    — ideas spring up with the scenes I view — some pass away with the momentary
                    glance — some are engraved upon the tablet of memory &amp; some infixed upon
                    the heart you have told me what Philosophy is not &amp; I can give you a
                    little more information upon the subject — it is not plunging in debauchery
                    because the world do the same — it is not reading Johannes Secundus<note n="3" place="foot" resp="editors">Johannes Secundus (1511–1536), poet.</note>
                    because he may have some poetical lines — it is not wearing the hair undressd in
                    opposition to custom perhaps — <del rend="strikethrough">it is certainly not in
                        giving pain to a friend by neglect</del> &lt;this I feel the severity of
                    &amp; blush for&gt; — it is not rejecting Lucan<note n="4" place="foot" resp="editors">Marcus Annaeus Lucanus (AD 39–65), republican poet.</note>
                    lest he should vitiate the taste &amp; reading without fear what may corrupt
                    the heart — it is not clapt on with a wig or communicated by the fashionable
                    hand of the barber — it had nothing to do with Watson<note n="5" place="foot" resp="editors">Richard Watson, Bishop of Llandaff (1737–1816; <title level="m">DNB</title>), who in 1793 had publicly abandoned his support
                        for the French Revolution.</note> when he burnt his books — it does not sit
                    upon a woolsack. honors can not bestow it — persecution cannot take it away — it
                    illumined the prison of Socrates but fled the triumph of Octavius<note n="6" place="foot" resp="editors">Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus (63 BC–AD 14;
                        reigned 30 BC–AD 14), later the Emperor Augustus. Southey strongly
                        disapproved of Augustus for putting an end to the Roman republic.</note> —
                    it shrank from the savage murderer Constantine<note n="7" place="foot" resp="editors">Constantine I (late 280s–337; reigned 307–337), the Roman
                        emperor who made Christianity the State religion. In AD 326, he imprisoned
                        and executed his son Crispus, a subject Southey treated at length in his
                        prose romance ‘Harold’ (1791); see Bodleian Library, Eng. Misc. e.
                        114.</note> it dignified the tent of Julian<note n="8" place="foot" resp="editors">Flavius Claudius Julianus, the Apostate (331–363; reigned
                        361–363), Roman emperor and pagan philosopher.</note> — it has no particular
                    love for colleges — in crowds it is alone — in solitude most engaged. it renders
                    life agreable &amp; death enviable — </p>
<p rend="indent1"> Yesterday makes one twelvemonth from the day on which I
                    breakfasted with you &amp; brought <ref target="people.html#VincentWilliam">D<hi rend="sup">r</hi> Vs</ref> letter in my pocket — that transaction
                    I begin to look upon as the most fortunate I ever met with — in consequence of
                    it I avoided the society of Ch Ch where according to all the observation I have
                    able to make it would not have been possible to add one to the number of my
                    friends &amp; went to <ref target="places.html#BalliolOxford">Balliol</ref>
                    where I found some deserving of the title. in consequence of it I have visited
                    Worcestershire &amp; shall during the long vacation repeat my visit. how
                    little does man know of good or evil! the affliction of today may produce the
                    happiness of every future hour — the reverse is too often the case. but as the
                    shield has two colours I will turn to the most agreable.</p>
<p rend="indent1"> I have long expected your ode Quæqui pii vates &amp; Phœbo
                    digna locuti<note n="9" place="foot" resp="editors">Virgil (70–19 BC), <title level="m">Aeneid</title>, Book 6, line 662. The Latin translates as
                        ‘Good bards, whose songs were meet for Phoebus’.</note> — as you have alterd
                    it — you are most intolerably indolent — by the by your word interview with the
                    bishop gave great offence to young <ref target="people.html#WynnCharlesWW">Wynn</ref>. do you ever hear anything of <ref target="people.html#BunburyCharlesJohn">Bunbury</ref>? I could wish to know
                    something of one with whom I was once upon terms so very intimate that though I
                    despise his conduct I cannot but love his abilities — abilities are not however
                    the best gift of heaven — <ref target="people.html#BunburyCharlesJohn">Bunbury</ref> wallows in brutal excess &amp; — the race is not always
                    to the swift or the battle to the strong. Alas poor Poland!<note n="10" place="foot" resp="editors">The second partition of Poland, between Prussia
                        and Russia, in 1793.</note> this may be allowed.</p>
<p rend="indent1"> I have lately read the Man of Feeling<note n="11" place="foot" resp="editors">Henry Mackenzie (1745–1831; <title level="m">DNB</title>),
                            <title level="m">The Man of Feeling</title> (1771).</note> — if you have
                    never yet read it — do now from my recommendation — few books have ever pleasd
                    me so painfully or so much — it is very strange that man should be delighted
                    with the highest pain that can be produced — I even begin to think that both
                    pain &amp; pleasure exist only in idea but this must not be affirmed, the
                    first twitch of the toothache or retrospective glance will undeceive me with a
                    vengeance. It is Mackenzies writing if I am not mistaken the author of Julia de
                        Roubigne.<note n="12" place="foot" resp="editors">Henry Mackenzie, <title level="m">Julia de Roubigne</title> (1777).</note> &amp; La Roche
                    &amp; Louisa Venoni in the Mirror.<note n="13" place="foot" resp="editors">
<title level="j">The Mirror</title>, a periodical edited by Henry
                        Mackenzie in 1779–1780. His ‘La Roche’ and ‘Louisa Venoni’ first appeared
                        there.</note>
</p>
<p rend="indent1"> the age of chivalry is past &amp; my travels have nothing in
                    them any way interesting to one who is not with me — to paint the different
                    spots I have seen &amp; romantic seats I have admird were impossible
                    &amp; to describe the emotions they occasioned — the attempt would be absurd
                    — </p>
<p rend="indent1"> you can better imagine rocks of petrifaction — cascades — glens
                    &amp; cottages from your own fancy than from my description — after all both
                    would fall very short — you must find leisure at some future period to tramp it
                    with me across the country. I never see a romantic spot without wishing for <ref target="people.html#CollinsCharles">Charles Collins</ref> — <del rend="strikethrough">tell him he has used me very ill in not writing but you
                        will there keep one another in countenance — evil communications corrupt
                        good manners — you will study the pure Johannes Secundus &amp; forget
                        the unclassical RS.</del>
</p>
<p rend="indent1"> I have seen, <ref target="people.html#BedfordGrosvenorCharles">Bedford</ref> some of the most delightful spots that Fancy could possibly
                    have picturd &amp; at a moment when I was in the most delightful mood to
                    enjoy — a certain tinge of melancholy heightens every shade around &amp;
                    disposes the mind more fully to enjoy the awful grandeur of the scene. I feel
                    much disposed to finish this letter there should the weather continue good — </p>
<p rend="indent1"> Nescia mens hominis fati sortisq futuræ!<note n="14" place="foot" resp="editors">Virgil, <title level="m">Aeneid</title>, Book 10, line 501;
                        ‘O mind of man, knowing not fate or coming doom’.</note> my letter was
                    reserved to be finishd at <ref target="places.html#BalliolOxford">Balliol</ref>.
                    I found upon visiting <ref target="people.html#CollinsCharles">C Collins</ref>
                    Jack the second<note n="15" place="foot" resp="editors">Johannes Secundus
                        (1511–1536), poet.</note> as usual upon the sopha &amp; he shelters
                    himself behind you as an example — yes <ref target="people.html#BedfordGrosvenorCharles">Bedford</ref> I have heard you
                    mentioned as an example for the most contemptible looseness — when I asked him
                    why he bought the Pucelle<note n="16" place="foot" resp="editors">Voltaire’s
                        (1694–1778) mock-epic <title level="m">La Pucelle</title>
                        (1755–1762).</note> he replied <ref target="people.html#BedfordGrosvenorCharles">Bedford</ref> was with me. it
                    does not extenuate his fault but it aggravates yours. can the finest language,
                    the most honeyd flow of words that ever dropt from the pen of a Rousseau atone
                    for lasciousness of idea? is poison less dangerous if mingled with sweetmeats?
                    who would touch it were it infused in gall? my dear friend the goodness both of
                    your head &amp; heart should make you fling that damned book behind the fire
                    where <ref target="people.html#CollinsCharles">Collins’s</ref> has been more
                    &lt;than&gt;once &amp; where it will be purged of all its
                    impurities.</p>
<p rend="indent1"> if you have any message to Cambridge that I can carry let me know
                    as in the approaching fortnights vacation <ref target="people.html#SewardEdmund">Seward</ref> &amp; I purpose walking there. on our return I sprained my
                    ancle pretty severely which however did not prevent my walking twenty miles
                    farther that day &amp; twenty more the next. at present I am an invalid for
                    convenience sake — it gives me time to read &amp; write &amp; rests my
                    ancle. on Monday I purpose emerging.</p>
<p rend="indent1">
<date when="1793-04-20">Saturday 20<hi rend="sup">th</hi>
</date>. if immediately
                    hastening to repair a fault be to atone for it that atonement shall be made — I
                    could even excuse myself &amp; offer a plea which you would think admissible
                    — but I detest mysteries. Le premier pas vers le vice est de mettre du mystere
                    aux actions innocentes et quiconque aime à se cacher, a lôt ou tard raison de se
                        cacher<note n="17" place="foot" resp="editors">Jean-Jacques Rousseau
                        (1712–1778), <title level="m">Julie, ou la Nouvelle Héloïse</title> (1761).
                        The French translates as: ‘The first step towards vice is to cloak innocent
                        actions in mystery, and whoever likes to conceal something sooner or later
                        has reason to conceal it.’</note> — I know not why I should quote these
                    words but they rushd into my head or more properly my heart &amp; that when
                    it is full is too apt to overflow. in short then I have promised to send some
                    verses of mine into Herefordshire &amp; that employment alone has been the
                    real cause of my confinement &amp; my neglect. the sprain happened
                    fortunately for me I could have finished them [MS torn] the time but I am
                    continually altering in hopes of amendment &amp; as fast as I corr[MS torn]
                    fault more of the Hydra race start up.</p>
<p rend="indent1">
<ref target="people.html#WynnCharlesWW">Wynn</ref> is welcome to laugh at my
                    walking plan — I have no need for were I to fix upon those parts of my life
                    which I would desire to relive it should be my Worcestershire journey — to one
                    who goes for fashion or to a fète or to a hunting box it may appear ridiculous
                    but to him whose philosophy proceeds from nature &amp; the heart the case is
                    different. I was absent but three weeks — yet three ages in this sink of science
                    could not erase the ideas resulting from it (nor were that possible) supply the
                    vacancy. Evesham Abbey was the only spot memorable from accidental occurrences
                    which I visited — a clear brook an extensive prospect a woody glen or a rising
                    spring were more frequently the objects of my pilgrimage &amp; where I let
                    my Fancy stray more at will. I meant to have concluded this letter in a spot the
                    most romantic I ever recollect to have seen — that intention was never executed
                    &amp; memory must supply the picture. a spring <del rend="strikethrough">rushing</del> dropping over a rock which it had made amid the wood — thro a
                    narrow opening in the wood a cascade caused by the dissolving snow — a brook
                    between so clear so broken by stones! the opposite side a hill almost
                    perpendicular with excellent timber &amp; on the summit as far as sight
                    would reach (here a very small space) such a house as brings to remembrance
                    Switzerland &amp; S<hi rend="sup">t</hi> Preux.<note n="18" place="foot" resp="editors">A central character in Rousseau’s <title level="m">Julie, ou
                            la Nouvelle Héloïse</title> (1761), St Preux enjoyed an idyllic
                        existence with his lover, Julie, and her husband, Baron Wolmar, at their
                        estate on the shores of Lake Geneva.</note> my mind was well tempered to
                    enjoy the scene. it was returning from Ledbury which I left with reluctance
                    &amp; I had walked near twenty miles — the spring was delightful even your
                    favourites ode o fons Brundisia vitrio &amp;c<note n="19" place="foot" resp="editors">A misquotation of Horace (65–8 BC), <title level="m">Odes</title>, Book 3, no. 13, line 1, ‘O fons Bandusiae splendidior
                        vitro’. The original can be translated as ‘O spring of Bandusia, more
                        glittering than glass’.</note> would fail to give you an adequate idea. for
                    six days we were confined at Ledbury by the snow — this delay prevented us from
                    visiting the greatest part of Herefordshire. much has been said of the depravity
                    of mankind by authors &amp; in the moment of discontent I have accorded to
                    their sentiments — but those who live in that hot bed of iniquity London, or
                    that nursery of debauchery an English University are not qualified to judge — if
                    observation may be depended upon there are men buried in retirement neither
                    unworthy of the names of men or of Christians. the women I met with in the
                    country neither delighted in balls or were proud of showing a white hand at a
                    harpsichord. yet I found them artists &amp; botanists without instruction —
                    well read &amp; sensible without ostentation. nay more wonderful I found one
                    perfect beauty without vanity. <ref target="people.html#CollinsCharles">C
                        Collins</ref> ridicules me as one without feeling because I reprobate
                    Johannes Secundus perhaps you may blame me or rather wish to blame me for the
                    same — but a susceptible heart ought to be guarded with double care — purity of
                    mind is something like snow best in the shade. Gybralter is on a rock but it
                    would be imprudent to defy her enemies &amp; call them to the charge. my
                    heart is equally easy of impression with Rousseaus &amp; perhaps more
                    tenacious of <del rend="strikethrough">xxxx</del>. refinement I adore but to me
                    the highest delicacy appears so intimately connected with it that the union is
                    like body &amp; soul. <del rend="strikethrough">you will upon xxxxxx most
                        xxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxx xxxx refinements</del> do you yourself
                    think elegance an atonement for licentiousness? if so — Lovelace<note n="20" place="foot" resp="editors">The rake Lovelace, a central figure in Samuel
                        Richardson (c. 1689–1761; <title level="m">DNB</title>), <title level="m">Clarissa</title> (1748–1749).</note> is an accomplished character —
                    Johannes ought to be read &amp; the book of Christian morality be discarded.
                    “vice loses half its evil by losing all its grossness”<note n="21" place="foot" resp="editors">Edmund Burke (1729/30–1797; <title level="m">DNB</title>),
                            <title level="m">Reflections on the Revolution in France</title>
                        (London, 1790), p. 113.</note> is a vile sentiment — it is the strumpet of
                    the Strand affecting modesty. tell me of all my faults &amp; I will strive
                    to mend them but abjure forever those infamous lines whose sole merit is in <del rend="strikethrough">handling</del> gilding poison.</p>
<closer>
<salute rend="indent4">yrs most sincerely</salute>
</closer>
<closer>
<signed rend="indent5">RS.</signed>
</closer>
</div>
</body>
</text>
</TEI>
