Authors, English -- 19th century -- Biography; Southey, Robert, 1774-1843
At the age of forty-six Robert Southey wrote the first of a series
of autobiographic sketches; his spirit was courageous, and life had
been good to him; but it needed more than his courage to live again
in remembrance with so many of the dead; having told the story of his
boyhood, he had not the heart to go farther. The autobiography rambles
pleasantly into by-ways of old Bath and Bristol life; at Westminster
School it leaves him. So far we shall go along with it; for what lies
beyond, a record of Southey’s career must be brought together from a
multitude of letters, published or still remaining in manuscript, and
from many and massy volumes in prose and verse, which show how the
industrious hours sped by.
Southey’s father was a linen-draper of Bristol. He had left his native
fields under the Quantock hills to take service in a London shop, but
his heart suffered in its exile. The tears were in his eyes one day when
a porter went by carrying a hare, and the remembrance suddenly came to
him of his rural sports. On his master’s death he took a place behind
the counter of Britton’s shop in Wine Street, Bristol; and when, twelve
years later, he opened a shop for himself in the same business, he had,
with tender reminiscence, a hare painted for a device upon his windows.
He kept his grandfather’s sword which had been borne in Monmouth’s
rebellion; he loved the chimes and quarter-boys of Christ Church,
Bristol, and tried, as church-warden, to preserve them. What else of
poetry there may have been in the life of Robert Southey the elder is
lost among the buried epics of prosaic lives. We cannot suppose that as a
man of business he was sharp and shrewd; he certainly was not successful.
When the draper’s work was done, he whiled away the hours over Felix
Farley’s Bristol Journal, his only reading. For library some score
of books shared with his wine-glasses the small cupboard in the back
parlour; its chief treasures were the _Spectator_, the _Guardian_, some
eighteenth-century poems, dead even then, and one or two immortal plays.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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