Lippincott's Magazine of Popular Literature and Science, Volume 22. July, 1878.Various
History
Lippincott's Magazine of Popular Literature and Science, Volume 22. July, 1878.
Various
Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals; Science -- Periodicals
Southey was born in Bristol, at No. 9 Wine street, now the sign of the
Golden Key. His father, a draper, carried on his business under the sign
of a hare: although all his life a shopkeeper, he had been brought up in
the country, and was passionately fond of country sports. He related of
his first experience of city life in London that, happening to look out
at the shop-door just as a porter was passing with a hare in his hands,
it brought the country so vividly before him that he burst into tears,
and the impression was so lasting that years after, when opening a shop
in Bristol, he took the hare for a sign, having it painted on a pane in
the window on each side of the door and printed on the shop-bills. Of
Robert Southey's recollections of Bristol there is his own very charming
account in the first volume of his _Life_ by his son.
We return to Pope's letter to Mrs. Martha Blount for his description of
Clifton: "Passing still along by the river, you come to a rocky way on
one side, overlooking green hills on the other: on that rocky way rise
several white houses, and over them red rocks; and as you go farther
more rocks above rocks, mixed with green bushes, and of different
colored stone. This, at a mile's end, terminates in the house of the Hot
Well, whereabouts lie several pretty lodging-houses, open to the river
with walks of trees. When you have seen the hills seem to shut upon you
and to stop any farther way, you go into the house, and looking out at
the back door, a vast rock of an hundred feet high, of red, white,
green, blue and yellowish marbles, all blotched and variegated, strikes
you quite in the face; and, turning on the left, there opens the river
at a vast depth below, winding in and out, and accompanied on both sides
with a continued range of rocks up to the clouds, of an hundred colors,
one behind another, and so to the end of the prospect, quite to the sea.
But the sea nor the Severn you do not see: the rocks and river fill the
eye, and terminate the view much like the broken scenes behind one
another in a play-house.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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