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<title type="main">The Collected Letters of Robert Southey. Part 1: 1791-1797 </title>
<title type="subordinate">A Romantic Circles Electronic Edition</title>
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<name>Southey, Robert, 1774-1843</name>
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<date>2009-03-15</date>
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<idno type="nines">rce55</idno>
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<p>Bodleian
                        Library, MS Eng. Lett. c. 22.  Previously  published: Kenneth Curry (ed.), New Letters of Robert Southey, 2 vols (London and New
                        York, 1965), I, pp. 30–35; Charles Cuthbert Southey (ed.), Life
                            and Correspondence of Robert Southey, 6 vols (London,
                        1849–1850), I, pp. 182–183 [in part; where it is dated 31 July
                    1793].</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="55" type="letter">
<head>55. Robert Southey to <ref target="people.html#BedfordGrosvenorCharles">Grosvenor Charles Bedford</ref>, <date when="1793-07-31">31 [July–6] August
                        1793</date>
<note place="foot" resp="editors" type="headnote">Address:
                        Grosvenor Charles Bedford/ Old Palace Yard/ Westminster./
                        Single<lb/>Stamped: BRISTOL<lb/>Postmark: AAU/ 7/ 93<lb/>Watermark: Crown
                        with G R underneath and figure of Britannia<lb/>Endorsement: Received Aug<hi rend="sup">t</hi>. 7<hi rend="sup">th</hi>. 1793<lb/>MS: Bodleian
                        Library, MS Eng. Lett. c. 22<lb/>Previously published: Kenneth Curry (ed.), <title level="m">New Letters of Robert Southey</title>, 2 vols (London and New
                        York, 1965), I, pp. 30–35; Charles Cuthbert Southey (ed.), <title level="m">Life
                            and Correspondence of Robert Southey</title>, 6 vols (London,
                        1849–1850), I, pp. 182–183 [in part; where it is dated 31 July
                    1793].</note>
</head>
<opener>
<dateline rend="right">
<address>
<placeName>Hereford.</placeName>
</address>
<date when="1793-07-31">Wednesday. 31. 1793.</date>
</dateline>
</opener>
<p rend="indent1"> Like the wandering Jew, <ref target="people.html#BedfordGrosvenorCharles">Bedford</ref>, you see I am
                    here there &amp; every where. now tramping it to Worcester, now
                    peripateticating to Cambridge, &amp; now on saddle equ<hi rend="ital">a</hi>strian in the land of Cyder. traversing the shores of the Wye &amp;
                    riding listlessly over the spot where once Ariconium<note n="1" place="foot" resp="editors">A Roman settlement in Herefordshire.</note> stood. walking
                    amongst the dusty tombs of my progenitors in the cathedral — seeing
                    grown-up-boys-&amp;-girls amusing themselves with bows &amp; arrows —
                    moralizing and essayizing upon all &amp; forming a letter upon a different
                    subject every hour. the most agreable part of this to myself &amp; I dare to
                    think to you is that in the course of a fortnight I ramble to <ref target="places.html#Brixton">Brixton</ref>. my next letter shall fix the
                    day. as I rode along now fast now slow now wet now dry before I joined <ref target="people.html#HillHerbert">my Uncle</ref> I ran over your thoughts
                    upon religion &amp;c a thousand times. every inn I came to I refreshed my
                    memory. religion is a subject upon which so much may be said that wiser heads
                    than ours have been puzzled how to decide. rogues have made it a pretence for
                    every enormity fools have trembled or despised whilst the wiser part of mankind
                    have revered &amp; obeyed. were I a Legislator — I would build a temple to
                    the One Eternal Universal God. my national creed should be God is one — Christ
                    is the Saviour of Mankind — for the metaphysical disquisitions of subtle
                    disputants — divine Doctors — schoolmen whose brains are intricate as a bale of
                    raw silk — mad monks — &amp; drunken divines I would reject them all,
                    &amp; every man who acknowledged a deity might worship him unmolested under
                    my establishment. the human race would soon be fraternized by a system so
                    liberal &amp; those atrocious animosities which prompt the orthodox to
                    revile their dissenting brethren would be forgotten. a churchman will speak with
                    temper of a Jew a Hottentot or a Moslem — but when he names a Presbyterian or a
                    Socinian all the rage of persecution glows in his zealous breast &amp; for
                    want of stronger mental arguments he seems ready to adopt the convincing ones of
                    fire &amp; faggot. I am an enemy to an establishment. church &amp; state
                    produce but a mulish kind of barren religion. tho we turned out the scarlet
                    whore we kept her red petticoat. what is the national religion of America? test
                    acts I abhor. the scrupulous sectary is prevented from entering the pale of the
                    church whilst the door is open to the Deist or the Libertine who can swallow an
                    oath as easily as a bumper. at Oxford I have seen the destined pillars of the
                    church wallowing in all the filth of debauchery</p>
<lg type="stanza">
<l rend="indent2">“from such Apostles — oh ye Mitred heads</l>
<l rend="indent2">Defend the church — &amp; lay not careless hand</l>
<l rend="indent2">On Men that cannot teach &amp; will not learn<note n="2" place="foot" resp="editors">Southey is paraphrasing William Cowper
                            (1731–1800; <title>DNB</title>), <title level="m">The Task, A Poem, in
                                Six Books</title> (London, 1785), Book 1, ‘The Time-piece’, p.
                            65.</note>
</l>
</lg>
<p>you will impute this dislike of Hierarchy to my being a re-publican &amp; a
                    sinner. had any of the Apostles ten thousand a year? what said the saviour of
                    mankind concerning dignities &amp; wealth? I could proceed much farther but
                    how this has gone so far I know not. Frends conduct I despise — that of his
                    persecutors I execrate.<note n="3" place="foot" resp="editors">William Frend
                        (1757–1841; <title level="m">DNB</title>), religious writer and actuary.
                        Elected to a fellowship at Jesus College, Cambridge in 1780. In May 1793, he
                        was tried by the university authorities for his authorship of <title level="m">Peace and Union Recommended to the Associated Bodies of
                            Republicans and Anti-Republicans</title> (1793).</note> the little I
                    know of his pamphlet is too contemptible to deserve notice. marriage is a sacred
                    institution &amp; the man who would lessen the reverence due to it is a
                    villain. </p>
<p rend="indent1"> how these very heterodox opinions may coincide with yours I know
                    not. tis best we should differ upon some subjects — but we are nearer upon all
                    than you imagine. not that I am apostatizing — my principles &amp; practice
                    are equally democratic &amp; you are the greatest democrat in your actions
                    that ever gave the lie to his own opinions.</p>
<p rend="indent1"> enough of this. is not Gooseberry Pie a more agreable
                    subject.</p>
<lb/>
<p rend="indent4"> A Pious Ode.</p>
<p rend="indent5"> 1</p>
<lg type="stanza">
<l rend="indent2">Roast beef &amp; plumb pudding</l>
<l rend="indent2">I find not much good in</l>
<l rend="indent3"> Nor care one fig for them do I —</l>
<l rend="indent2">For venison &amp; turtle</l>
<l rend="indent2">Let Aldermen hurtle</l>
<l rend="indent3"> But give me a Gooseberry Pie.</l>
</lg>
<lb/>
<p rend="indent5"> 2</p>
<lg type="stanza">
<l rend="indent2">Recollect my dear friend</l>
<l rend="indent2">How quickly an end</l>
<l rend="indent3"> Of a huge one once made you &amp; I</l>
<l rend="indent2">And youll instantly own</l>
<l rend="indent2">That of all eating known</l>
<l rend="indent3"> There is nothing like Gooseberry Pie</l>
</lg>
<lb/>
<p rend="indent5"> 3</p>
<lg type="stanza">
<l rend="indent2">Anacreon<note n="4" place="foot" resp="editors">The Greek
                            lyric poet Anacreon (fl. C6 BC).</note> divine</l>
<l rend="indent2">Sung the praises of wine</l>
<l rend="indent3"> When the merry old toper was dry</l>
<l rend="indent2">And what can be done</l>
<l rend="indent2">Better now I have none</l>
<l rend="indent3"> Than to celebrate Gooseberry Pie.</l>
</lg>
<lb/>
<p rend="indent5"> 4</p>
<lg type="stanza">
<l rend="indent2">When old <ref target="people.html#ThorpMr">THORP</ref> gan to
                        rail</l>
<l rend="indent2">(Thorp — thereby hangs a <hi rend="ital">tail</hi>)</l>
<l rend="indent3"> The stranger was ready to cry</l>
<l rend="indent2">When he heard that the Law</l>
<l rend="indent2">Would permit the thief’s paw</l>
<l rend="indent3"> Steal the gooseberries he meant &lt;(for a
                        Pie.&gt;</l>
</lg>
<lb/>
<p rend="indent5"> 5</p>
<lg type="stanza">
<l rend="indent2">“Neither Goose can I find</l>
<l rend="indent2">“Nor yet Berry behind</l>
<l rend="indent3"> “As over Burns Justice I wander”</l>
<l rend="indent2">So the Stranger soon saw</l>
<l rend="indent2">Tho’ no goose in the law</l>
<l rend="indent3"> There most certainly was a great Gander.</l>
</lg>
<p rend="indent4"> —————</p>
<p>a most Horatian ode — ending like him with an heroic tale.</p>
<p rend="indent1"> Judge Nares<note n="5" place="foot" resp="editors">Southey is
                        possibly referring to George Nares (1716–1786; <title level="m">DNB</title>), a judge.</note> was sitting at the head of his table
                    &amp; his son at the bottom. what have you got there Jack? Goose Pappa. what
                    have you got? calves head my Uncle knows Nares &amp; the muscles of my Face
                    are often in great agony.</p>
<lb/>
<p>
<date when="1793-08-04">Sunday. August 4.</date>
<time>6 o clock evening</time>.
                    <address>
<placeName>Bristol</placeName>
</address>
</p>
<p rend="indent1"> I have just met with a passage in Rousseau which expresses some
                    of my religious opinions better than I could do it myself. Je ne trouve point de
                    plus doux hommage a la divinite, que l’admiration enuette qu’excite la
                    contemplation de ses œuvres. Je ne puis comprendre comment des campagnards, et
                    sur-tout des solitaires, peuvent ne pas avoir de foi; comment leur ame ne
                    s’eleve pas cent fois le jour avec extase a l’auteur des merveilles qui les
                    frappent. Dans ma chambre je prie plus rarement &amp; séchement, mais a
                    l’aspect d’un beau paysage, je me sens emu. Une vielle femme, pour toute priere,
                    ne savoit dire que ô! L’eveque lui dit: Bonne femme continuez de prier ainsi,
                    votre priere vaut mieux que les notres. — cette meilleure priere est aussi la
                    mienne. — <note n="6" place="foot" resp="editors">Southey is adapting
                        Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–1778), <title level="m">Confessions</title>,
                        Book 12. The French is translated in <title level="m">The Confessions of
                            Jean-Jacques Rousseau</title>, transl. J. M. Cohen (London, 1953;
                        reprinted 1954), p. 593, as: ‘I can think of no more fitting homage to the
                        Divinity than the silent wonder aroused by the contemplation of His works …
                        I cannot understand how those who live in the country, and the solitary
                        especially, can be lacking in faith. How is it that their souls are not
                        raised in ecstasy a hundred times a day to the Author of the wonders that
                        strike their eyes? … In my room I pray less often and with less fervour; but
                        at the sight of a beautiful landscape I feel moved … An old woman whose sole
                        prayer consisted of the exclamation “O!” “Good mother” said he [a wise
                        bishop], “go on praying like that always. Your prayer is better than ours.”
                        That better prayer is also mine.’</note>
</p>
<p rend="indent1">
<time>9 o clock.</time> as I put <ref target="people.html#BedfordHoraceWalpole">yr brothers</ref> letter in the office to day I took yours out. my silence
                    is accounted for &amp; whenever it happened you may depend upon it some
                    strange occurrence taciturnifies me. silence is not my — fault shall I say or
                    virtue? three times have I read your letter unable to make head or tail of the
                    latter part till the third reading &amp; after discovering the sense
                    (enigmatical as the prophecies of Delphi<note n="7" place="foot" resp="editors">Site of an oracle in ancient Greece.</note> or the whore of Babylon) <note n="8" place="foot" resp="editors">
<title level="m">Revelation</title>
                        17.</note> conclude with one of my new correspondents that you were all mad
                    — by Gad — matter in madness<note n="9" place="foot" resp="editors">Southey is
                        adapting <title level="m">Hamlet</title>, Act 2, scene 2, line 96.</note>
                    says Shakespere — but what was the matter? — something material of course. Mr
                        D<note n="10" place="foot" resp="editors">Identity uncertain, but this could
                        be a reference to a Mr Deacon, a friend of the Bedford family.</note> (what
                    was his name?) usurps my post — punster of mankind. you are indebted to
                    &lt;me&gt; the half yard of poetry.</p>
<p rend="indent1"> sitting in the window at Uley last Wednesday with M<hi rend="sup">r</hi> Shepherd &amp; his sister<note n="11" place="foot" resp="editors">Mr Shepherd (dates unknown) was probably the pseudonymous
                        author of <title level="m">A Tour Through France, Containing a Description
                            of Paris, Cherbourg and Ermenonville; with a Rhapsody, Composed at the
                            Tomb of Rousseau</title> (1789). His sister’s name was Ellen.</note> —
                    she cried out what creature is that? out we leapt — over the ha-ha — &amp;
                    with the assistance of two dogs killed a stoat. this furnished laughter
                    &amp; conversation. a tame kite eat this stoat &amp; we were contriving
                    epitaphs such as — here lies the poor stoat — that went down the kites throat —
                    &amp;c. I wrote these lines &amp; slipt into her hand</p>
<lg type="stanza">
<l rend="indent2">Lifeless within this breast the victim lies</l>
<l rend="indent2">Slain by the fatal power of Ellens eyes.</l>
</lg>
<p>she is a most agreable lively girl — with that face which a critic would call
                    ugly — but of which a Physiognomist would pronounce more favourably — a pair
                    &lt;of&gt; eyes well illuminated by sense &amp; the same nose that
                    made such havoc in the seraglio of Soliman.<note n="12" place="foot" resp="editors">Isaac Bickerstaffe (1733–1808), <title level="m">The Sultan:
                            A Peep into the Seraglio</title> (1775).</note> so much for Ellen
                    Shepherd with whom I passed some very agreable hours &amp; of whom I shall
                    often think with pleasure.</p>
<p rend="indent1"> this journey has deranged my plan of operations for the campaign.
                    poor Joan<note n="13" place="foot" resp="editors">Southey’s plan to write an
                        epic on Joan of Arc.</note> has stood still on her road &amp; her
                    history — I have nearly finished the first &lt;book&gt; in a manner with
                    which I am satisfied &amp; as I am the person whom it is most material to
                    please my own taste must be first consulted. I feel much inclined to democratize
                    an ode to the palace of King John of tooth-drawing memory. <note n="14" place="foot" resp="editors">The reference is to Raphael Holinshed
                        (1525–1580; <title level="m">DNB</title>), <title level="m">Chronicles of
                            England, Scotland and Ireland</title> (1577), and the story that King
                        John (1167–1216; reigned 1199–1216; <title level="m">DNB</title>) extorted
                        10,000 marks from a Jew of Bristol by drawing one of his teeth each day
                        until he agreed to supply the money.</note>
</p>
<p rend="indent1"> wandering over cathedrals is apt to make me melancholy but when I
                    tread upon the rotten relics of royalty I feel proud &amp; satisfied. I have
                    exalted over the tomb of Jack the dentist<note n="15" place="foot" resp="editors">King John is buried in Worcester Cathedral.</note> —
                    moralized over the petty warriors of the Heptarchy — sighed for the lot of
                    Robert of Normandy<note n="16" place="foot" resp="editors">Robert, Duke of
                        Normandy (b. in or after 1050, d. 1134; <title level="m">DNB</title>),
                        eldest son of William I, the Conqueror (1027/8–1087; reigned 1066–1087;
                            <title level="m">DNB</title>) he inherited his father’s lands in France
                        but not those in England. He was captured by his brother Henry I
                        (1068/9–1135; reigned 1100–1135; <title level="m">DNB</title>) in 1106 and
                        spent the remainder of his life in captivity. His tomb is in Gloucester
                        cathedral.</note> over his grave — I thought of Gray<note n="17" place="foot" resp="editors">Thomas Gray (1716–1771; <title level="m">DNB</title>), <title level="m">The Bard</title> (1757), 2.1, lines
                        5–10.</note> as I stood contemplating the monument of Edward 2<hi rend="sup">nd</hi>. he is the only man whom capricious cruelty amidst its various
                    experiments &lt;ever&gt; tried to make a pop gun off<note n="18" place="foot" resp="editors">Edward II (1284–1327; reigned 1307–1327; <title level="m">DNB</title>) was allegedly murdered by having a red-hot poker
                        inserted into his intestines.</note> — in Thornbury churchyard I was struck
                    by an odd epitaph. sombody who died after fifty years affliction of body
                    &amp; mind —</p>
<lg type="stanza">
<l rend="indent2">What eer my former life has been</l>
<l rend="indent2">My latter was penitence for sin. </l>
</lg>
<p rend="indent1">— I forget his name but Gent. was tacked to it so that his crimes
                    &amp; punishments are easily guessed. upon this I mused for ten miles
                    &amp; it may perhaps furnish some future essay.</p>
<p rend="indent1"> I have heard from <ref target="people.html#SewardEdmund">Edmund
                        Seward</ref>. the news from Derby which he sends is good &amp; I am more
                    fully satisfied that democracy is but another word for all that is good when I
                    find him equally democratic with myself. I am come to the end of my paper
                    &amp; recollect a thousand things which I wished to have said — it has
                    already been delayed to mention the day of my departure &amp; still it is
                    impossible to fix. you will certainly see me this week but the weighty business
                    of washing mending &amp; marking — cleaning leather breeches —repairing
                    shoes &amp; getting together linen which has mouldered for six months is so
                    intricate that my head is not mathematical enough to measure out a proper
                    portion of time. as soon as this letter is finished I shall begin another
                    &amp; proceed till Times gentle hand unravels the clue.</p>
<p rend="indent1">
<ref target="people.html#SewardEdmund">Seward</ref> has revived the battle of
                    the petticoat by asking whether the German women so celebrated for their virtues
                    thought long petticoats necessary to decency. the German women are no guides for
                    us in this matter — we may as well follow the inoffensive manner of
                        Vaillants<note n="19" place="foot" resp="editors">François Le Vaillant
                        (1753–1824), <title level="m">Travels From the Cape of Good Hope into the
                            Interior Parts of Africa, Including Many Interesting Anecdotes</title>,
                        2 vols (London, 1790), II, p. 8.</note> sentimental Hottentots — strip a la
                    mode <ref target="people.html#WynnCharlesWW">Wynn</ref> in the wood<note n="20" place="foot" resp="editors">This refers to the incident described in the
                        letter to Grosvenor Charles Bedford, 5 May 1793; see Letter 48.</note> —
                    &amp; season our baskets you know how. I am for Liberty &amp; Long
                    Petticoats.</p>
<lb/>
<p rend="indent1">
<date when="1793-08-06">Tuesday</date>. at last all is settled &amp; on
                    Thursday evening I get into the mail coach. on Friday morning I get out. step
                    into the first hack &amp; hope to breakfast at <ref target="places.html#Brixton">Brixton</ref>. it will the best way of
                    conveying my trunk &amp; desk. till then farewell.</p>
<closer>
<salute rend="indent3">yr sincerely</salute>
</closer>
<closer>
<signed rend="indent4">R Southey.</signed>
</closer>
<postscript>
<p>this letter was very near coming in my pocket. I should have departed this
                        evening if I could have found room. </p>
</postscript>
</div>
</body>
</text>
</TEI>
