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<title type="main">The Collected Letters of Robert Southey. Part 2: 1798-1803 </title>
<title type="subordinate">A Romantic Circles Electronic Edition</title>
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<name>Southey, Robert, 1774-1843</name>
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<sponsor>Romantic Circles</sponsor>
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<p>Bodleian Library, MS Eng. Lett. c. 23;
                        the letter was probably never sent, but was part of what Charles Cuthbert
                        Southey describes as ‘some fragmentary preparations’ for an unexecuted
                        sequel to Southey’s Letters Written During A Short Residence in Spain
                            and Portugal (1797).  Previously  published: Charles Cuthbert
                        Southey (ed.), Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey, 6
                        vols (London, 1849–1850), II, pp. 57–61 [undated; in part]; Adolfo Cabral
                        (ed.), Robert Southey: Journals of a Residence in Portugal 1800–1801
                            and a Visit to France 1838 (Oxford, 1960), pp. 75–79 [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="517" type="letter">
<head>517. Robert Southey to <ref target="people.html#SoutheyTom">Thomas
                        Southey</ref>, <date when="1800-05-01">1 May 1800</date>
<note place="foot" resp="editors" type="headnote">MS: Bodleian Library, MS Eng. Lett. c. 23;
                        the letter was probably never sent, but was part of what Charles Cuthbert
                        Southey describes as ‘some fragmentary preparations’ for an unexecuted
                        sequel to Southey’s <title>Letters Written During A Short Residence in Spain
                            and Portugal</title> (1797)<lb/>Previously published: Charles Cuthbert
                        Southey (ed.), <title>Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey</title>, 6
                        vols (London, 1849–1850), II, pp. 57–61 [undated; in part]; Adolfo Cabral
                        (ed.), <title>Robert Southey: Journals of a Residence in Portugal 1800–1801
                            and a Visit to France 1838</title> (Oxford, 1960), pp. 75–79 [in
                        part].</note>
</head>
<epigraph>
<p rend="center">Letter 1</p>
</epigraph>
<opener>
<dateline rend="right">
<address>
<placeName>Lisbon.</placeName>
</address>
<date when="1800-05-01"> Thursday, May 1. 1800.</date>
</dateline>
<salute>My dear T.</salute>
</opener>
<p rend="indent1"> I parted from you at Liskeard with a heavy heart. The thought of
                        <del rend="strikethrough">on</del> seeing you upon the way was a pleasure to
                    look on to when we took our departure from Bristol, but having left you we had
                    taken leave of the last friend before our voyage. Falmouth was not a place to
                    exhilirate me. We were in the room where I met poor <ref target="people.html#LovellRobert">L.</ref> on my former journey: he was the
                    last person with whom I shook hands in England, as I was stepping into the boat
                    to embark, – &amp; the first news on my return. when within three hours I
                    expected to have <del rend="strikethrough">seen him</del> been welcomed by him
                    was that he was in his grave. Few persons bear about with them a more continual
                    feeling of the uncertainty of life, its changes &amp; its chances – than I do.
                    Well! well! – I bear with me the faith also, that tho we should never meet again
                    in this world, we shall all meet in a better. </p>
<p rend="indent1"> Thanks to the Zephyrs Cap<hi rend="sup">t</hi> Yescombe<note n="1" place="foot" resp="editors">Edward Bayntun Yescombe (1765–1803),
                        Captain of the Falmouth Packet, <hi rend="ital">King George</hi>.</note> was
                    still in the harbour. I went on board, chose our births, past the custom-house,
                    &amp; then endeavoured to make poor Time as easy as he could be upon the rack of
                    expectation. Six days we watched the weathercock &amp; <del rend="strikethrough">for</del> sighed for North-Easters. I walked on the beach, caught
                    soldier-crabs, <del rend="strikethrough">&amp; watched</del> &lt;loitered to
                    admire&gt; the sea-anemonies in their ever-varying shapes of beauty: read
                        Gebir<note n="2" place="foot" resp="editors">Walter Savage Landor,
                            <title>Gebir</title> (1798).</note> &amp; wrote &lt;half a book of&gt;
                        Thalaba.<note n="3" place="foot" resp="editors">The Islamic romance
                            <title>Thalaba the Destroyer</title>, completed in Portugal and
                        published in 1801.</note> There was a sight on the Monday, but the rain <del rend="strikethrough">fxx</del> kept me within doors, six boys eat hot pap
                    for a hat, &amp; six men jumped in sacks for a similar prize; in the evening
                    there was an assembly &amp; the best dancer was a man with a wooden leg. A short
                    account of six days, – if however I were to add the Bill you would find it a
                    long one.</p>
<p rend="indent1"> We embarked at four on Thursday afternoon. As we sailed out of
                    the harbour the ships there &amp; the shore seemed to swim before my sight like
                    a vision. Light winds &amp; favourable, but we went before the wind, &amp; my
                    poor inside being obliged to shift every minute with the centre of gravity, was
                    soon in a state of insurrection. There is a pleasure in extracting matter of
                    jest from discomfort &amp; bodily pain; – a wholesome habit when it extends no
                    farther, but a deadly one if it be encouraged when the heart is sore. I lay in
                    my birth, – which always <del rend="strikethrough">put</del> reminded me of a
                    coffin whenever I got into it, – &amp; when any one came near me with enquiries,
                    uttered some quaint phrase or crooked pun in answer, &amp; growld in unison with
                    the intestinal grumbling which might have answered for me. I was not however
                    without some day dreams of delight even here, &amp; it will not be long before
                    you will be introduced to the Garden which during these hours I laid out amid
                    the snow, &amp; irrigated with streams of fire. </p>
<p rend="indent1"> On Sunday we saw a homeward bound convoy, &amp; were chased
                    seventy miles by the Frigate which was with it, – luckily in our course. Monday
                    brought with it an adventure of greater alarm; about six in the morning I heard
                    some one awaken the Captain with news that a cutter was bearing down upon us.
                    She carried English colours, but did not answer our signals. we fired a gun, she
                    returned it, little doubt was entertained but that she was French, &amp; we made
                    ready for action. Another Packet was in company with us, carrying six guns, we
                    had ten, – the cutter had fourteen, &amp; I saw the matches smoaking as she came
                    near. We hailed her, she answerd in broken English, &amp; past us as if to
                    attack us on the other side, or begin with the other Packet. There was a frigate
                    in the distance, – we asked what ship it was, – <del rend="strikethrough">&amp;
                        they answered again in</del> &lt;no <del rend="strikethrough">person</del>
                    one could tell&gt; what they said in reply, but I thought they said the <hi rend="ital">Vendemiain</hi>. It was the Endymion, &amp; the man who spoke
                    was a Guernsey man. I <del rend="strikethrough">laid</del> replaced my musquet
                    in the chest right willingly, &amp; was particularly pleased all the rest of the
                    day with having legs &amp; arms, &amp; feeling a head upon my shoulders.
                    Presently the Endymion sent a boat to board us, – &lt;it was a morning of
                    business &amp; bustle&gt; the sun was shining, – we were all in good spirits,
                    &amp; you know the pleasure which it gives to idlers <del rend="strikethrough">on bo</del> at sea when any thing is going on, out of the common routine. </p>
<p rend="indent1"> We saw the Berlings on Tuesday night. On Wednesday <ref target="people.html#FrickerEdith">Edith</ref> &amp; I went upon deck at five
                    o clock, – we were off the rock, &amp; the sun seemed to rest upon it for a
                    moment as he rose behind. Mafra was visible, presently we could distinguish the
                    height of <ref target="places.html#Cintra">Cintra</ref>, &amp; the Penha
                    Convent. the wind blew fresh &amp; we &lt;were&gt; near enough the shore to see
                    the silver dust of the breakers, &amp; the sea-birds <del rend="strikethrough">xx-xxx</del> sporting over them in flocks. A pilot boat came off to us, its
                    great sail seemed to be as unmanageable as an umbrella in a storm, sometimes it
                    was dipt half over in the water, &amp; it flapt all ways like a womans petticoat
                    in a high wind. We past the church &amp; light-house of Nossa Senhora da Guia,
                    the convent of S. Antonio with a few trees about it, &amp; the town of Cascaes.
                    Houses were now scattered in clusters all along the shore; – the want of trees
                    in the landscape was scarcely perceived, so delightful was the sight of land,
                    &amp; so chearful does every thing look under a southern sun. </p>
<p rend="indent1"> Our fellow traveller<del rend="strikethrough">s</del>
<note n="4" place="foot" resp="editors">Rundell (first name and dates unknown) travelled
                        to Portugal with Southey. He was possibly a member of a prominent Bath
                        family of silversmiths, jewellers and surgeons.</note> was much amused by
                    the numberless windmills which stood in regiments upon all the hills. A large
                    building he supposed to be an inn, &amp; could see the sign, &amp; the great
                    gate way for the stage coaches – the glass enabled him to find out that it was a
                    convent door, with a cross before it. An absence of four years had freshened
                    every <del rend="strikethrough">thing</del> &lt;object&gt; to my own sight,
                    &amp; perhaps there is even a greater delight in recollecting these things than
                    in first beholding them. It is not possible to conceive a more magnificent scene
                    than the entrance of the Tagus, &amp; the gradual appearance of the beautiful
                    city upon its banks. </p>
<p rend="indent1"> The Portugueze say of their capital</p>
<lg type="stanza">
<l rend="indent3">
<hi rend="ital">Quem naō ha visto Lisboa,</hi>
</l>
<l rend="indent3">
<hi rend="ital">Naō ha visto cousa boa.</hi>
</l>
</lg>
<p>‘He who has not seen Lisbon has not seen a fine thing.’ <del rend="strikethrough">They talk of its seven hills for the sake of likening it to Rome, but if
                        Rome had stood upon fourteen, the similitude would have been nearer the
                        truth.</del> It is indeed a sight exceeding all that it has ever been my
                    fortune to behold in beauty &amp; richness &amp; grandeur. Convents &amp;
                    Quintas, gray olive yards, green orange-groves &amp; greener vineyards, . . .
                    the shore more populous every moment as we advanced &amp; finer buildings
                    opening upon us, – the river bright as the blue sky which illuminated it
                    swarming with boats of every size &amp; shape, with sails of every imaginable
                    variety, innumerable ships riding at anchor, far as the eye could reach, &amp;
                    the city extending along the shore, &amp; covering the hills to the farthest
                    point of sight. </p>
<p rend="indent1"> We soon perceived ––<note n="5" place="foot" resp="editors">Southey’s uncle, <ref target="people.html#HillHerbertUncle">Herbert
                            Hill</ref>.</note> coming to meet us, &amp; before the Packet could
                    anchor he was on board. Under his sanction we past the fort where all strangers
                    must now <del rend="strikethrough">pass thro</del> &lt;undergo&gt; a strict
                    examination, &amp; be vouched for by some settler. This is occasioned by their
                    fear of the Irish Revolutionists whom our Government wished to have banished to
                    this country. Nothing can be more groundless than this fear. but when an
                    American minister demurred as to affording these men an asylum, it is not to be
                    wonderd that the Portugeuze government should refuse to receive them.<note n="6" place="foot" resp="editors">After the failed risings in Leinster and Ulster
                        in May and June 1798, the government had entered into a pact on 29 July 1798
                        with the imprisoned United Irish leaders. This required that the prisoners
                        give full details of the movement but without implicating any individuals by
                        name. In return they asked permission to emigrate. The United States refused
                        to accept them and European war ruled out exile elsewhere. The prisoners
                        were therefore sent by the British government to Fort George in Scotland on
                        19 March 1799 where they remained until 1802, when they were deported to
                        Holland and set at liberty.</note> They might safely have been received: –
                    some of the Leaders would soon have found their way to France, the only place
                    which is profligate enough for them, – there are others to whom any country
                    might gladly open her arms, virtuous &amp; enlightened men, who have indeed
                    erred grievously in their contracted &lt;spirit of&gt; patriotism, but &lt;who
                    have acted&gt; however erringly, from the purest motives. For such sedition as
                    theirs change of climate is an effectual cure, &amp; any where <del rend="strikethrough">but</del> &lt;except&gt; in Ireland they would be among
                    the best &amp; most valuable members of society. The alarm here was occasioned
                    by the arrival of one of the secret directory, Counsellor Sampson.<note n="7" place="foot" resp="editors">William Sampson (1764–1836; <title>DNB</title>),
                        United Irishman and lawyer, exiled after the 1798 rising. Arrested at
                        Oporto, 12 March 1799 and imprisoned in Lisbon. He eventually settled in the
                        United States.</note> He landed at Porto, &amp; after having resided there a
                    month was <del rend="strikethrough">taken up</del> &lt;apprehended&gt;, brought
                    to Lisbon, &amp; confined at Belem. Some of his countrymen requested permission
                    to visit him, you may visit him, was the answer, but if you do you must be
                    content to stay with him. He was sent to Hamburgh, &amp; it was in consequence
                    of this affair that their troublesome reputations have been establishd. The
                    nephew of a British settler here was actually sent back in the ship which
                    brought him out, .. because he was an Irishman. </p>
<p rend="indent1"> Poor Ursula!<note n="8" place="foot" resp="editors">Ursula (d.
                        1797), Herbert Hill’s servant.</note> every day did she mourn over me for
                    weeks before my departure from Lisbon in 1796, &amp; right glad should I have
                    been to have heard her voice when we knocked at the door, &amp; received her
                    welcome. And Linda too the <del rend="strikethrough">Linda</del> black spaniel
                    is dead. &amp; the white cat is in the same catalogue, &amp; the lame mare has
                    been eaten by the wolves.† Four years have greatly altered Lisbon, &amp;
                    still more the little world in which I moved here. I ask, where is one? – dead.
                    Another? removed to England. a third? at Madrid. a fourth? God knows where. The
                    feeling which these things occasion comes like an electric shock. &amp; passes
                    away almost as <del rend="strikethrough">suddenly</del> &lt;instantaneously&gt;
                    as it comes. Returning to a scene so distant &amp; so different fills the mind
                    more than novelty could do; it is like first waking from a deep sleep in ones
                    own bed after a long long absence. My head is still giddy with the motion of the
                    sea. the ground rocks under me, the houses reel, &amp; I shall have &lt;for some
                    days&gt; an earthquake of my own. <del rend="strikethrough">for some
                    days</del>.</p>
<p rend="center">_______</p>
<p>† &lt;Insert&gt; There were two cabbage trees in the yard behind <ref target="people.html#HillHerbertUncle">my Uncles</ref> house, which when I
                    left them were only of 12 years growth. One of them now overtops &amp; half
                    overshadows the <del rend="strikethrough">house</del> &lt;roof&gt;, – &amp; the
                    other has been felled lest its roots should <del rend="strikethrough">pu</del>
                    throw the whole side of the house down. Vegetation makes quick work in this
                    climate, . . &amp; Time &amp; Change make melancholy work every where.</p>
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