58. Robert Southey and Grosvenor Charles Bedford to Charles Collins, 26 September 1793*

Brixton. Thurs. Sept. 26. 1793.

the evening we receivd yours.

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Was it the thunders as they pass?Was it the braying of an ass?Or was it from the walls re-ringingThe echo of my own sweet singing?Or struck by hand of maddning Ire,Discord from the Mantuan lyre?¹ Yes Anger struck the jarring stringYes Anger stern essayd to sing.The swan that whilom charmd the PoBreathd the hoarse croak of the crow.

Oh I will lightly touch the lyreTo sooth the soul of maddning Ire —Gently breathe the fluent numbersSoftly sooth his soul to slumbers —Cool the fever furious ragingEvery pang & pain assuaging.What tho thy hand unweeting toreThe wound that was but slight beforePhysic to Poetry is brother —One dose shall counter act another.

[start of section in Bedford’s hand]Two Regulars must lend their aidTo cure the ill one Quack has madeAnd as you seem non compos mentis To Willisize you² my intent isCollins indeed you can’t concealHow ill you take our friendly zealWell did we think to rouse your prideAnd make you lay your books aside[end of section in Bedford’s hand]Good our Intention tho you mist herOur lenities have raisd a blister[start of section in Bedford’s hand]The blister broke — what came awayIs far too foul for us to saySuffice that bolt into our facesIt flew, & left it’s nasty traces[end of section in Bedford’s hand]And then wed nothing else to doBut wipe ourselves & then — wipe you.

Did you my dear friend never hearThe story of Achilles spear?³ Fruitful of wounds he wont to deal themOn purpose afterwards to heal them.

Tis now twelve months or something betterSince I sat down & pennd a letterWherein I beggd but beggd in vainThat you would write in English strain —That faild. I deemd a useless taskAgain the same request to askResolvd no more my pains to wasteTill you’d compleatly formd your taste.Your taste it seems is now grown ripeAt “Pretty Grange & Pretty Pipe”[start of section in Bedford’s hand]Taste! the dull produce of the schoolsReceiv’d by you — & taught by foolsWho love to prune & to suppressLuxuriancies they can’t possessWhose heads so hard so dry, that ne’erSprouts forth a crop of manly hairBut forced to fly for foreign aidTo Barber’s shop & deadman’s head.[end of section in Bedford’s hand]

Of heads & hair my friend enoughNo more of any such vile stuff —Here we the palm to you submitAnd take your nastiness for wit.Not here descending to come nighOr dirt our paper by replyLet Christ Church here enjoy the field[start of section in Bedford’s hand]In Politesse & Filth We yieldBut beg when next you satirizeYou’ll stick to truth & not write liesAs to the pair you shan’t come offAnd think so cheap to have your scoff

Make my respects to all your good Family.

G.C.B.

[end of section in Bedford’s hand]

Make my respects to all your good Family. R.S.

[start of section in Bedford’s hand]Tho’ Southey gentle bard refuseTo contradict your vile abuseKnow this — unstudied unadmiredBy us, our persons are attired.We boast no perfumes in our hairBut those bestowed by health & airAnd ivory combs. — we spurn pomatum⁴ Pots full of filth — as such we hate ’em.Are heads are clean, nor when we’ve done ’emFear we to put our hats upon ’emLike some good Christ Church beau who stalksFilthy & fine on X Church walksWho without lining wears silk breechesAnd shows brown skin thro’ stocking stitches.

Who talks of impudence to readHis works his own conceit to feed?[end of section in Bedford’s hand]Remember Collins I implore you“Ambrosio puella toro”⁵ True in the Christ Church hall not heardThis pretty warmth of Jack the third —The Dean much shockd went home good Sir!To read Petronius Arbiter⁶ And you displeasd return to dwellOn Jack the second⁷ or Pucelle.⁸ [start of section in Bedford’s hand]Or what’s more worthy copying o’erYour verses twenty times or moreWriting so neatly copies fairDetergent to your friend’s derrieres[end of section in Bedford’s hand]

And now my friend let Satire ceaseGently sink to gentle peace —Proudly in poetic prideWe began & you replied.We empt our wit & you your jakesLet us cease for both our sakes.This good at least from ill has sprungThat you have usd your native tongueFlung the Gradus⁹ quite asideAnd in good English verse repliedBarber & Shoe black in one letter!To be the Gentleman is betterAnd so who first began first end —Well write more gravely to our friend.

True Collins not till Fancy quitsIn endless gloom these wandering witsTill Reason abdicates her reignAnd Fashion triumphs oer my brainTill Grosvenor shall forget his friendTill Time himself shall have an end —I dress my hair to hide my senseOr give to you my friend offence.

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[start of section in Bedford’s hand]As dancers at a MasqueradeAt summer lay aside parade Take off their masks & free discoverTheir smiling faces to each other,So we to say the truth admireThro’ all your verse your wonted fireNor shall we e’er be angry whenYou raise ’gainst us so well the pen.

If to write thus my friend twould cure yeEach week would I provoke your furyNor e’er at falling, should repineThe victim of such wrath divine.

And if that is not a lenitive plaister Collins I do not know what you would have — Of your verses I will just say thus much — that you have only your <own> indolence to blame in not having before this time, excelled us as much in that line as you d in all others — you will now be unpardonable if you do not often exercise yourself in this walk There is no better in Christ Church — — You think this a pun — as you please.

[end of section in Bedford’s hand]

Passion my dear friend opened Atyss¹⁰ mouth — the strings were loosened & he spake —