"My father," says the son, "continued to reside in Bristol until the close of the year 1796, chiefly employed in working up the contents of his foreign note-books into _Letters from Spain and Portugal_, which were published in one volume early in the following year. This task completed, he determined to take up his residence in London, and fairly to commence the study of the law, which he was now enabled to do through the true friendship of Mr C. W. W. Wynn, from whom he received, for some years from this time, an annuity of L.160--the prompt fulfilment of a promise made during their years of college intimacy. This was indeed one of those acts of rare friendship--twice honourable--'to him that gives and him that takes it;' bestowed with pleasure, received without any painful feelings, and often reverted to as the staff and stay of those years when otherwise he must have felt to the full all the manifold evils of being, as he himself expressed it, 'cut adrift upon the ocean of life.'" He was fairly to commence the study of the law, but he had not the least idea of renouncing his poetical and other literary labours. If the passion of authorship had been felt by Southey only in a slight degree--if it had been _a little book_ he wanted to write, just to "exhale his soul," and then to sober business--this scheme would have been rational enough; but authorship, with its love of fame, had become the master passion of his mind--his second nature. Of "little books" Southey never thought--all his designs were vast, and they were innumerable. His whole life was already pledged. He was then upon _Madoc_, with _Thalaba_ looming in the horizon. He is writing to his friend Bedford, just before he proceeds to London to commence the study of the law; and only note the sort of _impedimenta_ he carries up with him, and the very auspicious temper in which he enters on the campaign. "I want to write my tragedies of 'The Banditti.' Of 'Sebastian.' Of 'Iñez de Castro.' Of 'The Revenge of Pedro.' My Epic poem, in twenty books, of 'Madoc.' My novel, in three volumes, of 'Edmund Oliver.' My romance of 'Ancient History of Alcas.' My Norwegian tale of '---- Harfagne.' My Oriental poem of 'The destruction of the Dom Daniel.' And, in case I adopt Rousseau's system, my '---- Pains of Imagination.' There, Grosvenor, all these I want to write.... The law will neither amuse me, nor ameliorate me, nor instruct me; but the moment it gives me a comfortable independence--and I have but few wants--then farewell to London. I will get me some little house near the sea, and near a country town, for the sake of the post and the bookseller.... And perhaps, Grosvenor, the first Christmas-day you pass with me after I am so settled, we may make a Christmas fire of all my law-books. Amen, so be it."