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British Library, Add MS 47888. Previously published: John Wood Warter (ed.), Selections from the Letters of Robert Southey, 4 vols (London, 1856), I, pp. 168-172 [dated ‘September 1801’].
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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Weather delayed our departure from Wynnstay till the
afternoon of Sunday last. the richness of the library in
such books as were most useful to me, & the goodness of
the claret made the delay very endurable. in the intervals
of sunshine we saw the surrounding scenery – the Dee flowing
thro high banks of wood – & the pillars of a prodigious
bridge which is to support the canal, a work of wonderful
magnitude, so large indeed as almost to deserve forgiveness
for its intrusion. Llangollen is seven miles from Wynnstay – the
village itself is ugly – deformed by some smoky works, – one
might colour it to the life in Indian Ink. the romantic
Ladiesin the ruin, make it a
lovely spot. Some fellow whose brains ought to be knocked
out against PocklingtonsLondon St Georges fields-tea-looking houseyou a child might dip
you stand dryfooted & dip his hand into the
water. there are trees enough upon the hills – abundance of
the bending birch that tree so light hanging & so
lovely! – there are houses enough scattered, & such
houses as show that the richness of the land is not ill
bestowed – Corwen is little more than a village – where at
the sign of Owen Glendower,
Two miles from Corwen is a waterfall –
Rhaiadr Cynwid. the best I have ever yet found. the body of
water is enough to make a constant shower of its dust, &
a most cold wind, & I stood in that cold wind & that
shower, & saw rainbows where the shadow of the rock
ended & met the sunshine. Pontyglindifis – a bridge over
a glen down which a mountain brooks roars – was the next
fine object – & the only in our way to Cernioge. all
else was raw & bleak. black boggy looking streams, &
cold boggy hills. Wynn said it was Irish looking – I thought of the
worst parts of Alentejo. thence to Llanwrst – but not along
the common road. we struck to the left by way of Bettws.
& this led us to a glorious pass among the mountains.
the mountain side was stony, & a few trees grew among
its stones, the other side was more xxxxx wooded & had grass
on the top – & a huge waterfall thundered into the
bottom & thundered down the bottom. when it had nearly
past these rocky straits it met another stream. the width of
water then became considerable & twice it formed a large
– black pool – to the eye absolutely stagnant – the froth of
the waters that entered then sleeping upon the surface – it
had the deadness of enchantment – yet was not the pool wider
than the river above it & below it where it foamed over
a broken bed. Last night we slept at Llanwrst. a little town
upon the Conway, remarkable for a bridge which we were told
was built by one Inigo Jonesxxx
lamentably short of Obidos, but in England I have seen no
fortifications remaining so entire. thence to Bangor along
the side of Penmaenmawr, a road now walled in & safe,
but once terribly dangerous – for the wall runs along a
giddy precipice, & the sea is at the bottom. the old
Penman is a grand fellow. Zounds had he given himself one
shake to shake the dust from his coat – a hail storm of
rocks would have buried us. the mountain is almost all stone
– lying loose, or jutting out like crystals in shape. I want
some good Welshman to give me the names of the mountains in
their order along this coast. we are now at Bangor – rather
an Inn a mile from Bangor. tomorrow we go to Capel Cerrig,
& from thence see the one side of Snowdon, & I shall
look out a situation for Cadwallons
What I have seen is so entirely different
from the Lake Scenery that it would be ridiculous to attempt
comparison. these mountains look to me the highest – but
that is probably because they are more insulated. Wales has
wood, & the interest of ruins & many recollections,
any thing so simple & severely sublime as your view to
Borrodale & Newlands or so quietly beautiful as Grasmere
& Rydale I have not seen. We are mounted – & the
servant drives the gig – or rides as we like. I have
learn[MS torn] to drive – so I may say, & that without
breaking the carriage or killing a Welshman. It is cold
weather, & today is cloudy – I am hoping – but not
expecting a clear day to attempt Snowdon. if old Snowdon
knew what a reverence I have for him he would doff his
nightcap in decency. Twas a bad business that one Mr Mordred, whose magic song, ‘Made huge
Plinlimmon bow his cloud topt head” was hung by martial law,
as a stirrer of the people to sedition,
Probably we shall reach Llangedwin on
Saturday, from thence I will write. it is not easy to find
time on the road, for we reach the end of our days journey
just at the night fall – too hungry & too tired to think
of much more than eating & sleeping. Every evening I
want the Wishing Cap of Fortunatushow are you? &
how is Coleridge? & Moses –
& the little
short fat round rolling maggot? – if I could but
be in two places at the same time now! – dear dear Edith God bless
you