The Collected Letters of Robert Southey. Part 2: 1798-1803 A Romantic Circles Electronic Edition Southey, Robert, 1774-1843 Lynda Pratt Romantic Circles General Editor, Neil Fraistat General Editor, Steven E. Jones Technical Editor Laura Mandell 2011-08-15 rce360 letterEEd.26.351 Romantic Circles, http://www.rc.umd.edu, University of Maryland College Park, MD August 15, 2011

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. Not previously published.

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.

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351. Robert Southey and Edith Southey to Thomas Southey, 5 October [1798] Address: [deletions and readdress in another hand] To/ Mr Thomas Southey./ Royal George/ Plymouth,/ < off Ushant. >/ or elsewhere / <to be forwarded>/ Single. Stamped: BRISTOLMS: British Library, Add MS 30927Unpublished.

[start of section in Edith Southey’s hand]

A Ballad

Shewing how an old Woman rode double & who rode before her.

The Raven croakd as she sate at her meal. And the old woman knew what he said, And she grew pale at the Ravens tale, And sickend & went to her bed. Now fetch me my children & fetch them with speed The old woman of Berkely said, The monk my son & my daughter the nun, Bid them hasten or I shall be dead. The monk her son & her daughter the nun Their way to Berkely bent, And they have brought with pious thought The holy sacrament. The old woman shriekd as they enterd her door, Twas fearful her shrieks to hear, Now take the sacrament away! For mercy, my children dear. Her lip it trembled with agony The sweat ran down her brow, I have tortures in store for evermore, Oh spare me my children now. Away they sent the sacrament, The fit it left her weak, She lookd at her children with gastly eyes And faintly struggled to speak. All kind of sin have I rioted in And the judgement now must be, But I securd my childrens souls – Oh pray my children for me. I have suckd the breath of sleeping babes, The fiends have been my slaves, I have nointed myself with infants fat And feasted on rifled graves. And the fiend will fetch me now in fire My witchcrafts to atone, And I who have rifled the dead mans grave Shall never have rest in my own. Bless I intreat my winding sheet My children I beg of you. And with holy water sprinkle my shroud And sprinkle my coffin too. And let me be chaind in my coffin of stone And fasten it strong I implore With iron bars. & let it be chaind With three chains to the church floor. And bless the chains & sprinkle them, And let fifty priests stand round, Who night & day the mass may say Where I lie on the ground. And let fifty choristers be there The funeral dirge to sing, Who day & night by the tapers light Their aid to me may bring. And let the church bells all both great & small Be tolld by night & day To drive from hence the fiends who come To bear my corpse away. And ever have the church door barrd After the even song, And I beseech you children dear Let the bars & bolts be strong. And let this be three days & nights My wretched corpse to save; Preserve me so long from the fiendish throng And then I may rest in my grave. The old woman of Berkeley laid her down And her eyes grew deadly dim, Short came her breath & the struggle of death Distorted every limb. They blest the old womans winding-sheet With rites & prayers due, With holy water they sprinkled her shroud And they sprinkled her coffin too. And they chaind her in her coffin of stone And with iron bard it down, And in the church with three strong chains They chaind it to the ground. And they blest the chains & sprinkled them And fifty priests stood round By night & day the mass to say Where she lay on the ground. And fifty choristers were there To sing the funeral song. And a hallowed taper blazed in the hand Of all <the> sacred throng. To see the priests & choristers It was a goodly sight Each holding, as it were a staff, A taper burning bright. And the church <bells> all both great & small Did toll so loud & long, And they have barrd the church door firm After the even song. And the first night the tapers light Burnt steadily & clear, But they without a hideous rout Of angry fiends could hear; A hideous roar at the church door Like a long thunder peal, And the priests they prayd & the choristers sung Louder in fearful zeal: Loud tolld the bell, the priests prayd well The tapers they burnt bright The monk her son & her daughter the nun They told their beads all night. The cock he crew away they flew The fiends from the herald of day And undisturbd the choristers sing And the fifty priests they pray. The second night the tapers light Burnt dismally & blue And every one saw his neighbours face Like a dead mans to view. And yells & cries without arise That the stoutest heart might shock And a deafening roaring like a cataract pouring Over a mountain rock. The monk & nun they told their beads As fast as they could tell And aye as louder grew the noise The faster went the bell. Louder & louder the choristers sung As they trembled more & more, And the fifty <priests> prayed to heaven for aid They never had prayed so before. The cock he crew, away they flew The fiends from the herald of day And undisturbd the choristers sing And the fifty priests they pray. The third night came & the tapers flame A hideous stench did make, And blue they burnt as tho they had been dipt In the burning brimstone lake. And the loud commotion, like the rushing of ocean Grew momently more & more, And strokes as of a battering ram Did shake the strong church door. The bell men they for very fear Could toll the bell no longer, And still as louder grew the strokes Their terror grew the stronger. The monk & nun forgot their beads, They fell on the ground dismayd, There was not a single saint in heaven Whom they did not call to aid. And a sound was heard like the trumpets blast That shall one day wake the dead, The strong church door could bear no more And the bolts & bars they fled. And the tapers light was extinguished quite, And the choristers faintly sung And the priests dismayd panted & prayed Till terror froze every tongue‘The Raven ... every tongue’: Verse written in double columns. Southey adds note ‘these stanzas are misplaced. the last should be first.’ And the choristers song their fear was so strong Falterd with trepidation, For the church did rock as an earthquake shock Uplifted its foundation And in he came with eyes of flame The fiend to fetch the dead, And all the church with his presence glowed Like a fiery furnace red. He laid his hand on the iron chains And like flax they moulderd asunder; And the coffin lid that was barrd so firm He burst with his voice of thunder. And he bad the old woman of Berkeley rise And come with her master away, And the sweat did stand on the dead corps At the voice she was forced to obey. She rose on her feet in her winding sheet, Her cold flesh quivered with fear And a groan like that which the old woman gave Never did mortal hear. She followed the fiend to the church door, There stood a black horse there His breath was red like a furnace smoke, His eyes like a meteors glare. The fiend with force flung her on the horse And he leapt up before, And away like the lightnings speed they went And she was seen no more. They saw her no more but her cries and shrieks For four miles round they could hear And children at rest at their mothers breast, Started & screamd with fear.Published in Poems, 2 vols (Bristol, 1799), II, pp. [143]–160.

_____________

[end of section in Edith Southey’s hand]

Martin-hall.
Oct. 5.

My dear Tom.

Your aunt Molly was in town at the fair, & she has brought up a long rig-ma-role of gossiping about you & some Miss Kitty. but who Miss Kitty is your gossiping aunt forgot by the way.

I have been home some fortnight or three weeks, & set sail again on Monday on a cruise with Danvers, chiefly with the intention of seeing Maber, & learning something about sending Edward to St Pauls. the boy is shockingly managed now. I shall be from home not more than ten days, we walk, & I shall have the pleasure of seeing the bogs & waterfalls of the Black Mountains in Brecknockshire.

My mother continues well, & all things go on smoothly at Martin hall. My Letters & Poems Poems (1799) and Letters Written During a Short Residence in Spain and Portugal (1799). will both make their appearance about Xmas, my KalendarThe ‘Kalendar’, a sequence modelled on Ovid’s (43 BC–AD 17) Fasti, was never completed. begins to look respectable in size, & I have begun the seventh book of Madoc.The fifteen-book version of Madoc, written in 1797–1799. As for the Domdaniel,An early version of Thalaba the Destroyer (1801). See Common-Place Book, ed. John Wood Warter, 4 series (London, 1849–1850), IV, pp. 181–188 for Southey’s initial plan of the poem. there is not room left in this sheet to explain enough of it to you. suffice it that it is <to be> a long poem, as long as Joan of Arc, designed to display all the pomp of Arabian fiction, & that I have the outline ready of a most magnificent plan. You will ask how I got the half information from Taunton. Martha Fricker heard it at Stowey from a Miss CruikshankProbably Ellen Cruikshank (dates unknown), sister of John Cruikshank (dates unknown), land agent for Lord Egmont at Nether Stowey, Somerset. A dream of John’s was the reputed inspiration for ‘The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere’. Ellen herself is thought to be the ‘most gentle maid’ of Coleridge’s ‘The Nightingale; A Conversational Poem, Written in April 1798’, Lyrical Ballads, With a Few Other Poems (Bristol, 1798), p. 67. the lady to whom the Innamorata Incognita had written, but Martha d[MS obscured] her name by the way.

I have been to Shobdon, & to Dilwyn the place where my grandmothersProbably his maternal grandmother, Margaret Hill (d. 1782). family came from, & to Pembridge where she once lived. I think there are parts of Herefordshire & Worcestershire that would even in your eyes surpass Taunton Dean.

The Ballad which Edith has copied for you is said to have happened in the reign of Ethelwolf,Ethelwulf (c. 795–858, reigned 839–858; DNB), father of Alfred, the Great (849–899, reigned 871–899; DNB). Alfreds father at Berkley in Glocestershire, & was certainly believed all over Europe, as I have found given as a warning to all witches in a German & a Norwegian author, xx & in the an old English Historian.The German author was Hartmann Schedel (1440–1514), and the story was told in his Liber Chronicorum (Nuremberg, 1493), fol. CLXXXIX; the ‘Norwegian’ was Olaus Magnus (1490–1557), Swedish ecclesiastic and writer, Historia de Gentibus Septsentrionalibus (1555), Book III, chapter 20; the ‘old English Historian’ was Matthew of Westminster, alleged author of the Flores Historiarum, the name given to a number of different manuscript chronicles of English history in Latin, from the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries (see C. D. Yonge, The Flowers of History, 2 vols (1853), I, pp. 400–401). I like the ballad much. two others have I written since we came here, both upon true stories.Possibly ‘The Cross Roads’ and ‘The Sailor Who Had Served in the Slave-Trade’, both published in Poems (1799).

from Lisbon I have received some little matter for my Letters, but neither letter nor money, at which I wonder. I know not how my Uncle thinks we all subsist. however I work very hard, & keep the wheels going.

Ediths love & Margerys & my Mothers. God bless you. yrs affectionately Robert Southey.