Meantime the veteran philosopher and historian, deriving little or no benefit from his visit to Bath, returned to die under his own roof. His decline was gradual; and, to the last, his most ultimate associates could not observe any diminution of gayety. He talked familiarly with them during their calls, and alluded to his approaching dissolution in a tone of whose levity even Dr. Smith, his most ardent admirer, could not approve. Whatever twinges of doubt or dread in regard to the future he might in his last hours experience, were encountered and borne with the semblance of indifference and tranquillity. He could not, indeed, feel the blessedness of those who have fought a good fight and kept the faith; nor could he, like Addison, exclaim with hopeful and serene resignation, “You see how a Christian can die:” but, five days before his last, he wrote, “I see death approaching gradually without anxiety or regret.” On the 25th of August, 1776, he breathed his last; and was buried in a cemetery on the Calton Hill, where a monument to his memory has since been erected.
[ROBERT SOUTHEY.]
Among “the laborers of literature” Southey was eminently distinguished by skill, regularity, perseverance, and other qualities hardly less essential to continuous and satisfactory success in his profession. Few men have practiced more resolute industry, or exhibited the literary character in a more estimable light; and his example, in this respect, is peculiarly worthy of being presented to the attention of aspiring and intellectual youths.
He was descended from a sturdy race of yeomen, who had been settled for a considerable period in the county of Somerset. He would, it seems, have liked well to believe that his ancestors had fought beneath the cross in Palestine; but was fain to content himself with ascertaining the less gratifying fact that one of them had risen in rebellion with the reputed son of “the merry monarch,” and narrowly escaped the fangs of such law as was administered by the ruthless and unsparing chief-justice of the last popish sovereign of England. It happened that, during the last century, a kinsman of the family being engaged in trade as a grocer in the city of London, Southey’s father was sent to try his fortune in the metropolis; his relations, in all likelihood, regaling their fancies with the agreeable delusion that he would in good time, and by some easy but mysterious process, attain the wealth and dignity of a Whittington. The young apprentice, however, was naturally, to a great extent, disqualified for pursuing his occupation with success, being by birth and training excessively fond of rural affairs and field sports. The sight of a dead hare carried along the street brought tears to his eyes, and the mention of a greyhound made his heart sick. Many a time, no doubt, did he sigh with heaviness for the green pastures, running streams, and shady orchards of his native shire, as he pensively took down his master’s shutters, and prepared to drag himself through the care, toil, and uncongenial duties, which were brought by each successive day in endless round. While thus occupied, the Somersetshire lad, on the death of his employer, had an opportunity of transferring himself to Bristol; and there he was placed, with due form, in the establishment of a linen-draper, who kept the principal shop in the rich old town. While thus situated learning his business, and applying the yard-wand to crapes and muslins, it was his fortune to become acquainted with the son of a widow lady, whose relationship was miscellaneous, and who resided on a small estate that had belonged to her husband’s forefathers for generations. The bold draper speedily formed an intimacy with the family—got into the habit of being a regular Sunday guest—became enamored of one of the daughters, and took her to wife, after embarking in business on his own account; though it does not appear that he ever enjoyed much prosperity. Nevertheless, it was ordered that his name should not sink into utter oblivion, even though his shop—which, true to hereditary tastes, he had called the “Sign of the Hare”—was not the most flourishing concern; for under its roof, on the 12th of August, 1774, Robert Southey was born; and he was so fat, large, and ugly an infant, that the nurse in attendance expressed no slight disappointment at his unprepossessing appearance. The space of two years, however, served to change him completely in this respect; and by that time he had manifested a peculiarly sensitive disposition. In childhood he was often affected to tears by the songs, ballads, and stories, which were sung, recited, or told by the affectionate inmates of his father’s house to amuse and interest him; and in after life the author of “The Doctor” never could listen to a tale of woe without experiencing painful sensations and feelings of sadness.
Southey was still less than three years old when it was his fate to be removed to Bath, and soon after placed, though by no means willingly, at the school of a dame whose countenance seems almost to have frightened him out of his wits. Indeed, her aspect was so forbidding, that the little pupil was shocked at its excessive plainness, and loudly expressed the terror with which he was inspired, entreating, but vainly, to be sent home. His struggles and complaints proving of no avail he was compelled to submit to this petticoat government until his sixth year; and while under it conceived the idea of going, with two of his school-mates, to an island, and living by themselves. As it was to include mountains of sweetmeats and gingerbread, the place, as may be supposed, was sufficiently fascinating to their imaginations. Southey at this time lived with Miss Tyler, his mother’s half-sister, a full-blown spinster of considerable personal attractions, but with an imperious will and a violent temper. The discipline to which she subjected the young poet, though irksome and despotic, was not altogether disadvantageous to the rise of his intellect. He was not permitted to play with any of his companions, and he was made aware that to soil his garments was deemed an inexpiable crime; but being much in the company of people older than himself, he mused and romanced at an unusually early age; and he was soon, like other boy-bards, inspired
“By strong ambition to out-roll a lay,
Whose melody would haunt the world.”
His original aspirations, however, were of a martial cast; he longed, with all the enthusiasm of an incipient poet, to be a soldier, and to possess the various weapons used in battle. On one occasion he was lulled into a temporary feeling of full and complete happiness by being allowed to take the sword of a military visitor to bed with him; and sadly was he mortified, on awaking, to perceive by the morning light that it had in the mean time escaped from his grasp, and disappeared. On another, he incurred a sharp infliction of the horsewhip for strolling from home with a barber’s assistant, who had promised to furnish him with a suitable blade, but proved faithless to his plighted word.
As soon as Southey had learned to read, one of his aunt’s friends presented him with a number of children’s books, which he much prized and eagerly perused; and thus, perhaps, was implanted in his glowing breast the germs of that extraordinary passion for literature which made him in later days regard the fame arising from it as the most worthy and desirable, as well as least evanescent of any. Moreover, his maiden guardian was extremely fond of frequenting the theatre, and had an extensive acquaintance among people connected with histrionic affairs. Thus, at the age of four, Southey was taken to witness a play, which so much delighted him, that he speedily, conceived a keen relish for the stage. He heard more of theatrical matters than of any other subject; and soon essayed to write dramas himself. His aunt was also much given to reading romances, and trained her little nephew to do likewise.