Part 12

Hume returned to this country in 1766, and was, the next year appointed Under-secretary of State for the department presided over by Marshal Conway, an office which he retained for more than twelve months. His annual income, the fruits of real industry, now amounted to a thousand pounds a year; and, taking a house in the new town of Edinburgh, he settled to spend his remaining days among his old and most attached friends. For some time his peaceful existence was uninterrupted, but in 1766 his health became so precarious that he was under the necessity of undertaking a journey to Bath, when he was attended by his friend and remote relative, John Home, the author of “Douglas,” with whom he had many a jocular debate about the correct orthography of their name, and the comparative merits of port and claret. The illustrious historian was fond of relieving his sinking spirits by a playful jest at the expense of his clansman’s warlike propensities, and did not omit so favorable an opportunity as that presented by the poet’s pistols being handed, with much ceremony, into the traveling-carriage:

“You shall have your humor, John,” he said, “and shoot as many highwaymen as you like; for,” he added, with as much melancholy, perhaps, as a philosopher could well feel, “there’s too little life left in me to be worth fighting about.”

It appears that the martial predilections alluded to were shortly afterward gratified by a commission in the “Buccleuch Fencibles,” though on this occasion they were not in requisition; unless, indeed, to inspire the young soul of Walter Scott, who was then exercising his precocious imagination at Bath, where he made the acquaintance of the bard, soldier, and divine, whose fame his pen, more than fifty years later, did something to extend and perpetuate. If the eye of the great historian, from which the world and all its vanities were fast vanishing, lighted on that lame boy, vigilantly guarded by a sarcastic and high-spirited female, how little could he have supposed that there was the being destined to invest with the charms of romance and the glow of chivalry that old royal cause, which he had employed all his wisdom and all his intellect to restore to public favor and render permanently attractive!

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.

Notwithstanding this unquestionable fascination held out by her, the capricious sway which she exercised with incessant vigilance was so much felt by the boy, that he rejoiced exceedingly when allowed to return to his father’s house, where he enjoyed comparative freedom, and could walk into the neighboring fields, which with him, at this period, was the greatest of all pleasures and the chief of all delights.

Miss Tyler had sternly prohibited her charge being breeched, like other juveniles of the day; and though he was six years old, and tall for his age, she had forced him to wear a childish, fantastic dress. It was now gladly exchanged for a garb befitting the dignity of ambitious boyhood; and the youthful dramatist was placed at a day-school, kept by a Baptist minister. There, though a docile boy, he received somewhat harsh treatment, and the only flogging on record that he ever underwent at the hands of a teacher; but he did not profit, to any extent, by the tuition. In twelve months the reverend pedagogue died; and Southey was sent to a boarding-school about nine miles from Bristol, at a house which, in other days, had been the seat of a provincial family of consequence. The broken and ruinous gateways about which the urchins sported, the walled garden transformed into a play-ground, the oaken staircase on which they aspiringly scrawled their names, and the tapestry which covered the old walls of the school-room, conveyed to the heart of the young rhymer mournful impressions and associations, and produced an impression on his memory not soon effaced. When in the pride of youthful and eccentric intellect, he visited the spot in company with a versifying friend, and described it in his early poem, the “Retrospect.” He knew well how to appreciate the ideas suggested by such a scene.

Meantime, at this educational institution he managed, rather by assisting his comrades than any guidance he himself had the advantage of, to acquire some knowledge of Latin, which was only taught occasionally by a Frenchman who came from Bristol for the purpose. Southey and his fellow-imps were rather meanly fed; and their ablutions, performed chiefly in a stream that passed through the grounds, were conducted with much less precision and completeness than would have satisfied the scrupulous cleanliness of the fastidious Miss Tyler. Indeed, the carelessness habitually permitted and practiced in this respect would with some reason have driven her into one of her boiling passions, which such an event as the wedding of a servant-maid never failed to raise. The seminary was, besides, much too disorderly to be in any degree comfortable; yet the boys were not without days and seasons of juvenile enjoyment. In spring each was allowed to cultivate a small allotment of garden-ground, on which was grown salad, which served for a frugal supper; and in the autumn there was a plentiful and animating crop of apples and other fruit to gather from the adjoining orchards. On one occasion they unfortunately exceeded all discretion, and appropriated so liberally those set apart for the master’s use, that grave suspicions were excited and acted on, their drawers and boxes searched, and the whole plunder recaptured. The youthful band knew well that a moderate extent of pocketing would not have been inquired into. As it was, every apple was taken from them, and _Inopem me copia fecit_ might have been the exclamation of each votary of mischief, as he hung his head and reflected on the vexatious incident. They were dressed in their best, Southey, doubtless, wearing his cocked hat, when Rodney went from Bath to Bristol, to be entertained by the corporation of the great commercial emporium; and they were marched to a convenient spot on the wayside, to give him three cheers as he passed. They exerted their lungs with no small effect, and the gallant admiral returned the salute with right hearty good-will.

At this not very advantageous seminary Southey remained for twelve months, but at the end of that period a panic occurred, in consequence of some disease prevailing in the establishment; and the future Laureate was withdrawn from its precincts in tremulous haste, and given again into the safe custody of his irascible but affectionate aunt.

Miss Tyler had by this time deserted Bath and all its social and theatrical delights. On the death of her mother she had taken possession of the latter’s house at Bedminster; and it was deemed expedient to deliver Southey over to her tender mercies, while his father looked out from his linens and broadcloth for a proper school at which to place the clever youth. In this old-fashioned retreat, the successful biographer of the greatest of English admirals confesses to having spent some of the happiest days of his boyhood. Even at that early age his pleasure seems to have been in retirement, and his satisfaction in secluded labor; he had little relish for boyish games, and he found so much amusement in the garden among flowers and insects, that, had his taste in this branch of study been encouraged and taken advantage of, he might, perhaps, have figured as a distinguished naturalist. But that was not his destiny. His pen, wielded by a willing hand and directed by a suggestive brain, was his weapon; and before thirteen he had indulged his young ambition by compositions of various kinds, and his imagination by perusing and devouring the pages of Tasso, Ariosto, and Spenser.

Meantime, as early as assorted with his worthy father’s convenience, Southey was placed as a day-boarder at a school in his native city, where he appears to have been tolerably well taught. He had already, as has been intimated, aspiringly commenced composition in verse. Wordsworth dated his love of rhyme, and the tendency which colored his manhood, from his tenth year; but his future friend and eulogist seems to have received the “poetic impulse” at a much less mature time of life, and to have commenced gratifying his sensations and prepossessions by practicing the “art divine” at an age when he could hardly have learned to hold or handle his pen with any degree of facility. Owing to his aunt’s histrionic predilections, Shakspeare, as the prince of dramatists, had been put into his little hands almost as soon as he could read; and he went through the historical plays with rapture. It then occurred to him that there would, in all probability, be civil wars in his day, similar to those of which he read; and he conceived the ambitious desire of rivaling the valorous feats and lofty fame of Richard Neville, earl of Warwick, the setter-up and puller-down of kings. So imbued did his mind and spirit become with this notion, that he began nightly to dream of tents, battle-fields, beating drums, clashing spears, and all the “pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war.” Besides perusing with avidity the works of Shakspeare, he had read those of Beaumont and Fletcher before he was eight years old; and his fancy, thus stimulated, glowed with romantic thoughts and charming visions. Moreover, he had already been present at numerous plays, and listened with awakened and lively curiosity to interminable conversations about their writers and actors, whom he regarded as the greatest of men. In this way his first aspirations after authorship naturally took the dramatic form; and he did not hesitate to express his opinion on the subject with great confidence and complacency.

“It is the easiest thing in the world to write a play,” observed he one day, at this period, to a female friend of his aunt, with whom he happened to be on a journey.

“Is it, indeed?” she said, not a little surprised.

“Yes,” replied Southey; “for you have only to think what you would say if you were in the place of the characters, and make them say it.”

Acting on this not very correct principle, he not only produced pieces himself, but endeavored to persuade his puerile associates to do likewise. In the latter attempt he, of course, found his zealous efforts altogether futile, but experienced much consolation from the pride derived by his gentle mother, when she discovered that her boy was so highly gifted. These were not the days of popular literature; and the worthy draper’s dusty shelf did not present to his son’s keen appetite for knowledge any very various or interesting collection of books; but Southey about this time had the good fortune to meet with Spenser’s “Faëry Queen,” which charmed him much with its sweetness. He was soon, however, removed once more from under the paternal roof into more congenial company.

His aunt, Miss Tyler, took a small house near Bristol; and he was once more handed over to her care. A brother of the restless spinster also went to live with her――a strange, half-witted man, whose enormous consumption of ale and tobacco astonished his young kinsman, and brought on himself a premature old age. He had a strong affection for Southey, and loved well to have a game at marbles with him when an opportunity presented itself; though apparently, he was better pleased to smoke a pipe and drink beer in the shady arbor during summer, or by the kitchen chimney in colder and less agreeable seasons. Some of his wise, old-world saws, his nephew did not soon forget.

During his twelfth and thirteenth years Southey, ever eager in his beloved pursuit, exercised his poetic powers with much industry and enthusiastic perseverance. When writing, he searched and labored diligently to make himself master of the necessary historic facts and information relating to the particular subject with which he happened, from inclination, to be occupied. Even at this date he was fitting and accomplishing himself, by solitary and unaided study, and by practice in the coining and structure of sentences, for the career which circumstances and a genuine love of such matters led and incited him to select; and which he afterward did follow with an ardor, patience, and resolution in the highest degree creditable to himself, though rarely if ever equaled, and never surpassed by others. It was perfectly natural that the members of his family and their relations should experience a very justifiable elation at talents which were thus, perhaps, a little too precociously displayed; and Miss Tyler, flushed with pride at the acquirements of her clever nursling, insisted on his being educated to one of the learned professions. In this proposal she was, luckily, supported by Southey’s maternal uncle, a clergyman, who handsomely offered to defray the expenses which this otherwise satisfactory scheme would entail. Accordingly, in the spring of 1788, it was resolved that the young prodigy should be sent to Westminster School. His gayly-disposed aunt was rejoiced at so favorable an opportunity for going to London――then no such easy business as at present; and he was conveyed thither under her protecting wing.

After a short time spent in visiting some of the imperious lady’s friends and acquaintances he was duly entered, and soon after had the task of writing some Latin verses from Thomson’s “Seasons,” which was a process quite new to him, and productive of some trouble and perplexity. However, he surmounted the difficulties, and even practiced himself so far as to produce about fifty verses on the “Death of Fair Rosamond” from choice. But that classical effort satisfied his ambition, and he never afterward strove to excel save in his native tongue. At this period the success of the “Microcosm,” and the reputation it won for its institutors, the Eton boys, set the ambition of the Westminster scholars on fire, and a weekly paper, entitled the “Trifler,” was speedily commenced among them. In this little periodical Southey requested the insertion of some verses of his on the death of a dear sister, but he was balked in his wish by a mortifying neglect. He next, in conjunction with several of his new associates, projected a paper bearing the title of the “Flagellant,” which only reached nine numbers, when a fierce attack on corporal punishments annoyed and enraged the head-master of Westminster so highly that he commenced a prosecution for libel against the more responsible parties. Southey at once confessed himself to be the author of the obnoxious article, and he was, in consequence, compelled to leave the school. In the age of boy-periodicals this was certainly a most provoking consequence of his first effort at furnishing contributions, and misfortunes, according to the proverb, seldom come singly. His expulsion from Westminster was speedily followed by circumstances still more adverse and distressing. His father who, behind the counter, had languished, like an animal transplanted to an uncongenial climate, became bankrupt and died.

Southey was now sent to matriculate at Oxford. It had been intended that he should enter at Christ Church, and his name had accordingly been put down there. But the Westminster mishap having reached the dean’s ears, that dignitary, alarmed at the idea of insubordination, refused him admittance, and he consequently entered at Balliol College in 1792. His views and opinions, in regard to the forms and discipline of the place, were not such as to favor his profiting much by his residence there; and, though destined by his well-meaning relations for the Church, he seems never to have cherished the prospect of clerical honors with any degree of mental satisfaction. Yet, with all his eccentric tenets and sentiments, he was staid and decorous in demeanor, and meritoriously refrained from the excesses which he too frequently witnessed.