In a previous letter Mr. Southey had said in a contemplative mood,
"... Little progress is made in my 'Life of George Fox' but considerable
preparation. This, and some sketches of Monastic history, will probably
complete the ecclesiastical portion of my labours. Alas! I have
undertaken more than there is any reasonable likelihood of completing. My
head will soon be white, and I feel a disposition to take more thought
for the morrow than I was wont to do; not as if distrusting providence,
which has hitherto supported me, _but my own powers of exertion!_"
I pass over the intervening period between this, and my old friend's
mental affliction, as more properly belonging to Mr. Southey's regular
biographer, but this much I may observe.
Having heard, with the deepest concern, that Mr. Southey's mind was
affected, I addressed a kind letter to him, to inquire after his health,
and requested only one line from him, to relieve my anxiety, if only the
signing of his name. I received a letter in reply, from his kindest
friend, of which the following is an extract.
"... With deep and affectionate interest he read and re-read your letter,
and many times in the course of the evening he received it I observed
tears in his eyes. 'I will write to Cottle,' he has often repeated since,
but alas! the purpose remains unfulfilled, and from me, dear sir, you
must receive the explanation of his silence...."
On communicating this melancholy intelligence to my old and valued
friend, Mr. Foster, he thus replied.
"My dear sir,
I am obliged for your kind note, and the letter, which I here return. I
can well believe that you must feel it a mournful communication. A friend
in early life: a friend ever since; a man highly, and in considerable
part, meritoriously conspicuous in the literature of the age; and now at
length prostrated, and on the borders of the grave; for there can be no
doubt the bodily catastrophe will soon follow the mental one. It is a
most wonderful career that he has run in literary achievement, and it is
striking to see such a man disabled at last, even to write a letter to an
old friend! It is interesting to myself, as it must be to every one
accustomed to contemplate the labours and productions of mind, to see
such a spirit finally resigning its favourite occupations, and retiring
from its fame!..."
Mr. Foster, referring to the death of his friends, thus afterwards wrote.
"Stapleton, June 22, 1842.
My dear sir,
... How our old circle is narrowing around us. Going back just three
years and a-half, I was recounting yesterday eleven persons departed
within that space of time; three-fourths of those who had formed, till
then, the list of my old friends and acquaintance, leaving just a few,
how few, of those who are my coevals, or approaching to that standard.
You are within one, and he at a great distance, whom I may never see
again, the oldest in both senses, of the almost solitary remainder. Our
day is not far off. Oh, may we be prepared to welcome its arrival...."
The following is an extract from another letter of Mr. Foster's
containing the same train of thought.
"My dear sir,
... My thoughts are often pensively turning on the enumeration of those I
may call my coevals; and many of them of long acquaintance who have been
called away within these few years. An old, and much valued friend at
Worcester, Mr. Stokes, from whose funeral I returned little more than in
time to attend that of our estimable friend, your brother-in-law, Mr.
Hare; since then, your excellent sister Mary. Mr. Coles, of Bourton,
known and esteemed almost forty years. Mr. Addington. Lately in Scotland,
the worthy Mr. Dove; and now last of all, so unexpectedly, Mr. Roberts. I
dined with him at Mr. Wade's, perhaps not more than ten days before his
death....
With friendly regards, I remain, my dear sir,
Most truly yours,