84. Robert Southey to Horace Walpole Bedford, 4 April 1794*

Balliol.Thursday<Friday> morning April 4th. 1794.My dear Horace

Tho your petrifying silence be enough to freeze the pen in my inkstand — yet as I have no right to accuse on this head whilst at Oxford, I send this to say I am alive & enquire whether or no you are in the same predicament. & as a small sheet of paper is better than none, & as mine was Hobsons choice you must be content with this quarto & thank me for it. I go to Bristol next week & there shall expect to hear from you.

now this is this abominable chapel bell reminding me of morning prayers. seven o clock & I have breakfasted & written half an ode & seven lines & 3 quarters of a letter beside date & exordium already. by the by suppose I try a pindaric to this said chapel bell?

Horrida Bella!¹

tis an old pun

Lo I the man whose Muse of late her maskd As Time her taught in rustic shepherd weedsAm now enforced a far unfitter tasks For cap & gown to change my Doric weedsAnd sit in chapel whilst the snaffling Ginger reads

Ginger of snaggling snoffling sniveling noseGinger whose stream of elocution flowsFoul as the channel thro the which it goes. AMEN.The bell warns me. — And Imposition threatens oer my headFive times already have I truant playdFrom chapel — & five time the scholars pinHas prickd the accusing paper thro & throAh ruthless scholar & ah ruthless pinTo prick the accusing paper thro & throWhen every hole wounds my fair characterAnd adds irregular to Southeys name!So witches stab the enchanted form of waxAnd every stab some wretched victim feels.I must go & I must run — Swifter than the setting sun. & the morning is wet — & I am engaged out to breakfast at nine — & my pindaric to the chapel bell not yet finishd — finishd said I? not yet begun!Oh Horace Horace Oh Grosvenor BedfordOh Ginger Barnes Oh ROBERT SOUTHEY

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Tis half past eight.My ode is finished & I must go to breakfast.

12 o clock

Dr Southey presents his compliments to Dr Bedford & <hopes> his brothers purge worked well.

Doctores vim promovent instutam³

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To the Chapel Bell.⁴

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Lo I — the man whose Muse whylome did maske As time her taught in outcast felons weeds —Am now enforst a far unfitter taske For cap & gown to chaunge mine oaten reedsFor yon dull sound long lingering on the airBids me lay by the lyre & go to morning prayer.

Dull dismal sound devout I hate thy knell That tolls a requiem to the studious hourFor loth am I at Superstitions bell To quit the lovely Muses laurelld bowerWhere chastend Pleasure holds elysian reignTo hear still mumbled oer the same eternal strain.

For hast thou ever summoned by thy sound One being with religious awe imprest?Wakd ever in thy never-varying round The fire of full Devotion in his breast?Or rather do not all reluctant creepTo linger out the hour in listlessness or sleep?

I love the bell that on the sabbath day Chimes from the village church its chearful soundWhen the sun smiles on Labors holyday And all the village train are gathered roundEach deftly deckd & dizend in his bestThe honest index these of true religious breast.

I love to see the aged spirit soar The narrow confines of the world aboveI love to see the honest youth adore Thank in respect & magnify in loveTo know the priest of forty pounds a yearHis lowly life to see — his simple truths to hear.

Or when inumbring oer the face of day Slow rise the mists of evening all aroundAs thro the forest glade I wend my way I love the distant curfews hollow soundI love to pause its pensive toll to hearAs made by distance soft it strikes the listening ear.

Or sadder still — I love the nightly knell That tells the exit of some vital breath —Slow on my sense the sounds tremendous dwell And make Mortality remember Death.For Virtue loves in native vigor braveTo list the friendly toll & ponder oer the grave.

But thou memorial of monastic zeal, What lovd remembrance bringst thou to the mind?What does thy oft-repeated sound reveal? Devotion dull & Superstition blindThe sniffling snaffling chaplains nasal note —And eke the Scarlet Dame by her red petticoat.⁵

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I want. a letter. my boots my great coat my books

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you want A HORSE-WHIP for your silence.

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& tho I have as great a regard for thee as Sancho had for Dapple⁶ I could xxxx lay it on with a hearty good will.

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Clodius accuset mœchos.⁷ so take this meekly.

Now I have punishd your silence by this letter write directly to

your sincere friend

And dignified brother

Doctor Southey that is to be.

make my best respects to your father & mother. how is Mr Bs gout? remember me to Mrs Deacon &c in some pretty phrase that means much.

Do not let

Doctors differ.

nor

Doctor defer

to answer my letter with due deference. for in punctuality there is no difference between us.⁸