I cannot express to you how deep and painful an interest I take in the history of this man. My brother Tom, an officer in the same ship, loved him; and well he might, for poor Bligh was a man, who, out of his midshipman's pay, allowed his wife and children thirteen pounds a year.

He wished to be made master's mate, that he might make the sum twenty pounds, and then he said they would be happy. He was a man about thirty-five years of age; an unlettered man, of strong natural powers, and of a heart, of which a purer, and a better, never lived. I could tell you anecdotes of him that would make your eyes overflow, like mine.

Surely, Cottle, there will be no difficulty in sending his poor wife some little sum. Five guineas would be much to her. We will give one, and I will lay friends in London under contribution. G.o.d bless you.

Yours truly,

Robert Southey."

"Hereford, 1798.

My dear Cottle,

My time here has been completely occupied in riding about the country. I have contrived to manufacture one eclogue, and that is all; but the exercise of riding has jostled a good many ideas into my brain, and I have plans enough for long leisure. You know my tale of the 'Adite' in the garden of Irem. I have tacked it on to an old plan of mine upon the destruction of the Domdanyel, and made the beginning, middle, and end.

There is a tolerable skeleton formed. It will extend to ten or twelve books, and they appear to me to possess much strong conception in the Arabian manner. It will at least prove that I did not reject machinery in my Epics, because I could not wield it. This only forms part of a magnificent project, which I do not despair of one day completing, in the destruction of the 'Domdanyel.' My intention is, to show off all the splendor of the Mohammedan belief. I intend to do the same to the Runic, and Oriental systems; to preserve the costume of place as well as of religion.

I have been thinking that though we have been disappointed of our Welsh journey, a very delightful pilgrimage is still within our reach. Suppose you were to meet me at Boss. We go thence down the Wye to Monmouth. On the way are Goodrich castle, the place where Henry V. was nursed; and Arthur's cavern. Then there is Ragland Castle somewhere thereabout, and we might look again at Tintern. I should like this much. The Welsh mail from Bristol, comes every day through Boss; we can meet there. Let me hear from you, and then I will fix the day, and we will see the rocks and woods in all their beauty. G.o.d bless you.

Yours affectionately,

Robert Southey."

"Exeter, Sept. 22, 1799.

My dear Cottle,

... You will, I hope, soon have a cargo to send me of your own, for the second volume of the 'Anthology' and some from Davy. If poor Mrs.

Yearsley were living I should like much to have her name there. As yet I have only Coleridge's pieces, and my own, amounting to eighty or one hundred pages. 'Thalaba, the Destroyer' is progressing.

There is a poem called 'Geber' of which I know not whether my review of it, in the Critical' be yet printed, but in that review you will find some of the most exquisite poetry in the language. The poem is such as Gilbert, if he were only half as mad as he is, could have written. I would go a hundred miles to see the (anonymous) author.[59]

There are some worthies in Exeter, with whom I have pa.s.sed some pleasant days, but the place is miserably bigoted. Would you believe that there are persons here who still call the Americans 'the Rebels' Exeter is the filthiest town in England; a gutter running down the middle of every street and lane. We leave on Monday week. I shall rejoice to breathe fresh air. Exeter, however, has the best collection of old books for sale, of any town out of London.[60]

I have lately made up my mind to undertake one great historical work, the 'History of Portugal,' but for this, and for many other n.o.ble plans, I want uninterrupted leisure; time wholly my own, and not frittered away by little periodical employments. My working at such work is Columbus serving before the mast. G.o.d bless you.

Yours affectionately,

Robert Southey."

"Falmouth, 1800.

My dear Cottle,

Our journey here was safe, but not without accidents. We found the packet, by which we were to sail, detained by the wind, and we are watching it with daily anxiety.[61]

A voyage is a serious thing, and particularly an outward-bound voyage.

The hope of departure is never an exhilarating hope. Inns are always comfortless, and the wet weather that detains us at Falmouth, imprisons us. Dirt, noise, restlessness, expectation, impatience,--fine cordials for the spirits!

Devonshire is an ugly county. I have no patience with the cant of travellers, who so bepraise it. They have surely slept all the way through Somersetshire. Its rivers are beautiful, very beautiful, but nothing else. High hills, all angled over with hedges, and no trees. Wide views, and no object. I have heard a good story of our friend, Charles Fox. When his house, at this place, was on fire, he found all effort to save it useless, and being a good draughtsman, he went up the next hill to make a drawing of the fire! the best instance of philosophy I ever heard.

I have received letters from Rickman and Coleridge. Coleridge talks of flaying Sir Herbert Croft. This may not be amiss. G.o.d bless you. I shake you mentally by the hand, and when we shake hands bodily, trust that you will find me a repaired animal, with a head fuller of knowledge, and a trunk full of ma.n.u.scripts. Tell Davy this Cornwall is such a vile county, that nothing but its merit, as his birth-place, redeems it from utter execration. I have found in it nothing but rogues, restive horses, and wet weather; and neither Pilchards, White-ale, or Squab-pie, were to be obtained! Last night I dreamt that Davy had killed himself by an explosion. Once more, G.o.d bless you.

Yours affectionately,

Robert Southey.

Mr. Southey, in this second visit to Lisbon, sent me the following poetical letter, which, for ease, vivacity, and vigorous description, stands at the head of that cla.s.s of compositions. A friendly vessel, mistaken for a French privateer, adds to the interest. In one part, the poet conspicuously bursts forth.

"Lisbon, May 9th, 1800.

Dear Cottle, d'ye see, In writing to thee, I do it in rhyme, That I may save time, Determin'd to say, Without any delay, Whatever comes first, Whether best or worst.

Alack for me!

When I was at sea, For I lay like a log, As sick as a dog, And whoever this readeth, Will pity poor Edith: Indeed it was shocking, The vessel fast rocking, The timbers all creaking, And when we were speaking, It was to deplore That we were not on sh.o.r.e, And to vow we would never go voyaging more.

The fear of our fighting, Did put her a fright in, And I had alarms For my legs and my arms.

When the matches were smoking, I thought 'twas no joking, And though honour and glory And fame were before me, 'Twas a great satisfaction, That we had not an action, And I felt somewhat bolder, When I knew that my head might remain on my shoulder.

But O! 'twas a pleasure, Exceeding all measure, On the deck to stand, And look at the land; And when I got there, I vow and declare, The pleasure was even Like getting to heaven!

I could eat and drink, As you may think; I could sleep at ease, Except for the fleas, But still the sea-feeling,-- The drunken reeling, Did not go away For more than a day: Like a cradle, the bed Seemed to rock my head, And the room and the town, Went up and down.

My Edith here, Thinks all things queer, And some things she likes well; But then the street She thinks not neat, And does not like the smell.

Nor do the fleas Her fancy please Although the fleas like her; They at first vie w Fell merrily too, For they made no demur.

But, O, the sight!

The great delight!

From this my window, west!

This view so fine, This scene divine!

The joy that I love best!

The Tagus here, So broad and clear, Blue, in the clear blue noon-- And it lies light, All silver white, Under the silver moon!

Adieu, adieu, Farewell to you, Farewell, my friend so dear, Write when you may, I need not say, How gladly we shall hear.

I leave off rhyme, And so next time, Prose writing you shall see; But in rhyme or prose, Dear Joseph knows The same old friend in me,

Robert Southey."

[Ill.u.s.tration: Portrait of Robert Southey, Esq. Poet Laurate.]

"Portugal, Cintra, July, 1800.

My dear Cottle,

I write at a five minutes' notice. The unforeseen and unlucky departure of my only friend gives me occasion for this letter, and opportunity to send it. It is Miss Barker Congreve. She is a woman of uncommon talents, with whom we have been wandering over these magnificent mountains, till she made the greatest enjoyment of the place. I feel a heavier depression of spirits at losing her than I have known since Tom left me at Liskard.