The year which I passed at Corston had been a
mournful one for my mother. She lost my
sweet little sister Louisa during that time; and being
after a while persuaded to accompany Miss
Tyler to London, where she had never before been, they were
recalled
| OF ROBERT SOUTHEY. | 59 |
I have so many vivid feelings connected with this house at
Bedminster, that if it had not been in a vile neighbourhood, I believe my heart
would have been set upon purchasing it, and fixing my abode there where the
happiest days of my childhood were spent. My grandfather built it (about the
year 1740, I suppose), and had made it what was then thought a thoroughly
commodious and good house for one in his rank of life. It stood in a lane, some
two or three hundred yards from the great western road. You ascended by several
semicircular steps into what was called the fore court, but was in fact a
flower-garden, with a broad pavement from the gate to the porch. That porch was
in great part lined, as well as covered, with white jessamine; and many a time
have I sat there with my poor sisters, threading the fallen blossoms upon grass
stalks. It opened into a little hall, paved with diamond-shaped flags. On the
right hand was the parlour, which had a brown or black boarded floor, covered
with a Lisbon mat, and a handsome timepiece over the fireplace; on the left was
the best kitchen, in which the family lived. The best kitchen is an apartment
that belongs to other days, and is now no longer to be seen, except in
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| OF ROBERT SOUTHEY. | 61 |
The green room, which was my uncle Edward’s, was over the parlour. Over the hall was a smaller apartment, which had been my grandfather’s office, and still contained his desk and his pigeon-holes: I remember it well, and the large-patterned, dark, flock paper, with its faded ground. The yellow room, over the best kitchen, was the visitor’s chamber; and this my mother occupied whenever she slept there. There was no way to my grandmother’s, the blue room over the kitchen, but through this and an intervening passage, where, on the left, was a storeroom. The blue room had a thorough light, one window looking into the barton, the other into the back court. The squire slept in the garret; his room was on one side, the servants’ on the other: and there was a large open space between, at the top of the stairs, used for lumber and stores.
A door from the hall, opposite to the entrance, opened upon the cellar stairs, to which there was another door from the back court. This was a square, having the house on two sides, the washhouse and brewhouse on the third, and walled on the fourth. A vine covered one side of the house here, and grew round my grandmother’s window, out of which I have often reached the grapes. Here also was the pigeon-house, and the pump, under which the fatal dipping* was performed. The yard or barton was of considerable size; the entrance to it was from the lane, through large folding-gates, with a horse-chest-
* See page 28. |
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An old-fashioned bird’s eye view, half picture, half
plan, would explain all this more intelligibly than my description can do; and
if I possessed the skill, I should delight in tracing one—my memory would
accurately serve. If I have made myself understood, you will perceive that the
back court formed a square with the house. Behind both was a piece of waste
ground, left for the passage of carts from the barton to the orchard, but
considerably wider than was necessary for that purpose. It was neatly kept in
grass, with a good wide path from the court to the kitchen-garden. This was
large, excellently stocked, and kept in admirable order by my uncle
Edward. It was enclosed from the waste ground by a wall about
breast-high, surmounted with white rails till it joined the outhouses. The back
of these was covered with pear and plum trees—the green gages I remember
were remarkably fine of their kind. One
| OF ROBERT SOUTHEY. | 63 |
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It was very seldom indeed, that my grandmother went to
Bristol. I scarcely recollect ever to have seen her there. The extent of her
walks was to church, which she never missed, unless the weather absolutely
confined her to the house. She was not able to attend the evening service also,
on account of the distance; but in the morning she was constant, and always in
good time; for if she were not there before the absolution, she used to say
that she might as well have remained at home. At other times she rarely went
out of her own premises. Neighbours of her own rank there were none within her
reach; her husband’s acquaintance had mostly died off, and she had made
no new ones since his death. Her greatest happiness was to have my mother there
with some of the young fry; and we, on our part, had no pleasure so great as
that of a visit to Bedminster. It was, indeed, for my mother, as well as for
us, an advantage beyond all price to have this quiet country home at so easy a
distance, abounding as it did with all country comforts. Bedminster itself was
an ugly, dirty, poor, populous village, many of the inhabitants being colliers.
But the coal pits were in a different part of the parish, and the house was at
a sufficient distance from all annoyances. If there was no beauty of situation,
there was complete retirement, and perfect comfort. The view was merely to a
field and cottage on the other side the lane, on a
| OF ROBERT SOUTHEY. | 65 |
My chief amusement was in the garden, where I found endless entertainment in the flowers and in observing insects. I had little propensity to any boyish sports, and less expertness in them. My uncles Edward and William used to reproach me with this sometimes, saying they never saw such a boy. One schoolboy’s art, however, they taught me, which I have never read of, nor seen practised elsewhere; it was that of converting a marble into a black witch, and thereby making it lucky. You know that if a marble be put in the fire, it makes a good detonating ball. I have sacrificed many a one so, to frighten the cook. But if the marble be wrapt up in brown paper (perhaps any paper may answer the purpose as well) with some suet or dripping round about it, it will not explode while the fat is burning, and when you take it out of the grate it is as black as jet.
But if I was unapt at ordinary sports, a botanist or
entomologist would have found me a willing pupil in those years; and if I had
fallen in with one, I might perhaps, at this very day, have been classifying
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| OF ROBERT SOUTHEY. | 67 |
There are three flowers which, to this day, always remind me of Bedminster. The Syringa or Roman Jessamine, which covered an arbour in the fore court, and another at the bottom of the kitchen-garden; the everlasting pea, which grew most luxuriantly under the best kitchen windows; and the evening primrose: my grandmother loved to watch the opening of this singularly delicate flower—a flower, indeed, which in purity and delicacy seems to me to exceed all others. She called it mortality, because these beauties pass away so soon, and because in the briefness of its continuance (living only for a night) it reminded her of human life.
The house was sold after her death, as soon as a purchaser
could be found, there being no longer the means for supporting it. The
reversion of her jointure had long ago been sold by John
Tyler. The house was Edward’s
property, he having bought it when he came of age. Her loss was deeply felt by
him and the poor Squire: and indeed it was fatal to their happiness; for happy
hitherto they had been, according to their own sense of enjoyment. In losing
her they lost everything. The Squire was sent to board in a village on the
coast of the Bristol Channel, called Worle; and Edward
Tyler, who was very capable of business, took a clerk’s
place in Bristol, But their stay was gone; and eventually, I have
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I went to look at the place, some twenty years ago; it was a good deal altered—bow windows had been thrown out in the front, and a gazebo erected in the roof. After viewing about the front as much as I could without being noticed and deemed impertinent, I made my way round into the fields, and saw that the drawbridge was still in existence. I have seen the gazebo since, from the window of a stage coach; and this is probably the last view I shall ever have of a place so dear to me. Even the recollections of it will soon be confined to my own breast; for my uncle and my aunt Mary are now the only living persons who partake them.
