"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. God 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 manuscripts. 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, God 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 class 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 shore,
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,