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out her hand and welcomed me in the kindest manner, and then sat down opposite to me, first introducing Miss Jewsbury. I cannot well conceive a more exquisitely beautiful creature than Mrs. Hemans was; none of the portraits or busts I have ever seen do her justice, nor is it possible for words to convey to the reader any idea of the matchless, yet serene beauty of her expression. Her glossy waving hair was parted on her forehead, and terminated on the sides in rich and luxuriant auburn curls. There was a dove-like look in her eyes, and yet a chastened sadness in their expression. Her complexion was remarkably clear, and her high forehead looked as pure and spotless as Parian marble. A calm repose, not unmingled with melancholy, was the characteristic expression of the face; but when she smiled, all traces of sorrow were lost, and she seemed to be but 'a little lower than the angels,'-fitting shrine for so pure a mind!" The writer says that he, some time after, paid a second visit to Wavertree. "Some time I stood before the well-remembered house. The little flower-garden was no more, but rank grass and weeds sprung up luxuriantly; the windows were many of them broken; the entrance-gate was off its hinges; the vine in front of the house trailed along the ground, and a board, with 'This house to Let' upon it, was nailed on the door. I entered the deserted garden, and looked into the little parlour-once so full of taste and elegance; it was gloomy and cheerless; the paper was spotted with damp, and spiders had built their webs in the corners. Involuntarily I turned away; and during my homeward walk mused upon the probable home and enjoyment of the two gifted creatures I had formerly seen there. Both were now beyond the stars; and as I mused on the uncertainty of human life, I exclaimed, with the eloquent Burke,- What shadows we are, and what shadows, alas, do we pursue!'


Spite of the warm and congenial friends Mrs. Hemans had at Liverpool, she soon found that it was not the location for her. She had lost all that her mind and heart had been accustomed to sustain themselves upon in a beautiful country; her hopes of educational advantages were not realized, and she was subjected to all the annoying interruptions which celebrity has to endure from idle curiosity, without any of its attendant advantages. To fly the evils and regain some of her old pleasures, she in 1829 made a journey into Scotland, to visit her friends Mr. Hamilton and his lady, at Chiefswood, near Abbotsford. This, of course, brought her into immediate contact with Sir Walter Scott. She was invited to Abbotsford, and the great minstrel showed her over his estate, and through the classic beauty of all that border-land which must from her early years have been regions of deepest romance to a mind like hers. The particulars of this visit, so cheering and delightful to her whole nature, are to be found in the biography written by her sister. She was, of course, received in Edinburgh with the cordial hospitality characteristic of that capital, and which was sure to be shown with double extent, in consequence of her great fame, and the pleasure which every one had derived from her productions. During this visit she was introduced, amongst other distinguished people, to Mrs.

Grant, of Laggan; Lord Jeffrey; Captain Basil Hall; Mr. Alison; Kirkpatrick Sharpe; Baron Hume; Sir Robert Liston, and the old literary veteran, Henry Mackenzie.

The advantage and the happiness of this visit to the north, determined her the next summer to pay a visit to the Lakes. Here she took up her abode for a fortnight with Wordsworth, at Rydal Mount, and there so charmed was she with the country, and so much did her health need the quiet refreshment of rural retirement, that she took for the remainder of the summer a small cottage overlooking Windermere, called Dove's Nest. But quiet as the spot appeared, secluded as it is, it was a great mistake to suppose that a woman of any reputation could escape the inroads of the Tourist Vandals so near Ambleside, and Lowood. "The soothing and healthful repose which had been so thoroughly and thankfully appreciated," says her sister, “was, alas! not destined to be of long continuance." Subsequent letters speak of the irruption of parties hunting for lions in Dove's Nest; of a renewal of "the Album persecution;" of an absolute mail storm of letters and papers, threatening "to boil over the drawer to which they were consigned;" till at last the despairing conclusion is come to that " one might as well hope for peace in the character of a shadowless man as of a literary woman."

The inundation was irresistible and overwhelming; in August she fled in desperation, and again made a journey into Scotland.

Mrs. Hemans had three of her boys with her at Dove's Nest, and they enjoyed the place to perfection. It was just the place for boys to be turned loose in; and with fishing, sketching, and climbing the hill above the Nest, they were in elysium. Her own health, however, was so far undermined now, that she complains in her letters that she cannot follow them as she would, though she is more a child in heart than any of them. Her own description of the Dove's Nest is this:The house was originally meant for a small villa, though it has long passed into the hands of farmers; and there is in consequence an air of neglect about the little demesne, which does not at all approach desolation, and yet gives it something of attractive interest. You see everywhere traces of love and care beginning to be effaced; rose trees spread into wildness; laurels darkening the windows with too luxuriant branches; and I cannot help saying to myself, 'Perhaps some heart like my own in its feelings and suffering, has here sought refuge and repose.' The ground is laid out in rather an antiquated style, which, now that nature is beginning to reclaim it froni art, I do not at all dislike. There is a little grassy terrace immediately under the window, descending to a small court with a circular grass plat, on which grows one tall white rose-tree. You cannot imagine how I delight in that fair, solitary, neglectedlooking tree. I am writing to you from an old-fashioned alcove in the little garden, round which the sweet-briar and moss-rose trees bave completely run wild; and I look down from it upon lovely Windermere, which seems at this moment even like another sky, so truly is our summer cloud and tint of azure pictured in its transparent mirror."

This cottage is, in fact, a very simple affair. It is let by the people, farmers, who live in one end of it, and who have now built another house near it with farm buildings. It stands perhaps at half the elevation of Professor Wilson's house at Elleray, and not at such a distance from Windermere, and nearer to Lowood inn than to Ambleside. A considerable wild wood ascends above it to the top of the rocky hills, and it seems indeed to have had a place cut out of the front of the wood for it. You can ascend from Lowood by a steep, straight carriage road, all bordered with laurels luxuriantly grown, and overshadowed by forest trees; or you may, if coming from Ambleside, ascend a foot-path, which is by far the most charming way. Yes, a very charming way it is—a wild wood walk, reminding you of many of those in Germany. It is narrow, and overhung with hazels, at the time of my visit full of nuts in abundant and large clusters. Here water is running by the wayside, clear and in fleet abundance. The wood opens its still solitudes, ever and anon; and far above you the rocks are seen lifting themselves inte the heavens in a grey silence. This wood walk goes on and on bordered with wild flowers, and odorous with the scent of meadow sweet, till you arrive in about half a mile at the cottage.

This consists of but four rooms in front; two little sitting-rooms and two bed-rooms over them. It is a little white battlemente affair, with a glass door. The woman of the house pointed out t me the chamber window, that on the right hand as you face th house, at which Mrs. Hemans, she said, used to write; and whic commands a fine view of the lake and its encircling hills.

The woman is a character. She was very violent against stean railroads, and all sorts of new-fangled things. She wondered wha Parliament was about that they did not stop the steam. "What a your Sir Robert Peels, your Grahams, and your Stanleys good for, they cannot stop the steam?" She would make them sit, if sl could have her way, till they did some good, for they had done no yet. She almost preferred O'Connell to them, for he did get mast of the queen!

"You seem to be a great radical," I said.

"Nay, nay!" she replied; "I'm naw radical. I stick fast to t Church, but I am a great Politic! And what will all those navyi do when the railways are all made? What is to become of the po boatmen when there are nothing but steamers ?"

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"Well, but has not Mr. Wordsworth written against the railroads Ay, he may write; but there's more nor Mister Wordswor now-a-days. People are got too clever now; and if he writes ther twenty ready to write against him."

All the time that the woman was getting on in this style, she h a sort of smile on her face as if she was merely talking for talkin sake; and, as she proceeded, she led the way to show me the gard which is a very pleasant little retirement, looking down the hill, a towards Lowood upon the lake, and far across to its distant sho and mountains. We then passed into a second garden, at the top which is the alcove mentioned by Mrs. Hemans. It is in the w

arched above, and white-washed within, and with seats set round, and a most luxuriant Ayrshire rose climbing and mantling it about, high and thick. Here, said the woman, Mrs. Hemans sate in the fine weather generally to write. At the lower end of the garden stood the tall white rose-tree which Mrs. Hemans so much admired. From this the landlady plucked a flower, and begged me to send it to my wife; as well as a number of moss-roses growing about, which she said Mrs. Hemans admired, but not so much as this white rose. The strange woman, unpolished, but evidently full of strong independent feeling, and keen spirit of observation, was also as evidently possessed of tender feelings too. She declared it often made her melancholy to see that rose-tree and that alcove.

"Ah, poor thing!" said she, "it was a pity she did not open her situation sooner; but she did not open her heart enough to her rich relations, who were very fond of her. It was anxiety, Sir; it was anxiety, you may depend on it. To maintain five boys, and edicate 'em with one pen, it was too much, you are sure. Ay, I have thought a deal more of her since, than I did at the time; and so many ladies come here, and wish she had but opened her situation sooner, for when Government did something for her, it was too late!"

"Did she seem quite well here?"

"Oh, yes; she seemed pretty well, and she had three of her children with her, and well-behaved, nice children they were. Charles, they tell me, is turned Catholic, and Henry is gone abroad, and Claude is dead. Who could have believed it, when they were all so merry here! Poor thing! if she had but made known her situation-it was wearing her away. Mr. Graves, who was the tutor to the boys, and is now rector of Bowness, came here with the boys, when she went to Dublin, and she was to come back, and be with me by the year; and then the boys could have been still with Mr. Graves, for he got the living just then. He always comes to tell me when he hears anything about them-and her husband is dead too, I hear."

Such was the woman's information, and there may be more truth in it than we would like to believe. There can be no doubt that Mrs. Hemans taxed all her strength and power to maintain her family. It is not to be believed but that her brothers and sister, who were well off, did all she would allow them to do; but we know the honourable pride of a truly noble mind.-not to be burdensome when it can itself do its own work. How sensitive and shrinking it is! That Mrs. Hemans, in her praiseworthy endeavour to furnish the means of her boys' education, did overtax herself, and was obliged to write more than either her inclination or her true fame prompted, we have the evidence of herself in one of her very last letters to her friend Mrs. Lawrence. "You know into how rugged a channel the poor little stream of my life has been forced, and through what rocks it has wrought its way; and it is now longing for repose in some still valley. It has ever been one of my regrets that the constant necessity of pro


viding sums of money to meet the exigencies of the boys' educat has obliged me to waste my mind in what I consider mere desult effusions:Pouring myself away,

As a wild bird, amidst the foliage, tunes

That which within him thrills, and beats, and burns,
Into a fleeting lay.

My wish ever was to concentrate all my mental energy in production of some more noble and complete work, somethin pure and holy excellence which might permanently take its plac the work of a British poetess. I have always hitherto written in the breaking times of storms and billows. Perhaps it may even yet be too late to accomplish what I wish, though I someti feel my health so deeply penetrated that I cannot imagine h am ever to be raised up again. But a greater freedom from t cares, of which I have been obliged to bear up under the whole resp bility, may do much to restore me; and though my spirits greatly subdued by long sickness, I feel the powers of my min full maturity."

This is a plain enough confession; and it is the old melanc story, of genius fighting for the world, and borne down by world, which should be its friend. Once more, and for the thousandth time, under such circumstances, we must exclaim

Shakspeare- "O what a noble mind is here o'erthrown!"

We have here the bright, warm-hearted, fascinating girl of F wylfa, full of all the romance of life and the glorious visions of po now sinking the martyr of the heart betrayed in its tenderest t doomed to labour like Pegasus in the peasant's cart and har perishing of exhaustion, and feeling that the unequal contest of had yet left undeveloped the full affluence of the spirit. I could avoid gazing again on the empty alcove,-the beautiful prospect the wildly-growing white rose, and feeling the full contagion of and the good woman's melancholy.

But at once, out broke the strange creature with a different and tone-" And we have now got another writer-lady dow Ambleside."

"A poet ?"

"Nay, nothing of the sort; another guess sort of person, tell you.

"Why, who is that?"

"Who is that? Why, Miss Martineau they call her. The me she wrote up the Reform Bill for Lord Brougham; and she's come from the Lambtons here; and that she's writing about the taxes. Can she stop the steam, eh? can she, think Nay, nay, I warrant, big and strong as she is. Ha! ha! good as I met her the other day walking along the muddy road t here 'Is it a woman, or a man, or what sort of an animal is said I to myself. There she came, stride, stride,-great heavy -stout leather leggins on,-and a knapsack on her back! Ha that's a political comicalist, they say. What's that? Do they

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