“So, Bedford, begins the year that will terminate our correspondence. I mean to spend one summer in North Wales, studying the country for Madoc, and do not intend writing to you then, because you shall be with me. And for all the rest of the days I look on to clearly, the view is bounded by the smoke of London. Methinks, like Camoens, I could dub it Babylon, and write lamentations for the ‘Sion’ of my birth-place, having, like him, no reason to regret the past, except that it is not the present; it is the country I want. A field thistle is to me worth all the flowers of Covent Garden.
“However, Bedford, happiness is a flower that will blossom anywhere; and I expect to be happy, even in London. You know who is to watch at my gate; and if he will let in any of your club, well and good.
“Time and experience seem to have assimilated us: we
think equally ill of mankind, and from the complexion of your last letters, I
believe you think as badly as I do of their rulers. I fancy you are mounted
above the freezing point of aristocracy, to the temperate degree where I have
fallen. . . . . Methinks, Grosvenor, the
last two years have made me the
| 300 | LIFE AND CORRESPONDENCE | Ætat. 23. |
“I have this day finished my Letters, and now my time is my own,—my ‘race is run;’ and perhaps the next book of mine which makes its appearance will be my ‘posthumous works!’. . . . I must be on the Surrey side of the water; this will suit me and please you. I am familiar with the names of your club,—shall I ever be so with themselves? Naturally of a reserved disposition, there was a considerable period of my life in which high spirits, quick feelings, and principles enthusiastically imbibed, made me talkative;—experience has taught me wisdom, and I am again as silent, as self-centering as in early youth.
“After the nine hours’ law study, I shall have a precious fragment of the day at my own disposal; now, Grosvenor, I must be a miser of time, for I am just as sleepy a fellow as you remember me at Brixton. You see I am not collected enough to write,—this plaguy cough interrupts me, and shakes all the ideas in my brain out of their places.
“A long interval, Grosvenor, and it has not been employed agreeably. I have been
taken ill at Bristol. . . . . I was afraid of a fever. . . . . a giddiness of
head, which accompanied the seizure, rendered me utterly unfit for anything. I
was well nurst, and am well. . . . . When I get to London I have some
comfortable plans; but much depends on the likeability of your new friends: you
say you have en-
| Ætat. 23. | OF ROBERT SOUTHEY. | 301 |
“I have sketched out a tragedy on the martyrdom of Joan of Arc, which is capable of making a good closet drama. My ideas of tragedy differ from those generally followed; there is seldom nature enough in the dialogue. Even Shakespeare gets upon the stilts sometimes; the dramatist ought rather to display a knowledge of the workings of the human heart than his own imagination; high strained metaphor can rarely be introduced with propriety—similes never.—Do you think I shall strip tragedy of all its ornaments? this, time must discover. Yet look on the dramatic parts of Joan of Arc; they are the best;—the dialogue is impassioned, but it is natural. John Doe and Richard Roe must, however, form the chief personages in the last act of my life. Grosvenor, will it be a tragedy or a comedy? However, I will not now think of the catastrophe, but rather look on to the pleasant scenes when we shall meet. Fare you well. . . . .
