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British Library, Add MS 47888. Previously published: John Wood Warter (ed.), Selections from the Letters of Robert Southey, 4 vols (London, 1856), I, pp. 168-172 [dated ‘September 1801’].
These letters were edited with the assistance of Carol Bolton, Tim Fulford and Ian Packer
For permission to publish the text of MSS in their possession, the editor wishes to thank the Beinecke Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Yale University; Berg Collection of English and American Literature, The New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox and Tilden Foundations; the Bodleian Library Oxford University; the British Library; Boston Public Library; the Syndics of Cambridge University Library; the Syndics of the Fitzwilliam Museum Cambridge; Haverford College, Connecticut; the Historical Society of Pennsylvania; the Hornby Library, Liverpool Libraries and Information Services; the Houghton Library, Harvard University; the John Rylands Library, Manchester; the Kenneth Spencer Research Library, University of Kansas; Luton Museum (Bedfordshire County Council); Massachusetts Historical Society; McGill University Library; the National Library of Scotland; the Newberry Library, Chicago; the New York Public Library (Pforzheimer Collections); the Pierpont Morgan Library, New York; the Public Record Offices of Bedford, Suffolk (Bury St Edmunds) and Northumberland, the Master and Fellows of Trinity College, Cambridge; the Society of Antiquaries of Newcastle upon Tyne; the Trustees of the William Salt Library, Stafford, the Wisbech and Fenland Museum; the University of Virginia Library.
A research grant from the British Academy made much of the archival work possible, as did support from the English Department of Nottingham Trent University.
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Weather delayed our departure from Wynnstay till the afternoon of Sunday last.
the richness of the library in such books as were most useful to me, & the goodness of the claret made the delay very endurable. in
the intervals of sunshine we saw the surrounding scenery – the Dee flowing thro high banks of wood – & the pillars of a prodigious
bridge which is to support the canal, a work of wonderful magnitude, so large indeed as almost to deserve forgiveness for its
intrusion. Llangollen is seven miles from Wynnstay – the village itself is ugly – deformed by
some smoky works, – one might colour it to the life in Indian Ink. the romantic Ladiesin the ruin, make it a lovely spot. Some
fellow whose brains ought to be knocked out against PocklingtonsLondon
St Georges fields-tea-looking houseyou a child might dip
you stand dryfooted & dip his hand into the water. there are trees enough upon the hills – abundance of the bending birch
that tree so light hanging & so lovely! – there are houses enough scattered, & such houses as show that the richness of the
land is not ill bestowed – Corwen is little more than a village – where at the sign of Owen Glendower,
Two miles from Corwen is a waterfall – Rhaiadr Cynwid. the best I have ever yet found. the body of water is enough to
make a constant shower of its dust, & a most cold wind, & I stood in that cold wind & that shower, & saw rainbows where
the shadow of the rock ended & met the sunshine. Pontyglindifis – a bridge over a glen down which a mountain brooks roars – was the
next fine object – & the only in our way to Cernioge. all else was raw & bleak. black boggy looking streams, & cold boggy
hills. Wynn said it was Irish looking – I thought of the worst parts of
Alentejo. thence to Llanwrst – but not along the common road. we struck to the left by way of Bettws. & this led us to a glorious
pass among the mountains. the mountain side was stony, & a few trees grew among its stones, the other side was more xxxxx wooded & had grass on the top – & a huge waterfall thundered into the bottom &
thundered down the bottom. when it had nearly past these rocky straits it met another stream. the width of water then became
considerable & twice it formed a large – black pool – to the eye absolutely stagnant – the froth of the waters that entered then
sleeping upon the surface – it had the deadness of enchantment – yet was not the pool wider than the river above it & below it
where it foamed over a broken bed. Last night we slept at Llanwrst. a little town upon the Conway, remarkable for a bridge which we
were told was built by one Inigo Jonesxxx
lamentably short of Obidos, but in England I have seen no fortifications remaining so entire. thence to Bangor along the side of
Penmaenmawr, a road now walled in & safe, but once terribly dangerous – for the wall runs along a giddy precipice, & the sea is
at the bottom. the old Penman is a grand fellow. Zounds had he given himself one shake to shake the dust from his coat – a hail storm
of rocks would have buried us. the mountain is almost all stone – lying loose, or jutting out like crystals in shape. I want some good
Welshman to give me the names of the mountains in their order along this coast. we are now at Bangor – rather an Inn a mile from
Bangor. tomorrow we go to Capel Cerrig, & from thence see the one side of Snowdon, & I shall look out a situation for
Cadwallons
What I have seen is so entirely different from the Lake Scenery that it would be ridiculous to attempt comparison.
these mountains look to me the highest – but that is probably because they are more insulated. Wales has wood, & the interest of
ruins & many recollections, any thing so simple & severely sublime as your view to Borrodale & Newlands or so quietly
beautiful as Grasmere & Rydale I have not seen. We are mounted – & the servant drives the gig – or rides as we like. I have
learn[MS torn] to drive – so I may say, & that without breaking the carriage or killing a Welshman. It is cold weather, & today
is cloudy – I am hoping – but not expecting a clear day to attempt Snowdon. if old Snowdon knew what a reverence I have for him he
would doff his nightcap in decency. Twas a bad business that one Mr Mordred, whose magic song, ‘Made huge
Plinlimmon bow his cloud topt head” was hung by martial law, as a stirrer of the people to sedition,
Probably we shall reach Llangedwin on Saturday, from thence I will write. it is not easy to find time on the road, for
we reach the end of our days journey just at the night fall – too hungry & too tired to think of much more than eating &
sleeping. Every evening I want the Wishing Cap of Fortunatushow are you? & how is Coleridge? & Moses – & the little short
fat round rolling maggot? – if I could but be in two places at the same time now! – dear dear Edith God bless you