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MS untraced; text is taken from John Wood Warter (ed.), Selections from the Letters of Robert Southey, 4 vols (London, 1856). Previously published: John Wood Warter (ed.), Selections from the Letters of Robert Southey, 4 vols (London, 1856), I, pp. 231-234.
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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You will, perhaps, have been wondering that I had not earlier written; and earlier I certainly should have written had there been any thing pleasant to communicate. Here we are, after a long and wearying journey, little short of the whole length of England. On the way, we stayed five days with our friend Miss Barker, whom you saw with us in London. This halt was every way desirable, for Edith was in wretched health when we left Bristol, hardly recovered from a very sharp attack of fever; but she was impatient to be gone. I could tell you what feelings came upon me at leaving the house wherein I had been so happy and so afflicted; but it would be folly not to suppress thoughts that end only in pain.
Nothing in England can be more beautiful than
the site of this house. Had this country but the sky of
Portugal, it would leave me nothing to wish for. I shall
make the experiment this winter; and, if my health bear up
well till the next summer, shall look for no other home.
But, in truth, my expectations have been so often blighted,
that when I think of any plans for the future, it is with
the same sort of incredulity that I recollect a dream.
Meantime, I make myself as comfortable as I can: to be away
from my books is a sore evil. I have sent enough by the
waggon to employ me till the experiment of climate be fairly
tried; and if it should succeed, can then, without
imprudence, collect my scattered sheep. My head, too, is
happily well stored with raw materials, which will not be
soon exhausted by the manufactory, – and Coleridge is company enough. For one whose habits
are so sedentary as mine, and whose inclinations cling so
obstinately to the hearth-stone, it is of some consequence
to be in a country that tempts him to exercise. I have been
round the Lake, and up Skiddaw, and along the river Greta,
and to Lodore. If air and exercise were the panacea, here I must needs be well.
I wish it were in my power to give you a good account of Edith; she is very unwell, and at present incapable of any enjoyment. It has been a heavy blow upon us. My own mind is active even to restlessness, and it has now been exerted to its force, – still the effect is deeper and will be more lasting than I expected. I cannot shut out the shooting recollections that flash upon me. If I yielded to my inclination, it would keep me sauntering in solitude – dreaming of the other world, and the state of the dead. I trust, however, to give you a good sum of my winter’s work.
My baggage is arrived – as few books as
possible, though enough for many a hard week’s occupation.
The Chronicle of K. Emanuel,
I hope to hear a good account of Mrs. May and
your little boy.
P. S. Direct with S. T. Coleridge, Greta Hall, Keswick, Cumberland.