The Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey
Robert Southey, “Memoir: Miss Tyler,” 17 July 1824
July 17th, 1824.
Few boys were ever less qualified for the discipline
of a public school than I was, when it was determined to place me at
Westminster; for if my school education had been ill-conducted, the life which
I led with Miss Tyler tended in every
respect still more to un-![]()
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fit me for the new scenes, the new
world almost it might be called, on which I was about to enter.
When my aunt settled at Bristol, she brought with her a
proud contempt for Bristol society. In fact, she had scarcely any acquaintance
there, and seldom saw any company, except when some of her Bath friends came to
Clifton for the summer; or when the players took up their abode in the city,
for then Mr. Dimond used to visit her.
He was a most gentlemanly and respectable man, as well as a good actor. Great
is the delight which I have had in seeing him perform, and hardly less was that
which I have felt in listening to his conversation. The days when he dined with
us were almost our only gala days. At such times, and when she went out,
Miss Tyler’s appearance and manners were those
of a woman who had been bred in the best society and was equal to it; but if
any stranger or visitor had caught her in her ordinary apparel, she would have
been as much confused as Diana when
Actæon came upon her bathing-place, and
almost with as much reason, for she was always in a bed-gown and in rags. Most
people, I suspect, have a weakness for old shoes; ease and comfort and
one’s own fireside are connected with them; in fact, we never feel any
regard for shoes till they attain to the privileges of age, and then they
become almost as much a part of the wearer as his corns. This sort of feeling
my aunt extended to old clothes of every kind; the older and the raggeder they
grew, the more unwilling she was to cast them off. But she was scrupulously
clean in them; indeed, the principle upon which her whole household economy ![]()
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was directed was that of keeping the house clean, and
taking more precautions against dust than would have been needful against the
plague in an infected city. She laboured under a perpetual dusto-phobia, and a comical disease it was; but whether I have been
most amused~or annoyed by it, it would be difficult to say. I had, however, in
its consequences an early lesson how fearfully the mind may be enslaved by
indulging its own peculiarities and whimsies, innocent as they may appear at
first.
The discomfort which Miss
Tyler’s passion for cleanliness produced to herself, as
well as to her little household, was truly curious: to herself, indeed, it was
a perpetual torment; to the two servants a perpetual vexation, and so it would
have been to me if nature had not blest me with an innate hilarity of spirit
which nothing but real affliction can overcome. That the better rooms might be
kept clean, she took possession of the kitchen, sending the servants to one
which was underground; and in this little, dark, confined place, with a rough
stone floor, and a skylight (for it must not be supposed that it was a best
kitchen, which was always, as it was intended to be, a comfortable
sitting-room; this was more like a scullery), we always took our meals, and
generally lived. The best room was never opened but for company; except now and
then on a fine day to be aired and dusted, if dust could be detected there. In
the other parlour, I was allowed sometimes to read, and she wrote her letters,
for she had many correspondents; and we sat there sometimes in summer, when a
fire was not needed, for fire produced ![]()
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ashes, and ashes
occasioned dust, and dust, visible or invisible, was the plague of her life. I
have seen her order the teakettle to be emptied and refilled, because some one
had passed across the hearth while it was on the fire preparing for her
breakfast. She had indulged these humours till she had formed for herself
notions of uncleanness almost as irrational and inconvenient as those of the
Hindoos. She had a cup once buried for six weeks, to purify it from the lips of
one whom she accounted unclean; all who were not her favourites were included
in that class. A chair in which an unclean person had sat was put out in the
garden to be aired; and I never saw her more annoyed than on one occasion when
a man, who called upon business, seated himself in her own chair: how the
cushion was ever again to be rendered fit for her use, she knew not! On such
occasions, her fine features assumed a character either fierce or tragic; her
expressions were vehement even to irreverence; and her gesticulations those of
the deepest and wildest distress,—hands and eyes uplifted, as if she was
in hopeless misery, or in a paroxysm of mental anguish.
As there are none who like to be upon ill terms with
themselves, most people find out some device whereby they may be reconciled to
their own faults; and in this propensity it is that much of the irreligion in
the world, and much of its false philosophy, have originated. My aunt used
frequently to say that all good-natured people were fools. Hers was a violent
temper, rather than an ill one; there was a great deal of kindness in it,
though it was under no ![]()
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restraint. She was at once
tyrannical and indulgent to her servants, and they usually remained a long
while in her service, partly I believe from fear, and partly from liking: from
liking, because she sent them often to the play (which is probably to persons
in that condition, as it is to children, the most delightful of all
amusements), and because she conversed with them much more than is usual for
any one in her rank of life. Her habits were so peculiar, that the servants
became in a certain degree her confidants; she therefore was afraid to change
them and they even, when they wished to leave her, were afraid to express the
wish, knowing that she would regard it as a grievous offence, and dreading the
storm of anger which it would bring down. Two servants in my remembrance left
her for the sake of marrying; and, although they had both lived with her many
years, she never forgave either, nor ever spoke of them without some expression
of bitterness. I believe no daughter was ever more afraid of disclosing a
clandestine marriage to a severe parent, than both these women were of making
their intention known to their mistress, such was the ascendancy that she
possessed over them. She had reconciled herself to the indulgence of her
ungoverned anger, by supposing that a bad temper was naturally connected with a
good understanding and a commanding mind.
Besides her servants, there were two persons over whom she
had acquired the most absolute control. Miss Palmer was
the one: a more complete example cannot be imagined of that magic which a
strong ![]()
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mind exercises over a weak one. The influence which
she possessed over my mother was equally unbounded and more continual, but
otherwise to be explained: it was the ascendancy of a determined and violent
spirit over a gentle and yielding one. There was a difference of twelve years
between their ages, and the authority which Miss
Tyler had first exerted as an elder sister she never relaxed. My
mother was one of those few persons
(for a few such there are) who think too humbly of themselves. Her only fault
(I verily believe she had no other), was that of yielding submissively to this
imperious sister, to the sacrifice of her own inclination and judgment and
sense of what was right. She had grown up in awe and admiration of her, as one
who moved in a superior rank, and who, with the advantage of a fine form and
beautiful person, possessed that also of a superior and cultivated
understanding: withal, she loved her with a true sisterly affection which
nothing could diminish, clearly as she saw her faults, and severely as at last
she suffered by them. But never did I know one person so entirely subjected by
another, and never have I regretted anything more deeply than that subjection,
which most certainly in its consequences shortened her life. If my mother had
not been disfigured by the smallpox, the two sisters would have strikingly
resembled each other, except in complexion, my mother being remarkably fair.
The expression, however, of the two countenances, was as opposite as the
features were alike, and the difference in disposition was not less marked.
Take her for all in all, I do not ![]()
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believe that any human
being ever brought into the world, and carried through it, a larger portion of
original goodness than my dear mother. Every one who knew her loved her, for
she seemed made to be happy herself, and to make every one happy within her
little sphere. Her understanding was as good as her heart: it is from her I
have inherited that alertness of mind, and quickness of apprehension, without
which it would have been impossible for me to have undertaken half of what I
have performed. God never blessed a human creature with a more cheerful
disposition, a more generous spirit, a sweeter temper, or a tenderer heart. I
remember that when first I understood what death was, and began to think of it,
the most fearful thought it induced was that of losing my mother; it seemed to
me more than I could bear, and I used to hope that I might die before her.
Nature is merciful to us. We learn gradually that we are to die,—a
knowledge which, if it came suddenly upon us in riper age, would be more than
the mind could endure. We are gradually prepared for our departure by seeing
the objects of our earliest and deepest affections go before us; and even if no
keener afflictions are dispensed to wean us from this world, and remove our
tenderest thoughts and dearest hopes to another, mere age brings with it a
weariness of life, and death becomes to the old as natural and desirable as
sleep to a tired child.
My father’s house being within ten minutes’
walk of Terril Street (or rather run, for I usually galloped along the
bye-ways), few days passed on which I did not look in there. Miss Tyler never entered the ![]()
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door, because there was an enmity between her and
Thomas Southey. She had given just
occasion to it. They hated each other cordially now, and took no pains to
conceal it. My visits at home, therefore, were short, and I was seldom allowed
to dine or pass the evening there. My brother Tom was at
school; the difference of age between us made us at that time not very suitable
companions when we were together. There was not a single boy of my own age, or
near it, in any of the few families with whom either my mother or aunt were
acquainted; and my only friend and companion was my aunt’s servant boy,
Shadrach Weeks, her maid’s
brother. Shad, as we called him, was just my own age, and
had been taken into her service soon after she settled in Bristol. He was a
good-natured, active, handy lad, and became very much attached to me, and I to
him. At this hour, if he be living, and were to meet me, I am sure he would
greet me with a hearty shake by the hand; and, be it where it might, I should
return the salutation. We used to work together in the garden, play trap in the
fields, make kites and fly them, try our hands at carpentry, and, which was the
greatest of all indulgences, go into the country to bring home primrose,
violet, and cowslip roots; and sometimes to St. Vincent’s Rocks, or
rather the heights about a mile and a half farther down the river, to search
for the bee and fly orchis. Some book had taught me that these rare flowers
were to be found there; and I sought for them year after year with such
persevering industry, for the unworthy purpose of keeping them in pots at home,
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(where they uniformly pined and died,) that I am
afraid botanists who came after me may have looked for them there in vain.
Perhaps I have never had a keener enjoyment of natural scenery than when
roaming about the rocks and woods on the side of the won with
Shad and our poor spaniel Phillis. Indeed, there are few scenes in the island finer of their
kind; and no other where merchant vessels of the largest size may be seen
sailing between such rocks and woods—the shores being upon a scale of
sufficient magnitude to supply all that the picturesque requires, and not upon
so large a one as to make the ships appear comparatively insignificant.
Had it not been for this companion, there would have been
nothing to counteract the effeminating and debilitating tendency of the habits
to which my aunt’s peculiarities subjected me. Pricking playbills had
been the pastime which she encouraged as long as I could be prevailed on to
pursue it; and afterwards she encouraged me to cut paper into fantastic
patterns. But I learnt a better use of my hands in Shad’s company; and we became such proficients in
carpentry, that, before I went to Westminster, we set about the enterprise of
making and fitting up a theatre for puppets. This was an arduous and elaborate
work, of which I shall have more to say hereafter, as our design extended with
our progress. At this time, little more had been done than to finish the body
of the theatre, where there were pit, boxes, and gallery, and an ornamented
ceiling, which, when it was put on, made the whole look on the outside like a
box of unaccountable form. The spec-![]()
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tator was to look
through a glass behind the gallery, which was intended to have been a
magnifier, till, to our great disappointment, we were assured at the
optician’s that no single magnifier could produce any effect at the
distance which this was required to act. The scenery and stage contrivances I
shall speak of in due time; for this was an undertaking which called forth all
our ingenuity, and continued for several years to occupy me during the
holydays.
Before I went to Westminster, my brother Henry had been taken into Miss Tyler’s household, when he was
about five years old. In 1787 a daughter was born, and christened
Margaretta. I remember her as well as it is possible
to remember an infant; that is, without any fixed and discriminating
remembrance. She was a beautiful creature, and I was old enough to feel the
greatest solicitude for her recovery, when I set off for London early in the
spring of 1788. A thoughtless nursemaid had taken her out one day to the most
exposed situation within reach, what is called the Sea Banks, and kept her
there unusually long while a severe east wind was blowing. From that hour she
drooped; cough and consumption came on. I left her miserably and hopelessly
ill, and never saw her more. This was the first death that I had ever
apprehended and dreaded, and it affected me deeply.
William Wyatt Dimond (1750 c.-1812)
English actor who for thirty years performed in leading roles at Bath. His son, also
William Dimond, was a playwright.
Henry Herbert Southey (1783-1865)
The younger brother of Robert Southey; educated at Edinburgh University, he was physician
to George IV, Gresham Professor of Medicine, and friend of Sir Walter Scott.
Margaret Southey [née Hill] (1752-1802)
The daughter of Edward Hill, she married the elder Robert Southey in 1772; after the
death of her husband in 1792 she operated a boarding house in Bath.
Thomas Southey (1777-1838)
The younger brother of Robert Southey; he was a naval captain (1811) and afterwards a
Customs officer. He published
A Chronological History of the West
Indies (1828).
Elizabeth Tyler (1739-1821)
Robert Southey's aunt, his mother's elder half-sister, with whom he spent much time as a
child.
Shadrach Weeks (1774 c.-1795 fl.)
The boyhood friend of Robert Southey; he was the servant of Southey's Aunt Tyler,
afterwards recruited for the Pantisocracy project.
