86. Robert Southey to Grosvenor Charles Bedford, 13 April 1794*

College Green. Bristol. April 13th. Sunday. 1794My dear Grosvenor

tis a long while since any thing in the shape of a letter has reachd me from your part of the world. your brother is obstinate either in anger or in system. you are busied in the concerns of the nation — & I have been — at Oxford the worst place in the world for letter writing. Friday morning. Burnett called me before the clock struck three. up I got — we breakfasted & talked till five when I departed in the Mail. the folly of my companions taciturnified me — their frigidity of intellect petrified my organs of voice. his most amorous Majesty was an outside passenger but I could not approach his person & was silent all the way. the next morning I conveyd my baggage to the inn. & secured a place in the Caravan newly launched on the plan of your Greenwich machines.¹ this was seven o clock & the coach was to set out at eight. I walked on leisurely. the morning was warm & when I had got four miles — I sat me down by a brook to wait the coach. the spot was within a mile of the school where some of my younger days were passed.² & upon viewing the course of the brook I discovered it to the same in which every morning I washed my hands & face. the lapse of twelve years have not obliterated one image from my memory — & I have seldom past half an hour more agreably in solitude than the one yesterday morning. the caravan came — in I went — & away to Bristol.

there is something in the recollection of scenes of childhood that give a pleasing melancholy to the mind. I remember the various hours of alternate gaiety & sorrow, business & play that diversied my time at Corston. on this subject Bowles has written so very beautiful a sonnet, that I am sure the inserting it will delight you.

To the river Itchin near Winton³

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Itchin when I behold thy banks again, Thy crumbling margin & thy silver breast On which the self-same tints still seem to rest,Why feels my heart the shivering sense of pain?Is it — that many a summers day has past Since in Lifes morn I carold on thy side? Is it that oft since then my heart has sighdAs Youth & Hopes delusive gleams flew fast? Is it — that those who circled on thy shore Companions of my youth, now meet no more?Whateer the cause, upon thy banks I bend Sorrowing — yet feel such solace at my heart,As at the meeting of some long lost friend From whom in happier hours we wept to part.

The author of this sonnet, tho indisputably one of the first poets of the day, is little known. he was of Trinity College Oxford. I have only seen his sonnets — they are so scarce that a friend of mine⁴ transcribed them, & so beautiful that I have copied his transcription.

now Grosvenor I have two pieces of poetry of a very different nature to fill up my letter. the first is by an undergraduate whom I saw at the Anatomy School — physiognomised, & introduced myself to. a man of extraordinary ability.

To a Painter

from Anacreon⁵

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O skilld each mimic grace to wakeThy all creative pencil take —Master of the rosy artTo my rapturd eye impartThe form thats picturd on my heart.Thy pencil from my love-strung lyreShall catch Expressions vivid fire.Artist — be it first thy careSoft & black to paint her hair,And if thy skill such power can showBreathing odours let it flow.Paint her forehead gleaming whiteThro her ringlets dewy-bright —Where each eye-brows wont to endIn her nor seperate nor blendBut let the arches of her browAn union in partition show.Paint her speaking eye of fireKindling flames of fierce desireLike Minervas to my viewLet it rise celestial blue —And as hers who yokes the doveLet it swim in liquid love.The nose & cheeks must boast an hueLike roses bathed in milky dew.Her lips imbued with nectard blissMust swell to meet the eager kiss.Let her polishd neck belowLike the Parian marble glowWhile round it all the graces flyThat hold & charm the Lovers eye.Hide beneath a purple vestModest Artist — hide the rest.Yet still some little be revealdTo show what treasures are conceald.Enough! no picturd Maid is sheHerself her lovely self I see.⁶

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the four last lines run more literally thus.

Yet let some little glisten throTo show what charms are kept from viewEnough — no absent Maid I seekSoon wonderous portrait — soon youll speak.

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This translation pleases me much. Charles Collins has met the author at my rooms & taken a great liking to him. by the by poor Carlo has met with a grievous misfortune. Don Quixotes library has been purged. Wynn & I — guess whats to come. the Curate & the Barber — twas a good fire. the book case open. Jack⁷ you know is of an inflammable nature & he burnt well. Wynn & Maule⁸ held Signor Carlo on the sofa & I burnt Jack. next morning Maule carried off La Pucelle⁹ & poor Collins has nothing luscious left to amuse himself with except Solomons Song & the story of Potiphars Wife.¹⁰ we made a most incomparable ballad on the subject. a parody of the Son of Alknomok¹¹

“But Ill buy my Johannes Secundus again.”

Ode to my Stick yclept the Sans Culottes

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O worthy to be sung in loftiest lays Stay of my steps along the rugged road.I strike the lyre to hymn thy praise To thee I write an ode. The laurel wreath I spread To deck thy holly headFor with thy upright frame & strenuous crookThou hast a very democratic look.

Truth fill thy votaries strains — Thy influence lend So may the world attendAnd learn morality from Sticks & Canes.

And here I would reform an ugly trick In a parenthesis. For if a Parson preach amissThe folks will say he is a Stick. A title very wrongHis prattle being weak & sticks being strong.

World of the wise & unwise list my strains Ye who use sticks the strong And ye more numerous throngThat strut about with canes. For I will showThat a fashionable cane is like a fashionable Beau.

What is a Beau?Oh God of Definitions be my friend!Spirits of Lexicographers descend. What is a Beau? Is it a man or no?

When at some mighty callPards lyons tygers buffaloes grew tame —And the fierce Ouran outangs allWith all his cousin apes round Adam cameEach to receive from him his destind name —Did he the Father of mankind or noBehold one Beau?

Tom Paine¹² has said(And Thomas never speaks without good cause)That Lords & Dukes were never known to Adam.It may perhaps appear against the laws Thus to declare that I his book have read.And Mr Reeves¹³ may say that I a traitor bad am.But more than Tom has said shall Robert sing.I say that Adam never knew a King.And since nor Kings nor Courts did Adam knowBy what strange miracle could he have seen a Beau?

Do coral rocks produce green peas? Do Oysters grow on Cherry trees? When Nature only reignd the Queen How could a Beau be seen!

Twere hard to say what a Beau is To say what he is not is easy.I will do this To please ye.

He does not bear the upright manly gaitWhich honest Independance loves to wearHe knows not firm in Stoic strength to bearThe ills of Fortune & the frowns of Fate.Nor his the sinewy form the open eyeThe fearless front of virtuous honesty.Nor firm on Freedoms adamantine rockDares he to brave Oppressions powerful shockTo breathe Defiance in his parting breathSmile on the scaffold — & exult in Death.

Oh Bruin Bruin Bruin Bruin bear Do not from Alpine heights descend Do not thy journey to the valleys bend —For ah — thou knowest not all the dangers there.Poor brother Bruin if thou shouldest be caughtThou dost not know thy lamentable lot!Wouldst thou conceive that Man should bore thy noseTeach thee to dance & eke turn out thy toes,And call the crowd around & play his fluteTill he himself appears the greatest brute. Ah Bruin BruinMuch do I feel for thee poor Bruin Bear! These wicked Beaus will prove thy ruinAnd take thy grease to grease their Asses hair.

This plasters oer the Beau. And Corn that most inestimable treasure{Which by the by is ten shillings & nine pence{A bushel Winchester measure¹⁴ He showers upon his greasy pate like snow. Then when the Barbers fashionable trade The gentleman has madeHe takes his cane & walks on the parade.

When the Heads outside takes such painsAh who will wonder at the lack of brains.

And now I come to showWherein the cane is like the Beau.Is the Cane good for anything? — no. Is the Beau?Does <it> not bend if any one leans low? So does the Beau.When wandering on fatigued & slowThe Pilgrim creeps along the lengthening plain —Does he derive assistance from the Cane?And who derives assistance from the Beau?In this they differ, & in this alone,The cane had come to something good it may be,If it amid the wood uncropt had grown,The Beau will always be a Baby.

Thus in an excellent comparisonI prove the Cane & Beau are as one.

Stick of Democracy — Stick Sans CulottesTo thee I tune my democratic noteLeveller the mighty thou resemblest meAnd I a stick myself resemble thee.

Unknown to bend art thou.And I unknown to bow.And tall & thin art thou. & so am I.And ungenteel thy shape nor nice nor neatSo that when we together walk the streetWe catch the passing puppys wondering eye.

Nor Sans Culottes — thy strenuous bulk was madeTo saunter up & down the South Parade —Nor I to move amid the minuets maze.But when we’re togetherWe defy wind & weatherAnd merrily trudgest along the long ways.

Supporter of my strength. for oft tried aidFor succor very very oft displaydBecause thy strength has saved me many a fallIn fine for all thy bounties one & allFelt on the pathless heath & rugged roadAccept this most incomparable Ode.

As thou hast propt my steps I prop thy name For long shall last this tributary lay,Nor soon o San Culottes thy fame Shall fade in dull Oblivions reign away.But as thy native holly lifts its head In horrent strength erect tho thou art goneSo Sans Culottes shall bloom when I am dead The garland evergreen of Southeys song.

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Robert Southey.

how is Mrs Bs gout?