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 rce373 letterEEd.26.364 Romantic Circles, http://www.rc.umd.edu, University of Maryland College Park, MD August 15, 2011

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Berg Collection, New York Public Library. Previously published: J. W. Robberds (ed.), A Memoir of the Life and Writings of the Late William Taylor of Norwich, 2 vols (London, 1843), I, 239–240 [in part; verses not reproduced].

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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364. Robert Southey to William Taylor, 30 December 1798 Address: To/ Mr William Taylor Junr/ Surry Street/ Norwich./ SingleStamped: [twice] BRISTOLPostmark: [partial] 98Endorsement: Ansd 4 JanWatermarks: GR in a circle/ 1794; Britannia in an oval underneath a crownMS: Berg Collection, New York Public LibraryPreviously published: J. W. Robberds (ed.), A Memoir of the Life and Writings of the Late William Taylor of Norwich, 2 vols (London, 1843), I, 239–240 [in part; verses not reproduced].

The Last of the Family

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James. What Gregory! you are come I see to join us On this sad business! Gregory. Aye James! I am come, But with a heavy heart – God knows it, man – Where shall we meet the corpse? James. Some hour from hence, By noon, & near about the elms I take it. This is not as it should be Gregory! Old men to follow young ones to the grave! – This morning when I heard the bell strike out I thought that I had never heard it toll In dismay before. Gregory. Well – well – my friend – Tis what we all must come to soon or late. But when a young man dies, in the prime of life, One born so well, who might have blest us all Many long years, – James. And then the family Extinguishd in him, & the good old name Only to be remembered on a tombstone! A name that has gone down from sire to son So many generations! – many a time Poor Master Edward, who is now a corpse, When yet a child would come to me & lead me To the great family tree, & beg of me To tell him stories of his ancestors, Of Eustace he that went to the Holy Land With Richard Lionheart, & that Sir Henry Who fought at Crecy in K. Edwards wars. And then his little eyes would kindle so To hear of their brave deeds! – I usd to think The bravest of them all would not out do My darling boy. Gregory. This comes of your great schools And college breeding! plague upon his guardians That would have made him wiser than his fathers. James. If his poor father Gregory! had but lived Things would not have been so. he poor good man Had little of book learning, but there lived not A kinder, nobler hearted gentleman. One better to his tenants. when he died There was not a dry eye for miles around. Gregory I thought that I could never know A sadder day than that, – but what was that Compared to this days sorrow? Gregory. I remember Eight months ago when the young Squire began To alter the old mansion, they destroyd The martins nests that had stood undisturbd Under that roof, – aye – long before my memory. I shook my head at seeing it & thought No good could follow. James. Poor young man! I loved him Like my own child, I loved the family; Come Candlemas & I have been their servant For five & forty years. I lived with them When his good father brought my Lady home, And when the young Squire was born, it did me good To hear the bells so merrily announce An heir. this is indeed a heavy blow – I feel it Gregory, heavier than the weight Of three-score years. he was a noble lad – I loved him dearly! Gregory. Every body loved him – Such a fine, generous, open-hearted youth! When he came home from school at holydays How I rejoiced to see him! he was sure To come to me & to ask of me what birds there were About my fields; & when I found a covey Theres not a testy Squire preserves his game More charily, than I have kept them safe For Master Edward. & he lookd so well Upon a fine sharp morning after them, His brown hair frosted, & his cheek so flushd, With such a wholesome ruddiness! ah James But he was sadly changed when he came down To keep his birth day! James. Changd! – why Gregory Twas like a palsy to me, when he steppd Out of the carriage. he was grown so thin, His cheek so delicate sallow, & his eyes Had such a dim & rakish hollowness! And when he came to shake me by the hand And spoke as kindly to me as he used, I hardly knew the voice! Gregory. It struck a damp On all our merriment. twas a noble ox That smoak’d before us, & the old October Went merrily in overflowing cans; But twas a skin-deep merriment, my heart Seemd as it took no share. – & when we drank His health, the thought came over me what cause We had for wishing that, & spoilt the draught. Poor Gentleman – to think ten months ago He came of age, & now – James. I feard it then; He lookd to me as one that was not long For this worlds business. Gregory. When the Doctors sent him Abroad to try the air it made me certain That all was over. there’s but little hope, Methinks, that foreign parts can help a man When his own mother country will not do. The last time he came down these bells rung so I thought they would have rockd the old steeple down And now that dismal toll! I would have staid Beyond its reach, but this was a last duty. I’m an old tenant of the family, Born on the estate, & now that I’ve outlived it, Why tis but right to see it to the grave. Have you heard ought of the new Squire? James. But little And that not well; but be he what he may Matters not much to me. the love I bore To the good family will not easily fix Upon a stranger; tis too old a plant To bear transplanting & its roots had struck Too deeply. look – what’s on the opposite hill? Is’t not the funeral? Gregory. Tis I think some horsemen James. And yonder is the herse – between the trees, Tis hid behind them now. Gregory – Aye – there I see it And there’s the coaches following, we shall meet <it> About the bridge. would that this day were over I wonder whose turn’s next? James God above knows. When youth is summond what must age expect! God make us ready Gregory when it comes.James ... when it comes: Verse in double columns.

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The last fifteen lines are crude & must be mended. the “too old a plant &c – is too metaphoric I think. this however is easily mended, & the Eclogue pleases me.‘The Last of the Family’ was not published in Poems (1799), appearing instead in Annual Anthology (Bristol, 1799), pp. 165–171. What follows is the last.

The Ruined CottagePublished as the final piece in Poems, 2 vols (Bristol, 1799), II, pp. 226–232.

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Aye Charles! I knew that this would fix thine eye, This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch, Its leaves just withering, yet one autumn flower Still fresh & fragrant; & yon holly hock That thro the creeping weeds & nettles tall Peers taller, & uplifts its columned stem Bright with the broad rose blossoms. I have seen Many an old convent reverend in decay, And many a time have trod the castle courts And grass-green halls, yet never did they strike Home to the heart such melancholy thoughts As this poor cottage. look – its little hatch Fleeced with that grey & wintry moss; the roof Part mouldered in, the rest oergrown with weeds, House leek & long thin grass, & greener moss – So Nature wars with all the works of man, And like himself reduces back to earth His perishable piles. I led thee here Charles! not without design; for this hath been My favourite walk even since I was a boy; And I remember Charles the ruin here The neatest comfortable dwelling place! That when I read in those dear books that first Woke in my heart the love of poesy, How with the villagers Erminia dwelt, And Calidore for a fair shepherdess Forgot his quest to learn the shepherds lore, My fancy drew from this the little hut Where that poor princess wept her hopeless love Or when the gentle Calidore at eve Led Pastorella home. there was not then A weed where all these nettles overtop The garden wall, but sweet brier, scenting sweet The morning air, rosemary & marjoram, All wholesome herbs, & then that woodbine wreathd So lavishly around the pillard porch Its fragrant flowers, that when I past this way After a truant absence hastening home, I could not chuse but pass with slackened speed By that delightful fragrance. sadly changed Is this poor cottage, & its dwellers. Charles! Theirs is a simple melancholy tale; Theres scarce a village but can fellow it, And yet methinks it will not weary thee And should not be untold. A widow woman Dwelt with her daughter here; just above want She lived on some small pittance that sufficed, In better times, the needful calls of life, Not without comfort. I remember her Sitting at evening in that open door-way And spinning in the sun; – methinks I see her Raising her eyes & dark-rimmd spectacles To see the passer-by, yet ceasing not To twirl her lengthening thread: or in the garden On some dry summer evening walking round To view her flowers, & pointing as she leand Upon the ivory handle of her stick, To some carnation whose oerheavy head Needed support, while with the watering pot Joanna followed & refreshed & trimmd The drooping plant, Joanna her dear child, As lovely & as happy then as youth And innocence could make her. Charles – it seems As tho I were a boy again, & all The mediate years with their vicissitudes A half-forgotten dream. I see the Maid So comely in her Sunday dress! her hair, Her bright brown hair, wreathd in contracting curls, And then her cheek – it was a red & white That made the delicate hues of art look loathsome. The countrymen who on their way to church Were leaning oer the bridge, loitering to hear The bells last summons, & in idleness Watching the steam below, would all look up When she past by. & her old mother – Charles! When I have heard some erring infidel Speak of our faith as of a gloomy creed Inspiring fear & boding wretchedness, Her figure has recurrd; for she did love The sabbath day, & many a time has crossd These fields in rain & thro the winter snows, When I, a graceless boy, wishing myself By the fire side, have wondered why she came Who might have sate at home. One only care Hung on her aged spirits. for herself The path was plain before her, & the close Of her long journey near. but then her child Soon to be left along in this bad world.! That was a thought that many a winter night Had kept her sleepless; & when prudent love In something better than a servants state Had placed her well at last, it was a pang – Like parting life, to part from her dear girl. One Summer Charles, when at the holydays Returnd from school, I visited again My old accustomed walks, & found in them A joy almost like meeting an old friend, I saw the cottage empty, & the weeds Already crowding the neglected flowers. Joannas by a villains wiles seduced Had playd the wanton, & that blow had reachd Her mothers heart. she did not suffer long, Her age was feeble, & the heavy blow Brought her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave I passd this ruined dwelling oftentimes [MS torn] And think of other days. it wakes in [MS torn] A transient sadness, but therefore linger Char[MS torn] That ever with these recollections rise – I trust in God they will pass away.Aye Charles ... pass away: Verse in double columns.

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What you said respecting the foreign Almanacks of the MusesThe seed for the Annual Anthology (1799–1800) was in Taylor’s observation to Southey of 26 September 1798: ‘I wonder some one of our poets does not undertake what the French and Germans so long supported in great popularity – an Almanack of the Muses – an annual Anthology of minor poems – too unimportant to subsist apart, and too neat to be sacrificed with the ephemeral victims of oblivion’ (J.W. Robberds (ed.), A Memoir of the Life and Writings of the Late William Taylor of Norwich, 2 vols (London, 1843), I, p. 228). has served me as a hint, & I think of speedily editing such a volume. for this I have more motives than one, among others, that there are some half a hundred pieces of my own, too good to perish with the newspapers in which they are printed. I have also among my more intimate friends many some who will willingly contribute; & if I should find all my stores deficient by a sheet or two for the due size of a volume – why it is but turning to, & filling it myself. Can you assist me with a title? Pratt has damned the word Gleanings,Samuel Jackson Pratt, Gleanings Through Wales, Holland and Westphalia (1795). which I thought of. & will you assist me with any thing else? I have some tolerable balladlings, & some tolerable stories for more.

I have had a singular book to review — the Memoires Historiques de Stephanie Louise de Bourbon Conti.Princess Stephanie-Louise de Bourbon Conti (1756–1825), Mémoires Historique (1798). Southey’s review was published in an Appendix to Critical Review, 25 (April 1799), 490–499. Have you seen it? it is a lamentable tale of wickedness under the old regime, & injustice in the new.

God bless you. yrs affectionately Robert Southey.

Dec. 30. 1798