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<title type="main">The Collected Letters of Robert Southey. Part 2: 1798-1803 </title>
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<name>Southey, Robert, 1774-1843</name>
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<p>Bodleian Library, MS Eng. Lett. c.
                        23.  Previously  published: Charles Cuthbert Southey
                        (ed.), Life and Correspondence of Robert
                            Southey, 6 vols (London, 1849-1850), II, pp.
                        204-207 [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="770" type="letter">
<head>770. Robert Southey to <ref target="people.html#BedfordGrosvenorCharles">Grosvenor
                        Charles Bedford</ref>, <date when="1803-04-03">3 April
                        1803</date>
<note place="foot" resp="editors" type="headnote">Address:
                        To/ Grosvenor Charles Bedford Esq<hi rend="sup">r</hi>/
                        Exchequer/ Westminster/ Single<lb/>Postmarks: [partial]
                        BRISTOL/ APR; [partial] B/ APR/ 1803<lb/>Endorsement: 3.
                        April 1803<lb/>MS: Bodleian Library, MS Eng. Lett. c.
                        23<lb/>Previously published: Charles Cuthbert Southey
                        (ed.), <title>Life and Correspondence of Robert
                            Southey</title>, 6 vols (London, 1849-1850), II, pp.
                        204-207 [in part].</note>
</head>
<opener>
<dateline rend="right">
<date when="1803-04-03">Sunday. April 3. 1803.</date>
</dateline>
</opener>
<p rend="indent1"> I have been thinking of <ref target="places.html#Brixton">Brixton</ref>, Grosvenor,
                    for these many days <del rend="strikethrough">xx</del> past
                    – when more painful thoughts would give me leave. an <ref target="people.html#DanversMrs">old Lady</ref>, whom I
                    loved better than any other woman, &amp; have for the last
                    eight years regarded with something like a filial
                    veneration, has been carried off by this damnd
                        influenza.<note n="1" place="foot" resp="editors">The
                        European-wide influenza epidemic of 1803.</note> she was
                    mother to <ref target="people.html#DanversCharles">Danvers</ref> with whom I have so long been on terms of
                    the closest intimacy. I could say much about this – but
                    there is no propriety in talking to you about strangers. – </p>
<p rend="indent1"> your ejection from <ref target="places.html#Brixton">Brixton</ref> has very long
                    been in my head – as one of the evil things to happen in
                    1803 <del rend="strikethrough">xxxxxx</del> tho it was not
                    predicted in Moores Almanach<note n="2" place="foot" resp="editors">
<title>Old Moore’s Almanack</title>, a
                        best-selling almanac, published every year since 1697
                        and containing predictions for the year ahead.</note> –
                    however I am glad to hear you have got a house (for I was
                    fearful you would have been obliged to go into lodgings for
                    want of one) &amp; still more glad that it is an old house.
                        <del rend="strikethrough">for</del> I love old houses
                    best, for the sake of their odd closets &amp; cupboards,
                    &amp; good thick walls that do not let the wind blow in,
                    &amp; little out-of-the way<del rend="strikethrough">x
                        rooms</del> polyangular rooms with great beams running
                    across the cieling – old heart of oak that has out lasted
                    half a score generations. &amp; chimney pieces with the date
                    of the year carved above them, &amp; <del rend="strikethrough">chimneys that</del> huge fire
                    places that <del rend="strikethrough">xxxx</del> warmed the
                    shins of Englishmen before the house of Hanover<note n="3" place="foot" resp="editors">Before 1714, when the Stuart
                        dynasty was succeeded by the House of Hanover.</note>
                    came over. The most delightful associations that ever make
                    me feel &amp; think &amp; fall a dreaming are excited by old
                    buildings – not absolute ruins – but in a state of decline.
                    Even the clipt yews interest me, &amp; if I found one in any
                    garden that should become mine, in the shape of a peacock I
                    should be as proud to keep his tail well spread as the <del rend="strikethrough">first</del> man was who first
                    carved it. in truth I am more disposed to connect myself by
                    sympathy with the ages that are past, &amp; by hope with
                    those that are to come, than to vex &amp; irritate myself by
                    any lively interest about the &lt;existing&gt;
                    generation.</p>
<p rend="indent1"> Your letter was unusually interesting &amp;
                    it dwells upon my mind. I could &amp; perhaps will, one day
                    write an Eclogue upon leaving an old place of
                        residence.<note n="4" place="foot" resp="editors">Southey did not carry out this intention.</note> what
                    you say of yourself impresses still more deeply upon me the
                    conviction, that the want of a favourite pursuit is your
                    greatest source of discomfort &amp; discontent. It is the
                    pleasure of <hi rend="ital">pursuit</hi> that makes every
                    man happy – whether the merchant – or the sportsman or the
                    collector, <del rend="strikethrough">xxxxxx</del>, the
                    philobibl. or the <hi rend="ital">readerobibl</hi>. <del rend="strikethrough">like me</del> &amp; <hi rend="ital">makerobibl</hi> like me. pursuit at once supplies
                    employment &amp; hope. This I have often preached to you,
                    but perhaps I never told you what benefit I myself have
                    derived from resolute employment. When Joan of Arc<note n="5" place="foot" resp="editors">
<title>Joan of
                            Arc</title> (1796), which was printed in the latter
                        half of 1795.</note> was in the press I had as many
                    legitimate <del rend="strikethrough">causes</del> excuses
                    for unhappiness as any man need have, uncertainty for the
                    future, &amp; immediate want, in the literal &amp; plain
                    meaning of the word. I often walked the streets at dinner
                    time for want of a dinner, when I had not eighteen pence for
                    the ordinary, nor bread &amp; cheese at my lodgings. but do
                    not suppose that I thought of my dinner while I was walking
                    – my head was full of what I was composing – when I lay down
                    at night I was planning my poem, &amp; when I rose in the
                    morning the poem was the first thought to which I was awake.
                    the scanty profits of that Poem I was then anticipating in
                    my lodging house bills for tea bread &amp; butter &amp;
                    those little &amp;cs that amount to a formidable sum when a
                    man has no resources. but that Poem, faulty as it is, has
                    given me a Baxters shove<note n="6" place="foot" resp="editors">Slang, derived from <title>An Effectual
                            Shove to the Heavy-Arse Christian</title> (1768),
                        wrongly attributed to Richard Baxter (1615-1691;
                            <title>DNB</title>). The pamphlet’s author was the
                        Welsh minister William Bunyan (fl. 1760s).</note> into
                    my right place in the world.</p>
<p rend="indent1"> So much for the practical effects of
                        Epictetus,<note n="7" place="foot" resp="editors">Epictetus (AD 55-135), Greek Stoic philosopher.</note>
                    to whom I hold myself indebted for much amendment of
                    character. Now when I am not comparatively but positively a
                    happy man, wishing little, &amp; wanting nothing, my delight
                    is the certainty that while I have health &amp; eye sight I
                    can never want a pursuit to interest. subject after subject
                    is chalked out. in hand I have Kehama – Madoc &amp; a
                    voluminous history.<note n="8" place="foot" resp="editors">Southey was working on Book 2 of <title>The Curse of
                            Kehama</title> (1810). He had completed a
                        fifteen-book version of <title>Madoc</title> in
                        1797-1799 and was revising it for publication, though it
                        did not appear until 1805. His ‘History of Portugal’
                        remained uncompleted.</note> &amp; I have planned more
                    poems &amp; more history, so that whenever I am removed to
                    another state of existence – there will be some valdi
                    lacrymablis hiatus<note n="9" place="foot" resp="editors">‘Very lamentable gap[s]’.</note>
<del rend="strikethrough">xx xxx</del> in some of my
                    posthumous works.</p>
<p rend="indent1"> We have been all ill with this La Gripe – but
                    the death of my excellent old friend is a real grief, &amp;
                    one that will long be felt. the pain of amputation is
                    nothing. it is the loss of the limb that is the evil. She
                    influenced my every day thoughts &amp; one of my pleasures
                    was to afford her any <del rend="strikethrough">xxxx</del>
                    of the little amusements which age &amp; infirmity can
                    enjoy. death is made an evil by all its details. of the old
                        εοδαυαια<note n="10" place="foot" resp="editors">Euthanasia; literally ‘dying well’.</note> the
                    corruptions &amp; vices of society have deprived us, disease
                    does the work of decay, we sink under our sufferings indeed
                    if going to sleep. I speculate too much upon futurity, &amp;
                    hope too much &amp; believe too much to fear death – but I
                    do fear the Death bed, &amp; would rather crawl into a
                    corner like a dying beast. Burial is a vile custom. the eye
                    knows where to follow the body – &amp; how to represent it
                    but burning scatters it to the elements, &amp; the little
                    heap of ashes that can be preservd can excite no horror or
                    disgust. It is my opinion that all our <del rend="strikethrough">xxxxxx</del> worst associations
                    respecting death originate from the custom of interment.</p>
<p rend="indent1"> When do I go to London? if I can avoid it,
                    not so soon as I had thought. the journey &amp; some
                    unavoidable weariness in tramping over that overgrown
                    metropolis half terrify me. &amp; then the thought of
                    certain pleasures – such as seeing <ref target="people.html#RickmanJohn">Rickman</ref>, &amp;
                        <ref target="people.html#DuppaRichard">Duppa</ref>,
                    &amp; <ref target="people.html#WynnCharlesWW">Wynn</ref>
                    &lt;&amp; <ref target="people.html#CarlisleAnthony">Carlisle</ref>&gt; &amp; Grosvenor Bedford &amp; going
                    to the old book shops half tempts me. I am working very hard
                    to fetch up my lea-way, that is I am making up for time lost
                    during my opthalmia. 54 more pages of Amadis<note n="11" place="foot" resp="editors">Southey’s translation of
                            <title>Amadis of Gaul</title> (1803).</note> &amp; a
                    Preface – no more to do. huzza! land! land! </p>
<p rend="indent1"> Will you at your leisure pack up my set of
                    the Poets &amp; send them off by waggon. I have hardly an
                    English Poet in the house, &amp; I ought to be reading
                    Spenser &amp; Milton sometimes. but this at your leisure. </p>
<p rend="indent1"> God bless you. <ref target="people.html#SoutheyMargaretEdithdau">Margaret</ref> in spite of a snub snout is grown out of
                    her ugliness. &amp; has as good a face as one could wish for
                    a child of 7 months. take my last poems upon her. N.B. I
                    call them all Effusions of a Father. </p>
<p rend="indent2"> D.D. stands for Daughter Drivel</p>
<p rend="indent2"> M.S. for Margaret Snivel. – but that was
                    written when she had a cold. my compliments to her
                        namesake.<note n="12" place="foot" resp="editors">Bedford’s dog, Snivel.</note>
</p>
<closer>
<signed rend="indent1"> RS.</signed>
</closer>
<postscript>
<p>Pray remember me thankfully to M<hi rend="sup">r</hi>
                            Smith<note n="13" place="foot" resp="editors">Thomas
                            Woodroffe Smith (c. 1747-1811), a wealthy Quaker
                            merchant, who lived at Stockwell Park, Surrey. In
                            1789 he married, as his second wife, Anne Reynolds
                            (dates unknown) of Carshalton. The Smiths were
                            friends of Bedford and his family.</note> &amp; tell
                        me of M<hi rend="sup">rs</hi> Smith health when you
                        write.</p>
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