1374. Robert Southey to Anna Seward, 25 October 1807. ⁠* 

Oct. 25. 1807.

My summer season is in good part taken up by friends who come to these uttermost parts of the North to visit me, & by laying in a stock of exercise which lasts me during a bodily hibernation of six months, but I even during this butterfly’s holyday I have fits & heats of hard work, without which the press would outrun me, & I should outrun my means. There has been another & more valid reason why ten weeks have been let pass since the date of my last letter, – it was likely that I should soon be able to say when I should leave this place on my way to London, & consequently when I should have the gratification of halting at Litchfield, – instead of eyeing the outside only of its noble Cathedral while the stage changed horses, – as I once did heretofore.

The Critical Reviewer of Madoc is the same person who has spoken in the same spirit of Wordsworths late volumes. I have seen neither article, so that in the main object of giving pain to me he has failed, – as indeed he would under any circumstance, for I am used to these things. His name is Le Grice, [1]  – he was a school-fellow of Coleridges at Christs Hospital. Before my acquaintance with Coleridge began I past five days at Cambridge, having walked thither from Oxford with Edmund Seward, to see his brother, the Dr John Seward whom you must have met, – & who is on the now an inhabitant of some better world than ours. We there met this Le Grice: – he was unusually courteous towards me, & I as unusually repulsive towards him, for never had I seen a man whose whole temper of mind appeared to me so thoroughly perverted & mischievous. Every thing was made the subject of his ridicule, & he seemed to have laughed himself out of every good principle & every good feeling. Considerable talents he had, but only in this miserable direction: his face was as white as a Ghosts, & in this dead <clayey> & unexpressive face were set two jet black eyes, forming so strange & hideous a contrast, that literally & truly that face was the original from whence I described the dead countenance of Donica animated by a Devil. [2]  From that time I never saw him. He remembers with what unconcealed dislike I turned my back upon all his proferred civilities, but what has more weight with him, has been a notion that he could wound Coleridge thro me, & thus pay off some of the scores of an old & rooted envy. – This man is now settled at the Lands End in Cornwall, where he married an old woman to whose children he went to be tutor. The eldest son is a miserable cripple, as deformed in mind as in body. Le Grice & the Mother have not proved faithful stewards to him, & he vows vengeance against them both, but him in particular, as soon as he shall be of age. Le Grice himself is an unsuccessful author; – he published a little volume called by the strange name of Tineum, [3]  when he was at Cambridge; – it was ridiculed in the University, & never heard of out of it. Authors are said to be an envious race, – it may perhaps be true of such Authorlings as this, but not so of the truly great, as if amply proved by the history of their friendships.

I am very very much indebted to you for what you have done with the Critical Review. M^r Fellowes [4]  cannot of course sacrifice the consistency of that precious publication, – but the work will become more respectable in his hands, – he will leaven it with something of a liberal & of a christian spirit, & will give me fair play there for the future. This is a matter of some importance, for tho the breath of envy I cannot wither one laurel leaf, – it may mildew a whole crop of corn.

That note of M^r Fs. gives me what I looked for in your own letters in vain, – an account of your health, – but it is a sad one. He recommends distilled water. I am afraid this is but a whim taken up by women of fashion: – & am certain that water distilled in any metallic vessels must be far more impure than <from a> common spring we or pump. You who knew Darwin [5]  should have some faith in Beddoes. I know him, & without any personal liking towards him (for he is cold as ice) have the highest respect for him as a man & the highest confidence in his skill. If any known means can be of service to your complaint, he will know what those means are; & of all men living he is the one who is most likely to devise a new remedy when old ones fail.

Of Lady Wortleys letters [6]  I can only speak upon recollections three years old: – as for her voluptuous scenes I need not ask you to do me the justice of supp believing they were not what were praised or remembered. Her letters from Italy are what delighted me, – so did those written to M^r Wortley [7]  before her marriage. The world corrupted her, – she knew nothing of human nature except with all the varnish & tinsel & rascality of high life about it, – & consequently the pictures which she gives of xxxxxxx xxxxx <it> & of her own poor heart is a melancholy one. It is not therefore that I like her better than all other letter-writers, but her letters appear to me more natural (according to her nature) & full of better sense, her views of life considered than those of any one else. – I thank you for the passage concerning Madocs voyage; – there is a great mass of evidence to prove the existence of Welsh-Indians in America, – whenever I can afford the time I will collect it to be prefixed to some future edition of the poem. [8]  – There is no variance between me & Coleridge, – what you say however is perfectly explainable. we have no common friends, nor is it possible that two men so radically different should. – When next you favour me with a letter I pray you mention the state of your health. Soon before, or soon after Christmas I hope & expect to see you. The pen is a slow organ when one has much to say.

yrs very truly

Robert Southey