The Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey
Robert Southey to Thomas Southey, 12 February 1801
“Thursday, Feb. 12. 1801. Lisbon.
“On Tuesday we crossed the river to Casilhas Point,
procured jackasses and proceeded to a place called Costa to dinner. You know
the castle in the mouth of the Tagus, the state prison, where the man is
confined that beat the king. The Costa is a collection of fishermen’s
huts on the sand, in a line with it, on the south side of the river: the ride
is about seven miles, over a hilly country, that everywhere displayed novel and
striking views; for the foreground, huge aloes and the prickly pear, the broom
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| Ætat. 26. | OF ROBERT SOUTHEY. | 127 |
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and furze in blossom,—broad-headed firs every
where where the sandy soil was not cultivated for vines or olives; the sweep of
the bay southward skirted by the pine-covered plains and the mountain boundary;
behind us Lisbon on its heights, and the river blue and boundless as a sea.
Through a cleft in a sand bank, a winter ravine way for the rains, we first saw
the Costa at about half a mile below us,—the most singular view I ever
beheld,—huts all of thatch scattered upon the sand: we descended by a
very steep way cut through the sand hill, the sand on either side fretted by
the weather, like old sculpture long weather worn,—all below belongs to
the sea; but on the bare sands, a numerous tribe have fixed their habitations,
which exactly resemble the wigwams of the Nootka savages,—a wooden frame
all thatched is all; most commonly the floor descends for warmth, and the
window often on a level with the ground without; two only symptoms showed us
that we were in a civilised country,—a church, the only stone building,
and a party stretched upon the sand at cards. The men live by fishing, and a
stronger race I never saw, or more prolific, for children seemed to swarm. As
parties from Lisbon are frequent here, there are two or three hovels of
entertainment. Ours had ragged rhymes upon its walls, recommending us to drink
by the barrel and not by the quart.
“In riding to Odwellas, I saw something curious: it was
a Padrona by the road side,—we have no other word in English, and it
occurs often in romance, for a place raised by the way side,—where a
station or inscription is placed: there was an image of Christ there, ![]()
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and some unaccountable inscriptions about robbery, and
hiding heaven in the earth, which a series of pictures in tiles behind
explained. A hundred years ago, the church of Odwellas was robbed of the church
plate, and of the sacrament. Then I saw the thief playing at skittles when the
sacristan of the church past by, whom he followed in and hid himself; then I
saw him robbing the altar; next, he hides the church dresses in the house of a
woman; and here he is burying the sacrament plate in a vineyard upon this very
spot; here he is examined upon suspicion and denies all, and says who ever did
the sacrilege ought to have his hands cut off; here he is taken in the act of
stealing the fowls of the convent, and he confesses all; here they dig up the
hidden treasure, and carry it back in a solemn procession; here he is going to
execution; here you see his hands cut off according to his own sentence, and
here he is strangled and burnt. It is remarkable that in almost all these
tiles, the face of the criminal is broken to pieces, probably in abhorrence of
his guilt. The loss of the wafer has been ever regarded as a national calamity,
to be lamented with public prayer and fasts and processions. It happened at
Mexico in the Conqueror’s days, and Cortes himself paraded with the monks and the mob.
“Sat March 28.
“In the long interval that has elapsed since this
letter was begun, we have travelled about three hundred and fifty miles.
Waterhouse and I took ![]()
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charge of
Edith and three ladies; a doctor at
Alvea da Cruz, of whom we besought house room one night in distress, told us,
with more truth than politeness, that four women were a mighty inconvenience.
We did not find them so; they made our chocolate in the morning, laughed with
us by day, enjoyed the scenery, packed our provisions basket, and at night
endured flea-biting with a patience that entitles them to an honourable place
in the next martyrology. All Lisbon, I believe, thought us mad when we set out;
and they now regard our return with equal envy, as only our complexions have
suffered. To detail the journey would be too long. We asked at Santarem if they
had rooms for us,—they said plenty: we begged to see them; they had two
rooms,—four men in bed in one, one fellow in bed in the other. At Pombal,
Waterhouse and I slept in public, in a room that
served as a passage for the family. Men and women indiscriminately made the
ladies’ beds; one night we passed through a room wherein eight men were
sleeping, who rose up to look at us, something like a picture of the
resurrection. These facts will enable you to judge of the comforts and
decencies of the Portuguese. They once wanted us, four women and two men, to
sleep in two beds in one room. Yet, bad as these places are, the mail coach has
made them still worse; that is, it has rendered the people less civil, and made
the expenses heavier.
“We crossed the Zezere, a river of importance in the
history of Portugal, as its banks form the great protection of Lisbon; it is
the place where a stand ![]()
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might most effectually be made
against an invading army; the river is fine, about the width of our Avon at
Bownham, and flowing between hills of our Clifton and Leigh height that are
covered with heath and gum-cistus; the water is beautifully clear, and the
bottom sand: like all mountain streams, the Zezere is of irregular and
untameable force. In summer, horsemen ford it; in winter, the ferry price
varies according to the resistance of the current, from one vintem to
nine,—that is, from a penny to a shilling. It then enters the Tagus with
equal waters, sometimes with a larger body; for, as the rains may have fallen
heavier east or north, the one river with its rush almost stagnates the other.
“At Pombal we saw Our Lady’s oven, where annually
a fire is kindled, a wafer baked, and a man, the Shadrach
of the town, walks round the glowing oven and comes out unhurt and unsinged by
special miracle of Our Lady of Cardal. At Thomar is a statue of St.
Christofer on the bridge: three grains of his leg, taken in a
glass of water, are a sovereign cure for the ague; and poor St.
Christofer’s legs are almost worn out by the extent of the
practice. Torres Vedras is the place where Father Anthony of the
wounds died—a man suspected of sanctity. The pious mob
attacked his body, stripped it naked, cut off all his hair, and tore up his
nails to keep for relics. I have seen relics of all the saints,—yea, a
thorn from the crown of crucifixion, and a drop of the Redemption blood. All
this you shall hereafter see at length in the regular journal.
“A more interesting subject is our return. My ![]()
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uncle will, I think, return with us; or,
at least, speedily follow. We look forward to the expulsion of the English as
only avoidable by a general peace, and this so little probable, that all
preparations are making for removal. My uncle is sending away all his books;
and I am now in the dirt of packing. In May, I hope to be in Bristol; eager
enough, God knows, to see old friends and old familiar scenes; but with no
pleasant anticipation of English taxes, and English climate, and small beer,
after this blessed sun, and the wines of Portugal. My health has received all
the benefit I could and did expect: a longer residence would, I think, render
the amendment permanent; and, with this idea, the prospect of a return
hereafter, to complete the latter part of my History, is by no means
unpleasant.
“God bless you and keep you from the north seas. I have
written in haste, being obliged to write many letters on my return. Edith’s love. I know not when or where
we shall meet; but, when I am on English ground, the distance between us will
not be so impassable. Farewell!
Yours truly,
Robert Southey.”
Hernán Cortés (1485-1547)
Spanish conqueror of Mexico (1520), the subject of W. H. Prescott's
History of the Conquest of Mexico (1844).
Herbert Hill (1750-1828)
Educated at St. Mary Hall, and Christ Church, Oxford; he was Chancellor of the Choir of
Hereford Cathedral, chaplain to the English factory at Lisbon (1792-1807) and rector of
Streatham (1810-28). He was Robert Southey's uncle.
Edith Southey [née Fricker] (1774-1837)
The daughter of Stephen Fricker, she was the first wife of Robert Southey and the mother
of his children; they married in secret in 1795.
