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. Previously published: Adolfo Cabral (ed.), Robert Southey: Journals of a Residence in Portugal 1800–1801 and a Visit to France 1838 (Oxford, 1960), pp. 140–143.
These letters were edited with the assistance of Carol Bolton, Tim Fulford and Ian Packer
For permission to publish the text of MSS in their possession, the editor wishes to thank the Beinecke Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Yale University; Berg Collection of English and American Literature, The New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox and Tilden Foundations; the Bodleian Library Oxford University; the British Library; Boston Public Library; the Syndics of Cambridge University Library; the Syndics of the Fitzwilliam Museum Cambridge; Haverford College, Connecticut; the Historical Society of Pennsylvania; the Hornby Library, Liverpool Libraries and Information Services; the Houghton Library, Harvard University; the John Rylands Library, Manchester; the Kenneth Spencer Research Library, University of Kansas; Luton Museum (Bedfordshire County Council); Massachusetts Historical Society; McGill University Library; the National Library of Scotland; the Newberry Library, Chicago; the New York Public Library (Pforzheimer Collections); the Pierpont Morgan Library, New York; the Public Record Offices of Bedford, Suffolk (Bury St Edmunds) and Northumberland, the Master and Fellows of Trinity College, Cambridge; the Society of Antiquaries of Newcastle upon Tyne; the Trustees of the William Salt Library, Stafford, the Wisbech and Fenland Museum; the University of Virginia Library.
A research grant from the British Academy made much of the archival work possible, as did support from the English Department of Nottingham Trent University.
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Southey’s spelling has not been regularized.
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& has been used for the ampersand sign.
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Lisbon.
My dear Wynn
Your letter reached me yesterday, only 13 days after its date. it may be worth while to tell you that the Lisbon mail leaves London every Tuesday. a days delay in writing therefore loses that mail & probably that packet.
I am troubled in spirit about a Xmas ballad. I have conned & reconned all my stock-stories, & cannot catch
fire. there are plenty of seeds but the soil is not prepared for them. my head is full of history & my very dreams made up of
chronicles & records. poetry written out of season is as vapid as forced fruits. my best pieces have ever been written most
rapidly, three or four during the same heat. If I had stiled the books of Thalaba Fits this old word would have been strictly
applicable. – however I am straining a costive brain – to what purport I know not. There was a Bishop of Bremen xxx <seen> once in a ship full sail against the wind – going to old Beelzebub
in Mount Hecla.xx <has> the polypus power
of growing at both ends. Old Nick is grown too familiar – a mealy-faced Mumbo Jumbo would excite more wonder in a ballad or a
masquerade.
My Uncle is gone to xxxxx England. a small
living has become vacant in his own gift & he went to present himself.
I am delighted with historical labour.t Pelaye chapterxxx much however of all this descend to the bottom of the page, – xxxxxx – blessed be the man who invented notewriting! –
The scarcity: – you will doubtless foreknow my opinion as to the main cause, a failing harvest &c are only aiding & abetting circumstances. the enormous war expences pressing upon all parts of the community must inevitably occasion a rise in the price of provisions proportionate to that of every thing else. not that peace can immediately alleviate the evil. tis a gloomy prospect. the funding system seems to have nearly reached its utmost extent – the burden is so heavy upon the poor that their distresses are made the subject of parliamentary discussion. I should hope for a radical remedy if I saw the possibility of one. but relief can hardly be expected – & nothing can be more likely to render a populace turbulent than assistance with whose manner they will always be dissatisfied – & which – instead of to humanity – they will always attribute to fear. I never here see the papers – nor have I any wish. conversation informs me of any important event. I long for peace because the evil of continued war is certain & the good very doubtful. I should also rejoice to hear of a change in ministry, but this is not probable. no middle standard is hoisted.
Lately my health has been comfortable. indeed I like the climate so well that if there were any possible situation here xx <in> which I could settle, there would be very little hesitation about giving up England.
except climate xx Portugal has little to recommend it – & the only person in whose intimate society I could
take pleasureds there must most inevitably be a Boderation here.
But the suicide tale – I had almost forgotten. a Serjeant in our cavalry here was jealous of his wifes attachment to one who held the same rank in the same regiment. this man was in his manners & conduct remarkably good for his situation – the woman a modest & interesting woman. That she was improperly attached is evident from the sequel – but it is not believed that she was otherwise guilty than in admitting this feeling of preference. Her husband however beat her. the other man was so wretched at being the cause of this quarrel that he said he would shoot himself. one night accordingly, after the hour when he ought to have been in the barracks – he went into a little wine-house – a taberna – shot himself & died instantly. At the tidings She came in – in a state of frenzy. she gathered up the blood with both her hands – mingled with the dust – & devoured it greedily, by handfuls. her husband attempted to force her away. she called the Centinel – commanded him to take him into custody for being out at that hour, & threatened to report him to the Colonel unless he did his duty. the fool was afraid – & did so. immediately she ran to a large deep well & threw herself in. a weeks confinement & bread & water were necessary to tame the husband & prevent him from compleating the catastrophe. They did not bring them to Lisbon for Xtian burial – neither did they practise the old brutality of our custom. at low water they dug a grave in the sands – one grave – & the Tagus flows over it.
If you send Lewis’s bookt James Place. Kingsdown. Bristol – he will send it in a parcel. I dread having it by post. the letter
your brother