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Robert Southey to Grosvenor C. Bedford-Picture of the Prince of Darkness.

much beauty. Do not whisper a word of this to a certain pair of sisters. I hope I myself shall be in full bloom when we meet again; indeed, I have little doubt of it. I have youth on my side; I shall not see seventy for nearly three months to come. I am very busy collecting all I have written. It may, perhaps, be published in another eight or ten months. Once beyond seventy I will never write a line, in verse or prose, for publication. I will be my own Gil Blas. The wisest of us are unconscious when our faculties begin to decay. Knowing this, I fixed my determination many years ago. I am now plucking out my weeds all over the field, and will leave only the strongest shoots of the best plants standing. W. S. L.

LV.-PICTURE OF THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS.

Robert Southey to Grosvenor. C. Bedford.

January 21st, 1799.

MY DEAR GROSVENOR: You ask me why the devil rides on horseback. The Prince of Darkness is a gentleman, and that would be reason enough; but, moreover, the history doth aver that he came on horseback for the old woman, and rode before her, and that the color of the horse was black.* Should I falsify the history, and make Apollyon a pedestrian? Besides, Grosvenor, Apollyon is cloven-footed; and I humbly conceive that a biped-and I never understood his dark majesty to be otherwise -that a biped, I say, would walk clumsily upon cloven feet. Neither hath Apollyon wings, according to the best representations; and, indeed, how should he?. For, were they of feathers, like the angels', they would be burned in the everlasting fire;

* The allusion is to the ballad of "The Old Woman of Berkeley."

Robert Southey to Grosvenor C. Bedford-Picture of the Prince of Darkness.

and were they of leather, like a bat's, they would be shrivelled. I conclude, therefore, that wings he hath not. Yet do we find, from sundry reputable authors and divers histories, that he transporteth himself from place to place with exceeding rapidity. Now, as he cannot walk fast or fly, he must have some conveyStage-coaches to the infernal regions there are none, though the road be much frequented. Balloons would burst at setting out, the air would be so rarefied with the heat; but horses he may have of a particular breed.

ance.

I am learned in Dæmonology, and could say more, but this sufficeth. I should advise you not to copy the ballad, because the volume will soon be finished. I expect to bring it with me on Ash-Wednesday to town.

I am better, but they tell me that constant exercise is indispensable, and that, at my age and with my constitution, I must either throw off the complaint now, or it will stick to me forever. Edith's health requires care; our medical friend dreads thé effect of London upon both. When my time is out at our present house (at Midsummer), we must go to the sea a while. I thought I was like a Scotch fir, and could grow anywhere, but I am sadly altered, and my nerves are in a vile state. I am almost ashamed of my own feelings; but they depend not upon volition. These things throw a fog over the prospect of life. I cannot see my way; it is time to be in an office, but the confinement would be ruinous. You know not the alteration I feel. I could once have slept with the seven sleepers without a miracle; now the least sound awakes me, and with alarm. However, I am better. .

.

..

. God bless you.

Yours affectionately,

R. SOUTHEY.

BOOK THE THIRD.

Sketches of Nature, Art, and Travel, in Letters.

15

BOOK THE THIRD.

SKETCHES OF NATURE, ART, AND TRAVEL IN

LETTERS.

I-THE MORNING.

Daniel Webster to Mrs. J. W. Page.

RICHMOND, April 29, 1841.-Five o'clock A. M.

Whether it be a favor or an annoyance, you owe this letter to my habit of early rising. From the hour marked at the top of the page you will naturally conclude that my companions are not now engaging my attention, as we have not calculated on being early travellers to-day.

This city has a "pleasant seat." It is high, the James River runs below it, and when I went out an hour ago nothing was heard but the roar of the falls. The air is tranquil and its temperature mild.

It is morning, and a morning sweet and fresh and delightful. Everybody knows the morning in its metaphorical sense, applied to so many objects and on so many occasions. The health, strength, and beauty of early years lead us to call that period the "morning of life." Of a lovely young woman we say, she is "bright as the morning;" and no one doubts why Lucifer is

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