2155. Robert Southey to James Montgomery, 7 October 1812*

Keswick. Oct 7. 1812.My dear Montgomery

You have here the second book of Pelayo, or as I must learn to call it, Roderick, the Last of the Goths.¹ I have more pleasure in thus transcribing it for you than I shall have in throwing it before the world, for tho I cast my bread upon the waters in full assurance that it will be found after many days, it is with a feeling something like what I should have in setting acorns. In all these prospects the churchyard enters into the foreground. There is another thought connected with publication which tends as much to humiliation as it may seem to savour of pride – of the thousands who will read my poem, some for the pleasure of finding fault with it, but far very far more undoubtedly for the pleasure which it will give them, – how very few are there who will really be at competent to appreciate it, – & how frequently have I had occasion to remember the point of Yriarte’s fable ‘Bad is the censure of the wise – The blockheads praise is worse”.² But in sending to you what has been produced with passion, & elaborated with thought, I know that you will recognize whatever is true to nature, & that thus I shall have my reward. – The figure of Spain may require a note to point out what a Spanish reader would instantly perceive, – the badge of the military orders, the castles & lions of Leon & Castille & Leon, & the sword of my Cid.³

Your Peak Mountains⁴ make me wish repine that you did not come to me to find where you would have found subjects as much superior in beauty <loveliness> as in grandeur. You have managed a very difficult stanza with great skill. The last two last lines are both equal to one alexandrine, – therefore objectionable. You have been aware of this, & so managed your xxx accents that they very seldom read as one. Xxx xxxxalexandrine is so exquisitely harmonious. The poem is in own your true strain, – it has the passion, the melancholy & the religious ardour which are the elements of all your poetry. One of these elements, delightful as it is in such combination, I would banish from you, if I knew of any charm which like Tobits fumigation could chase away dark spirits.⁵ Oh that I could impart to you a portion of that animal chearfulness which I would not exchange for the richest earthly inheritance! For me, when those whom I love cause me no xxx anxiety, – the sky lark in a summer morning is not more joyous than I am, & if I had wings on my shoulders I should be up with him in the sunshine, carolling for pure joy.

But you must see how far how our mountains overstop the Derbyshire hills. – The leaves are now beginning to fall – come to me Montgomery as soon as they reappear, – in the sweetest season of the year, when opening flowers & lengthening days hold out to us every day the hope of a lovelier morrow. I am a bondsman from this time till the end of April, & must work get thro in the intermediate time more work than I like to think of; – thro it however, if no misfortune impede or prev prevent me, I shall get willingly & well, for I know not what it is to be weary of employment. Come to me as soon as my holydays begin. You will find none of the exhausting hurry of London, – but quiet, as well as congenial society, within doors, & without every thing that can elevate the imagination & soothe the heart.

I heard of you in London, from Miss Betham, who saw you at Mrs Montagues. Miss B. is one for whom I have a great regard, she has nervous manners which appear strange to those who do not know her, & are very painful to herself, – but she has great feeling & great goodness, – & is truly an excellent woman – with the heart of a child. –– Thank you for enquiring about the Missionary Reports.⁶ If there are only the two first numbers out of print I will send to London for the rest, & have a few blank leaves placed at the beginning in which to write an abstract of what is deficient, whenever I can meet with the beginning xxx borrow a perfect copy.

My next poem⁷ will have something to do with Missionaries, – xx it will relate to the time & country of Eliot, the apostle of the N American Indians, & the man who translated the bible into the most barbarous language that was ever yet reduced to grammatical rules.⁸ The chief personage is to be a Quaker, & the story will hinge upon the best principles of Quaker-philosophy, – if those words may be allowed to exist in combination. The object is to represent a man <acting> under the most trying circumstances, in that manner which he feels & believes to be right, regardless of consequences & in my story this principle of action which proves as instrumental at last to the preservation of the individual as it would be to the happiness of the whole community if ‘the Kingdom’ were “come.”

Do not let your poem⁹ languish longer. I who want spurring myself, would fain spur you on to a quicker progress. I advance in these things with a pace so slow & so unlike the ardour of former times, that I should suspect more change of temperament, & loss of activity than eight & thirty years ought to bring with them, if I did not find or fancy a solution in the quantity of prose labour which falls to my lot. Time has been when I have written 50, 80 or 100 lines before breakfast, – & I remember to have composed 1200 (many of them among the best I ever did produce) in one week.¹⁰ A riper judgement has had so px occasioned this change, – still time may have had some share in it. I do not now love autumn as well as spring, nor the setting sun like the life & beauty of the morning.

– God bless you. Robert Southey.

2.¹¹

Twelve months they sojourn’d in their solitude, And then beneath the burden of old age Romano sunk. No brethren were there here To spread the sackcloth, & with ashes strew That penitential bed, & gather round To sing his requiem, & with prayer & psalm Assist him in his hour of agony. On the bare earth he lay, which long had been His only couch; beside him Roderick knelt, Moistened from time to time his feverish lips. Received a blessing with his latest breath, Then closed his eyes, & by the nameless grave Of the fore-tenant of that holy place Consigned him, earth to earth. Two graves are here, And Roderick transverse at their feet began To break the third. In all his intervals Of prayer, save only when he searchd the woods And fill’d the water-cruise, he labourd there. And when the work was done, & he had laid Himself at length within its narrow sides And measured it, he shook his head to think There was no other business now for him. Poor wretch, thy bed is ready, he exclaim’d, And would that night were come! – It was a task All gloomy as it was, which had beguild The sense of solitude, but now he felt The burthen of the solitary hours: The silence of that lonely hermitage Lay on him like a spell, & at the voice Of his own prayers, he started half aghast. Then too as on Romano’s grave he sate And pored upon his own, a natural thought Arose within him, – well might he have spar’d That useless toil, – the sepulchre would be No hiding place for him, – no Christian hands Were here who should compose his decent corpse And cover it with earth: there he might drag His wretched body at its passing hour And there the sea-birds of her heritage Would rob the worm, or peradventure seize Ere death had done its work, their helpless prey. Even now they did not fear him; when he walk’d Beside them on the sand, regardlessly They saw his coming, & their whirring wings Upon the height had sometimes fannd his cheek, As if being thus alone humanity Had lost its rank, & the prerogative Of man was done away. For his lost crown And sceptre, never had he felt a thought Of pain. Repentance had no pangs to spare For trifles such as these, – the loss of these Was a cheap penalty, – that he had fallen Down to the lowest depths of wretchedness, His hope & consolation. – But to lose His human station in the scale of things, – To see brute nature scorn him, & renounce Its homage to the human form divine, – Had then almighty vengeance thus reveal’d His punishment, & was he fallen indeed Below fallen man, – below redemptions reach, Made lower than the beasts, & like the beasts To perish? – Such temptations troubled him By day & in the visions of the night; But even in sleep he struggled with the thought, And waking with the effort of his prayers The dream assail’d him still. Oh for a voice Of comfort, – for a word to bid him hope, – A hand that from these billows of despair, While yet he strives against the threatening sea May reach, & snatch him ere he sink engulphd! At length, as life when it hath lain long time Opprest beneath some grievous malady, Seems to rouse up with re-collected strength And the sick man doth feel within himself A second spring, so Rodericks better mind Arose to save him. Lo! the western sky sun Flames oer the broad Atlantic, on the verge Of glowing Ocean rests, retiring then Draws with it all its rays, & sudden night Fills the whole cope of Heaven. The penitent Knelt by Romano’s grave, & falling prone Claspt with extended arms the funeral mould. Father! he cried; Companion! only Friend When all beside was lost! – thou too art gone. And the poor sinner whom from utter death Thy providential hand preserved, once more Totters upon the gulph. I am too weak For solitude, too vile a wretch to bear This everlasting commune with myself; The Tempter hath assail’d me; my own heart Is leagued with him; Despair hath spread his nets To take my soul, & memory like a Ghost Haunts me & drives me to the toils. O Saint While I was blest with thee, the hermitage Was my sure haven. Look upon me, still, For from thy heavenly mansion thou canst see The suppliant, – look upon thy child in Christ! Is there no other way for penitence! I ask not martyrdom, – for what am I That I should pray for triumphs, the fit meed Of a long life of holy works like thine, – Or how should I presumptuously aspire To wear the heavenly crown resigned by thee How nobly, for my sake? – O point me thou Some humblest, painfullest, severest way, – Some new austerity, unheard of yet In Syrian fields of glory, or the sands Of holiest Egypt. Let me bind my brow With thorns, & barefoot seek Jerusalem. Tracking the way with blood; there day by day Inflict upon this sinful flesh the scourge, Drink vinegar & gall, & for my bed Hang with extended limbs upon the cross A nightly crucifixion. Any thing Of action, difficulty, bodily pain Labour & outward suffering, – any thing But stillness & this dreadful solitude. Romano! Father! let me hear thy voice In dreams. O sainted Soul! – or from the grave Speak to thy penitent, – even from the grave Thine were a voice of comfort. Thus he cried, Easing the pressure of his burthened heart With passionate prayer, – thus pourd his spirit forth, Till the long effort had exhausted him His spirit fail’d, & laying in the grave His weary head, as on a pillow, sleep Fell on him. He had pray’d to hear a voice Of consolation, & in dreams a voice Of consolation came. Roderick! it said, – Roderick, my poor unhappy sinful child, Jesus have mercy on thee. – Not if Heaven Had opened, & Romano visible In his beatitude had breath’d that prayer, Not if the Grave had spoken, had it pierced So deeply in his soul, nor thrilld his heart With such compunctious visitings, nor given Withal so keen a joy. It was the voice Which sung his fretful infancy to sleep So patiently, which sooth’d his childish griefs, Counsell’d with anguish & prophetic tears His headstrong youth. And lo! his mother stood Before him in the vision: in those weeds Which never from the hour when to the grave She followed her dear Lord Theodofred Rusilla laid aside, but in her face A sorrow that bespake a heavier load At heart, & more unmitigated woe: Yea a more poignant agony, than when Witizas ministers & the red hot brass Had done their work, & in her arms she held Her eyeless husband; wiped away the sweat Which still his tortures forced from every pore, Cool’d his scorch’d lids with medicinable herbs, And prayed the while for patience for herself And him, & prayed for vengeance too, & found Best comfort in her curses. In his dream Groaning he knelt before her to beseech Her blessing, & she rais’d her hands to lay A benediction on him. But those hands Were chain’d, & casting a wild look around, With a wild voice she cried, Will no one break These shameful fetters? – Pedro! Theudemir! Athanagild! where are ye? – Rodericks arm Is withered; Chiefs of Spain, but where are ye? And thou Pelayo, thou our surest hope Dost thou too sleep? – up – up – Pelayo! up! Why tarriest thou, Deliverer? – But with that She broke her bonds; & lo! her form was changed, Radiant in arms she stood: a bloody Cross Gleam’d on her breast-plate, in her shield display’d A Lion seem’d to ramp, her helmed head Rose like the Berecynthian Goddess crownd With towers, & in her dreadful hand the sword Red as a fire-brand blazed. Anon the tramp Of horsemen, & the din of multitudes Moving to mortal conflict, rung around, The battle-song, the clang of swords & shield, War-cries & tumult, strife & hate & rage, Blasphemous prayers, confusion, agony, Rout, & pursuit & death, & over all The shout of Victory, Spain & Victory! Roderick, as the strong vision mastered him, Rush’d to the fight rejoicing; starting then As his own effort burst the charm of sleep, He found himself upon that lonely grave In moonlight & in silence. But the dream Work’d in him still, for still he felt his heart Pant, & his withered arm was trembling still, And still that voice was in his ears, which call’d On Jesus for his sake. Oh might he hear That actual voice! & if Rusilla lived, If shame & anguish for his crimes not yet Had brought her to the grave, sure she would bless Her penitent child, & pour into his heart Prayers & forgiveness which like precious balm Would heal the wounded soul. Nor to herself Less precious or less healing, would the voice That spake forgiveness flow: she wept her son For ever lost, – cut off with all the weight Of unrepented sin upon his head, – Sin which had weigh’d a nation down: what joy To know that righteous Heaven had in its wrath Remembered mercy, & she yet might meet The child whom she had borne, redeemd, in bliss. The sudden impulse of such thoughts confirmd His unacknowledged purpose which till now Vainly had sought its end. He girt his loins, Laid blessed Mary’s image in a cleft Of the rock, where sheltered from the elements It might abide till happier days came on, From all defilement safe; – pourd his last prayers Upon Romano’s grave, & kissd the earth That covered his remains, & wept as if At long leave-taking; – then began his way.¹²

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