Memoirs, Correspondence, and Poetical Remains of Jane Taylor.
By Jane Taylor, 1783-1824.
Edited by Isaac Taylor, Jr., 1787-1865.
From The Writings of Jane Taylor, In Five Volumes (Volume I, Memoirs and Poetical Remains.) Boston: Perkins and Marvin, 1832.

[believe me ever affectionately yours Jane Taylor]

THE
WRITINGS
OF
JANE TAYLOR.

IN FIVE VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

MEMOIRS AND POETICAL REMAINS.

BOSTON:
PUBLISHED BY PERKINS & MARVIN.
PHILADELPHIA–FRENCH & PERKINS.
1832.

MEMOIRS,
CORRESPONDENCE,
AND
Poetical Remains,
OF
JANE TAYLOR.

A NEW EDITION.

BOSTON:
PERKINS & MARVIN, 114 WASHINGTON ST.
1832.

TO E.* * * * * * * *.

THE following Memoir of my late sister I have aimed to compose as if it had been intended especially for your perusal:–to you, then, it is dedicated. In keeping this idea before me, I have hoped to execute my task in a manner the most acceptable to the class of readers whom I would chiefly wish to please;–I mean persons like yourself, to whom, through her writings, the name of Jane Taylor has been associated with some of their earliest intellectual pleasures, and perhaps, with their first impressions of virtue and piety.

Long before you personally knew your late friend, you were taught to think of her as your guide and instructress; and when at length you were introduced to her, every preconceived feeling of respect and love was enhanced. The period of your intercourse with her was indeed almost entirely filled with a succession of painful events; yet they all tended to fix in your heart an affectionate remembrance which time will not efface.

I may therefore feel assured that, even independently of the new interest you possess in the name and character of my sister, you will be pleased to learn all that I can retrace of her history–of her habits of life–her occupations–her friendships, and her conduct amidst the ordinary occasions of common life.

But while I am endeavoring to give as much explicitness to my narrative as shall satisfy your wishes, and as much, especially, as may render the extracts from her Correspondence fully intelligible, you will perceive that I shall be embarrassed with a considerable difficulty in having to separate the personal history of my sister from that of her family. To do so as completely as I should wish, is plainly impracticable; especially as her character and habits were such as united her most closely in every thing with those she loved. I must, therefore, in many instances, dismiss the fear of being charged with egotism; and rather than omit particulars which to you, and to readers like yourself, may seem interesting and instructive, shall use ingenuousness, and claim the candor that the peculiarity of the case demands.

Yet so far as it may be done consistently with my avowed design, I shall detach what relates to the subject of this Memoir from the interests of those with whom, in fact, she was always most intimately joined. Let it then suffice once to say, that an exemption is claimed for the living, from the demands of that curiosity which it is usual to gratify, relative to the dead who have occupied a place in public esteem.

Nor, I must add, is it solely on behalf of survivors that such exemption may be asked; for even in what relates to the deceased, a biographer must be considered as free to give or to withhold the facts of personal history.–There may have been events of the deepest interest to the party, in reference to which he may be silent; even though the full narration of such facts might serve, beyond any others, to display the strength or christian fortitude of the character he has to exhibit. The common cares and griefs of life may be described for the edification of others; but there are sorrows that are sacred; and sorrows still fresh in the memory of survivors are especially so: for though the subject of them be passed where "there is no more pain, neither sorrow nor weeping," yet, as for our own feelings' sake, we hide the mortal remains of the dead, so should we shroud their recent griefs.

By the indulgence of her friends, I have had the perusal of nearly * the entire mass of letters written by my sister during the course of five and twenty years: from this mass it would have been easy to furnish volumes without admitting any less interesting than those which have been selected. But many reasons forbade so copious and indiscriminate a publication. You have seen enough of your late friend's letters to know that the lively interest she felt in every thing that concerned her friends, filled a great part of almost all of them with allusions to their concerns; and of course, the publication of such passages would have been a violation of the confidence reposed in me by her correspondents. Hence it is, that there is scarcely an entire letter in the collection; but the exscinded parts will not often seem wanting to the reader.

The constitutional pensiveness of my sister's mind was, as you know, relieved by a peculiar playfulness of fancy; so that she turned in an instant, from the pathetic, to the humorous, without any violence to her own feelings, and–to those who knew her intimately–without any unpleasing abruptness of manner: yet, to many readers, some of these sudden transitions might give offence, or seem to require explanation. But whether grave or gay, all with her, was genuine:–her letters give the true image of her mind; and will hold up a living portrait of her character. You know how strong was her dislike of the least semblance of affectation; and of all the kinds of affectation, there was none she more abhorred than that which too frequently appears in the conversation and letters of persons who think they have some literary reputation to support. Rather than seem chargeable with this fault, she would restrain every excursion of her fancy, and repress all the playfulness of her wit.–Those who knew her manner, when quite at ease, will trace the influence of this strong feeling in many of her letters. "Some people," she says, "think it a great recommendation to be able to write a clever letter; but if there is any thing I dislike to receive, or that I am unambitious of writing, it is a clever letter; by which I mean a letter that exhibits, obviously, an endeavor to be smart and pointed; or, worse still, fine and sentimental."

And besides this dread of literary affectation, my sister had so decided a taste for all that is practical, useful, and important in common life, that her pursuit of the embellishments and the luxuries of intellect was greatly restrained. She would rather forego the gratifications of taste, than seem, in any thing, to trifle. Especially in the latter years of her life, a peculiarly deep im- pression of the great objects of christian faith, and of the obligations of christian duty, inclined her to estimate, as of very trivial importance, many of the pursuits which engross the attention of cultivated minds. To the interests and affections of common life, she never became indifferent; but what belonged not to the heart, or to present duty, was lost to her in the light of the life to come. This spirit is apparent in many of her letters of late date; and indeed ruled her habitual feelings. The expression used by her in the letter written the day before her death, to yourself, and your sisters, far from being extorted by the instant terrors of dissolution, conveyed, truly, the settled conviction of her mind–that, "the whole business of life is preparation for death."–My desire in fulfilling the charge committed to me will be faithfully to exhibit her example, so as shall tend to enforce this her last testimony.

I.T.

Stanford Rivers, Sept. 23, 1825.

CONTENTS.^*

MEMOIRS
&c.

CHAPTER I.
INFANCY AND CHILDHOOD AT LAVENHAM.

JANE, their second daughter, was born September 23, 1783, while her parents resided in London. From her birth, and during the first two years of infancy, her constitution seemed so delicate, and her health so precarious, that it was hardly expected she would survive that critical period. But happily, before she had completed her third year, Mr. Taylor removed with his family into the country, and from that time she appeared to take a new possession of life; and soon acquired the bloom and vivacity of perfect health.

His engagements as an artist being such as allowed him to reside at a distance from London, Mr. Taylor gladly availed himself of this liberty to establish his fast-increasing family where the same means would procure a much larger amount of comfort than in London; and where health, and all the best enjoyments of life are much more likely to be secured. It was in the summer of the year 1786, that my father and mother, with their two little girls, removed to Lavenham in Suffolk. Ann, the eldest, was then in the fifth, and Jane in the third year of her age; and were therefore able to enjoy with their parents the simple pleasures and extended comforts of their new habitation. Accustomed as she had been to the narrow bounds, and to the many restraints of a London house, Jane's spirits broke forth with unusual emotions of pleasure amid the ample space, and the agreeable objects that now surrounded her.

Very soon after her removal to the country, Jane displayed, not merely a healthy vivacity and child-like eagerness in the amusements provided for her by her fond parents, but an uncommon fertility of invention in creating pleasures for herself.–It was evident to those who observed her, that, even from her third or fourth year, the little girl inhabited a fairy land, and was perpetually occupied with the imaginary interests of her teeming fancy. "I can remember," says her sister, "that Jane was always the saucy, lively entertaining little thing–the amusement and the favorite of all that knew her. At the baker's shop she used to be placed on the kneading-board, in order to recite, preach, narrate, &c. to the great entertainment of his many visiters. And at Mr. Blackadder's she was the life and fun of the farmer's hearth. Her plays, from the earliest that I can recollect, were deeply imaginative; and I think that in 'Moll and Bet'–'The Miss Parks'–'The Miss Sisters'–'The Miss Bandboxes,' and 'Aunt and Niece,' which I believe is the entire catalogue of them, she lived in a world wholly of her own creation, with as deep a feeling of reality as life itself could afford. These lasted from the age of three or four, till ten or twelve. About the latter time her favorite employment, in play time, was whipping a top; during the successful spinning of which she composed tales and dramas, some of which she afterwards committed to paper. She would spend hours in this kind of revery, in the large unfurnished parlor, at our own house at Lavenham. But I think I may say that the retiring character of her mind–a morbid sensibility towards things and persons without, as well as much refined feeling, operated to prevent a due estimate being formed of her talent, till much later in life. I need not tell you, that they were never made a show of to any body. But timid as she was in and about herself, she had the courage of enterprise in the service of those she loved;–she was, you know, the presenter of every petition for holydays and special favors, and the spirited foremost in every youthful plan."

This early and unusual activity of the imagination Jane afterwards lamented. "I do believe," she says, "that this habit of castle-building is very injurious to the mind. I know I have sometimes lived so much in a castle, as almost to forget that I lived in a house." Had she continued in London it is probable that, with the dim impressions of a sickly frame, and the sombre dulness of surrounding objects, the imagination would have continued in its germ till it had been quickened by the feverish excitements of riper years. But surely there is a better hope for the character when this faculty expands during the innocence of infancy, and amid the fair scenes of nature; for these first pure impressions tend to preoccupy the fancy, and to give a lasting direction to the tastes.

The house occupied by Mr. Taylor at Lavenham was situated in a street of detached dwellings, of a humbler class than itself, at the outskirts of the town. These cottages were inhabited chiefly by the poor employed in the woollen manufacture, which, at that time still lingered in this neighborhood, where it had formerly greatly flourished, The scene which this street exhibited on a summer's day, forty years ago, is now hardly anywhere to be observed. The spinning wheel was planted on the foot-way before every door, and the females of each family wrought in groups of young and old together. Perhaps it ought not to be much regretted that industry has ceased to be picturesque; but surely the common enjoyments of life were less incompatible with the severities of labor then than they are now, among those who spend their long days in close ranks, around the steam engine.

My father's house was sufficiently spacious to afford apartments in which the children might be left to their amusements without restraint. A pleasant, and rather large garden adjoined the house: it was open towards the country, and a long and wide grass walk, reaching its whole length, was terminated at the upper end by an arbour, in the oldfashioned style, and at the other by a haw-haw; beyond which were pastures, a rugged common, and more distant corn-fields. In this garden the sisters were very early companions in song: and they were wont, before the eldest was six years old, to pace up and down the green walks, hand in hand, lisping a simple couplet of their joint composition.

From the time of their removal to Lavenham, Jane and her sister were indulged with a small room, not used as a nursery, but given up to them as their exclusive domain, and furnished with all their little apparatus of amusement. And either abroad, or in this apartment, they learned to depend upon their own invention for their diversions; for it was always a part of their parents' plan of education to afford to their children both space and materials for furnishing entertainment to themselves. And so much were they all accustomed to exercise invention, for filling up agreeably the hours of liberty, that I doubt if ever their father or mother was applied to with the listless inquiry–"What shall I play at?"

Jane became, at this time, so much known among neighbors and friends, as "a most diverting little thing," that her company was courted, and herself flattered in a degree that would have injured the disposition of most children; and it is not affirmed that she was wholly unhurt by it; but with all her spirit and vivacity, such was her timidity, that no feeling of vanity or obtrusiveness seemed to be produced by these attentions.–She received the plaudits of her audience at the baker's shop, or in the farmer's Christmas party, much in the same way that she afterwards heard the expression of public favor:–both might give a momentary stimulus to the exertion of her talent; but neither the one nor the other impaired or disturbed her native and habitual diffidence. This early celebrity did not fail to excite the watchful fears of her parents; and so far as it was possible to prevent it, Jane was restrained from thus furnishing amusement to the neighborhood, at so great a hazard to her simplicity. But a fast-increasing family unavoidably left her at times under the care of servants, who were gratified at having so much talent to exhibit.

At what age precisely, Jane began to write verses and tales, I have not been able to ascertain. But some pieces have been preserved which, there is reason to believe, were written in her eighth year. Even a year or two earlier, it is remembered, that she had furnished her memory with histories, which she used to recite with such variations as the inspiration of the moment might suggest. And though, of course, no idea of the kind had ever been given her by her parents (and no other persons had access to her who would have thought of any such thing), yet it seems that, as soon as she began to write at all, she cherished the ambition of writing a book. Most of her childish scribblings have the form of something prepared for the public: I have before me, of this early date, prefaces, title-pages, introductions and dedications: among these the following is so characteristic that I shall venture to produce it. It appears to have been written in her tenth year.–

PREFACE.

To be a poetess I don't aspire.
From such a title humbly I retire;
But now and then a line I try to write;
Though bad they are–not worthy human sight.

Sometimes into my hand I take a pen,
Without the hope of aught but mere chagrin
I scribble, then leave off in sad despair,
And make a blot in spite of all my care.

I laugh and talk, and preach a sermon well;
Go about begging, and your fortune tell:
As to my poetry, indeed 't is all
As good and worse by far than none at all.

Have patience yet I pray, peruse my book;
Although you smile when on it you do look:
I know that in 't there's many a shocking failure;
But that forgive–the author is Jane Taylor.

It was perhaps a year later that she addressed to her father the following

PETITION.

Ah dear papa! did you but know
  The trouble of your Jane,
I'm sure you would relieve me now
  And ease me of my pain.

Although your garden is but small,
  And more indeed you crave,
There's one small bit, not used at all,
  And this I wish to have.

A pretty garden I would make,
  That you would like, I know;
Then pray, papa, for pity's sake,
  This bit of ground bestow.

For whether now I plant or sow,
  The chickens eat it all;
I'd fain my sorrows let you know
  But for the tears that fall.

My garden then should be your lot;
  I've often heard you say,
There useful trees you wish to put,
  But mine were in the way.

But for the most part, Jane confided her productions to no one except her sister; and the extent to which she indulged the propensity to write, at this early age, was unknown to her parents. Indeed the habit of scribbling was purely spontaneous; and never cherished by encouragement from her father or mother. The whole intention of their plan of education was to fit their children for the discharge of the ordinary duties of life, and to elicit or to display talent was far from being their ambition. A home education having been early determined upon, was systematically pursued, through a course of years. Jane and her sister spent a part of every day with their father, receiving from him the rudiments of that education of the nature of which I shall have occasion hereafter to speak; and a considerable part with their mother, who, from the first, made her daughters her companions, treating them, and conversing with them as reasonable beings. They were accustomed to attend and to assist her in every domestic engagement, learning at once the reason and the practice of all that was done. In the afternoon and evening, while employed by their mother's side, subjects of all kinds, within the range of their comprehension, were discussed. These conversations were at intervals relieved by singing hymns–a practice which tends, insensibly, to blend all the best and happiest emotions of the infant heart with the language of piety.

It was especially the practice of their mother in her treatment of her children, to avoid every thing like manoeuvering or mystery, as well as all unnecessary concealment of the reasons of her conduct towards them. She confided in them as friends; and at the earliest time at which such ideas could enter their minds, they were acquainted with their father's affairs; so far at least as was necessary to qualify them to sympathize in every care, and to induce them to adapt their own feelings and expectations to their parents' means. This plan, moreover, preserved them, as far as children can be preserved, from the temptation to practice those petty artifices which debase the mind, and benumb the conscience.

As it formed a material part of Jane's intellectual education, I may here mention a custom adopted by her mother a year or two before the time of which I am now speaking–that of reading aloud at every meal. Her hearing being so far defective as to prevent her from freely taking part in conversation, she had recourse to a book that the social hours might not be hours of silence. By constant use she acquired the habit of taking her food with little interruption to the reading; and only on occasions of extreme ill health was it ever wholly suspended. This practice, while it was a solace and delight to herself, and in some degree enabled her to forget her misfortune in being shut out from free intercourse with her family–to them proved, directly and indirectly, highly beneficial, especially in preventing unprofit- able conversation, in cherishing a literary taste, and in imparting, without labor or cost of time, a great mass of information:–and the choice of books was always made with a view to the pleasure and advantage of the younger members of the family.

No part of Jane's character was more prominent and distinguishing than her susceptibility of feelings of tender, generous, and constant friendship; this disposition displayed itself as early as her propensity to write; and seemed, indeed, to awaken her talent.

Her affection for her sister was of the liveliest kind; but besides this intimacy, she early found a companion who became the object of a more than child-like regard. Ann and Jane W. were respectively about the same age as Ann and Jane Taylor: their parents were distinguished in their circle by good sense, superior education, and excellence of character. Their large family, of which Ann and Jane were the youngest members, was remarkably well-ordered and intelligent. The four girls, with the full acquiescence of their parents, became very constant companions; and continued to be so till the removal of this family from Lavenham.

My sister always thought herself peculiarly happy in her friendships; and this early intimacy, though soon to be dissolved, prepared her for the enjoyment of some that were more lasting and important in after-life.

It was with a much more lively sorrow than most children of ten years old would have felt on such an occasion that Jane parted forever with her friend Jane W. Mr. W., though a man of grave manners, settled habits, and remarkable sobriety of judgment, and though bound to his country, if not by other feelings, at least by extensive connexions, and large mercantile concerns, broke away from all to establish himself with his family in New England. And in this instance the voluntary banishment proved more fortunate than many that took place at the same time. An occasional correspondence was continued between my sisters and their young friends for upwards of twenty years. I will here introduce a monument of Jane's warm attachment to her first friend, written in her eleventh year: it breathes the spirit, that has always distinguished her.

TO MISS JANE W.
ON HER LEAVING ENGLAND.

Alas! it must be,
  My ever dear Jane,
You must part with me:
  We must not meet again.

Accept then, my dear,
  These verses from me,
Although I do fear
  Far too mean they be.

I love you, believe,
  My Jane and my friend!
How much should I grieve
  If our friendship should end.

But this cannot be,
  Believe me sincere,
Though th' Atlantic sea
  Should part us, my dear.

Remember your Jane,
  When alone in the grove:
Forget not her name;–
  She will ever you love.

You soon sure will find
  A friend that is new:
Don't push Jane behind,
  But remember her too.

Adieu, then, my friend;
  The thought gives me pain;
My love shall not end;
  So remember your Jane.

In the winter of the year 1792, the comfort of the family and the education of the children were, for a long time, interrupted by the dangerous illness of their father. Throughout the season of affliction their mother's thoughts and cares were almost entirely confined to the chamber of sickness. For, during many weeks, her husband's recovery seemed to herself, and to his medical attendants, very improbable; and long after the immediate danger had passed away, he required not less the incessant attention of his anxious partner, who never willingly left him for an instant to the care of hirelings. In these months of sorrow and fear, the children, now five in number, were therefore unavoidably abandoned to the neglects and the improper treatment of servants. And not only was the course of their education interrupted, but their mother was tortured by knowing that their minds and manners were exposed to those evil influences from which, hitherto, her vigilance had, in so great a degree, preserved them. Nevertheless, she had then, as she has ever had, this comforting reflection, that it was not by their mother's fondness for dissipating pleasures that her children were ever exposed for a day–nor an hour, to the society of servants.

Soon after Mr. Taylor's recovery from this illness, being obliged to leave the house he had hitherto rented, he purchased, and nearly rebuilt one adjoining to it. In this new abode family order and comfort were soon restored. The house was commodious, and the garden promised to become all that could be wished; and being in part newly retrieved from the waste, afforded the pleasures of formation and improvement. The storm of affliction having passed away, a fair sky seemed to smile upon the distant future. But this agreeable prospect was soon changed; and a sphere of new duties was opened, by the indications of Divine Providence, to my father's christian zeal. The particular circumstances which lead to this change belong not to my subject;–they were, however, such as made him think it his duty to abandon the comforts with which he had just surrounded himself, and to comply with the wishes of a dissenting congregation at Colchester, to become their minister. Early in the year 1796, he removed to that town, with his family, and assumed the pastoral care of the society assembling in the meeting-house in Bucklersbury-lane.

CHAPTER II.
EDUCATION AND EARLY FRIENDSHIPS AT COLCHESTER.

JANE was in her thirteenth year at the time of the removal of the family to Colchester.

Changes in scene and circumstance are, to minds so much alive, as was Jane's, to the full force of every impression, the occasions of important and permanent changes in the character; and therefore become worthy of passing notice in its history. Colchester being then the station of a large body of troops, the utmost activity prevailed throughout the town; and its broad and handsome High Street was a perpetual scene of gay and busy movement. Its many interesting antiquities, also, and the agreeable country by which it is surrounded were sources of new pleasures. The house occupied by Mr. Taylor during his stay at Colchester, though situated near the centre of the town, has attached to it a garden, which, under his care, very soon became agreeable; and was so much so to Jane, that it is frequently alluded to in her letters, as the scene of her happiest hours.

The course of his children's instruction was soon resumed by my father after his settlement at Colchester. Our parents were agreed in their decided preference of a home education, at least for their daughters, who, with the exception of a few lessons in the lighter accomplishments, received from their father their entire instruction; his engagements being such as allowed him to superintend their learning without inconvenience. They have ever thought themselves indebted to him for solid advantages, which greatly overbalanced the value of any accomplishments they might better have gained at school. It may be permitted to me here to say that his methods of teaching were peculiarly happy, in being at once lucid, comprehensive, and facile to the learner. He aimed less to impart those shreds of information, which serve for little except to deck out ignorance with the show of knowledge, than to expand the mind by a general acquaintance with all the more important objects of science: so that, in whatever direction, in after life, his children might pursue their studies, they might find the difficulties attending the first steps on unknown ground already overcome. It was also in his view, a principal object to prevent the formation of a narrow and exclusive taste for particular pursuits, by exciting, very early, a lively interest on subjects of every kind. The influence of this comprehensive system on Jane's tastes was very apparent in after life.* For though, by the conformation of her mind, she most frequented the regions of imagination, and of moral sentiment; she always retained so genuine a taste for pursuits of an opposite kind, as at once to impart the spirit of liberality to her mind, and to become the source of richness and variety in her writings. The result to herself of the kind of education she received, she has well expressed when, in describing a true taste, she says, that–"while it will stoop to inspect and admire the most minute and laborious operations of industry, and while it feels an interest and sympathy in every branch of knowledge, it returns with a natural bias towards that which is most comprehensive in science, most intellectual in art, and most sublime in nature."

In the new circle of friends to which the family was introduced at Colchester, were some persons of superior education and intelligence; and among the many young persons with whom my sisters presently became acquainted, Jane soon found a friend with whom, until death intervened, she maintained an affectionate intimacy. Peculiarly formed for friendship, she was peculiarly happy in her friends–except in having several, most dear to her, torn from her by early death:–such was the case in the present instance. Jane's new friend was the youngest of the four lovely daughters of a physician, esteemed for the excellence of his private character, as well as for his professional ability. He died about the time of which I am speaking; leaving a widow, four daughters, and a son. The intercourse of this family with ours, during several years, was so intimate and frequent, as to claim mention in this memoir, especially as they are frequently referred to in Jane's correspondence.

The eldest of these young ladies was distinguished in an eminent degree by intelligence and sweetness of disposition, and loveliness of manners and of person. Her charm was that of blended dignity and gentleness. Not long after the commencement of my sister's intimacy with this family, she exhibited symptoms of the malady of which, in the course of a few years, herself and her sisters, were the victims; and died, after spending two or three years in frequent, but hopeless changes of scene, among her friends. The second daughter, though less lovely in person, and less gentle in disposition than her elder sister, endeared herself to her friends by the affectionate warmth and candor of her disposition. The progress of her fatal illness was more rapid than in the case of her sister:–she died in the preceding year, at a distance from her home; and her younger sister soon was laid in the same grave. Jane's friend was little inferior either in intelligence or in loveliness to her eldest sister. Many of the letters that passed between her and Jane are before me, and although there is not a little of girlish romance in them, they afford proofs enough of great energy of character on the one part, and of much warmth and tenderness of feeling, and originality of thought on the other.

This young lady quickly followed her three sisters to the grave. She had been sent, more than once, to the West of England; and died, on her way thither, at Basingstoke, December 12, 1806. Her death, under the peculiar circumstances which attended it, made a deep impression upon the mind of her friend; and is indeed so fraught with instruction that it may well claim a page in this memoir.

The mild and gentle spirit of their mother did not supply to these young women the loss they had sustained in the death of their father. They soon learned to pay too little deference to her wishes and opinions; and finding herself unable, by gentle measures, to control the high spirits of her daughters, she left them, with a faint show of opposition, to follow their own tastes. Her inefficient influence seemed rather to accelerate than retard their abandonment of the principles–or prejudices, as they were fondly called, of their education. And so eager were they to "think for themselves," that a very short time sufficed to confirm them in the contempt of every principle they had received from their parents. This tendency of their minds to discard whatever they had been taught in matters of belief, was unhappily aggravated by their witnessing a general laxity of manners, and some flagrant scandals among the religionists whose creed was already the object of their scorn. And such offences are sure to produce the utmost mischief in the minds of young persons whose education, while it has elevated their notions of the requirements of christianity, has failed to affect themselves with the spirit of piety.

In addition to such unfavorable circumstances on the one side, these young ladies were exposed, on the other, to the most seductive influence from the connexions they had lately formed at a distance from home. Many of their new friends were persons at once intelligent, refined in manner, amiable in temper, and perfectly versed in all the specious glozings of Socinianism. And Socinianism at that time was much more specious than at present. For, within the intervening period, the course of controversy has deprived its professors of an advantage–so important to the success of infidel insinuations–that of having itself no defined system of principles to defend.

In the society of persons of this class these intelligent young women quickly imbibed the spirit, and learned the language of universal disbelief; and whatever might have been their early devotional feelings, they became confessedly irreligious in their tastes, and habits. This change was but little obvious in the placid temper of the eldest of them. She was, indeed, fascinated with the showy simplicity of this masked deism, and perplexed by its sophistries; but she thought and felt too much ever to be perfectly satisfied with the opinions she had adopted:–her mind had rather been entangled than convinced. During her illness she seemed anxious to retrace her steps; and in the last days of her life she earnestly recommended her sisters to addict themselves with greater seriousness and humility, to the reading of the scriptures; and died imploring, with mournful indecision, to be "saved in God's own way."

Jane's friend was not at all less forward than her sisters, to renounce what she termed–"the errors of her education;"–she was even more determined and dogmatical than some of them in her new professions. This difference of opinion, along with other circumstances, had lessened the intimacy between the two:–they maintained, however, to the last, a friendly correspondence; though the subject of religion was, by the desire of the former, banished from their letters.

After many changes of place, she once more left Colchester, accompanied by her mother, on her way to Devonshire; but was soon compelled to make her last home at an inn on the road; where she lingered more than three months. The disappointment of her strong wish to reach Exeter, awakened her to the knowledge of her immediate danger; and this apprehension was soon succeeded by all the terrors of an affrighted conscience. The conviction of being an offender against the Divine Law, and exposed, without shelter, to its sanctions, took such full possession of her spirit that, for a length of time, she rejected all consolation: and endured an agony of fear, in expectation of dying without the hope of the Gospel. At length, however, her mind admitted freely and joyfully the "only hope set before us;" and she fully and explicitly renounced the illusions by which she had been betrayed; declaring them to be utterly insufficient to satisfy an awakened conscience, in the prospect of standing at the bar of the Supreme Judge. She lived long enough to display many of the effects of this happy change:–the whole temper of her mind was renovated; she became patient, thankful, affectionate, and humble; and triumphed in the profession of her hope:–"My hope," she said, "is in Christ–in Christ crucified:–and I would not give up that hope, for all the world."

The course of the memoir has been anticipated by this digression: I must now revert to the time of my sister's first acquaintance with these young ladies. The close intimacy and very frequent intercourse of the two families very greatly promoted the mental improvement of all parties; for there were advantages of different kinds possessed by each, which very fairly balanced the mutual benefit. About this time, that is, when Jane was in her fifteenth year, the six friends, in conjunction with two or three others, formed themselves into a society for the reading of original essays, and the promotion of intellectual improvement. Jane's diffidence of her own powers, her peculiar dread of competition, as well as her being one of the youngest members of the society, prevented her from standing very forward in these exercises; but she filled up her part well; and some of the pieces read at the meetings of the society present plain indications of that originality of thought, soundness of sentiment, and sprightliness and simplicity of style, which have since distinguished her writings. But Jane was then, and indeed long after that time, afraid to believe that she had any talent; and it is certain that a belief of the possession, is necessary to the full exercise of intellectual endowments. Nevertheless the part she took in this society very evidently ripened her powers of thinking, and accustomed her to govern the excursions of her fancy. From this time, what she wrote was oftener in the form of didactic essays, than in that of tales and romances. To what extent she continued to write verses, does not appear:–a few pieces only of this date have been preserved. But as they neither possess the interest that belongs to the earliest specimens of talent, nor the intrinsic excellence of maturer productions, I shall not obtrude them on the reader.

CHAPTER III.
RELIGIOUS FEELINGS–FAMILY CUSTOMS–EMPLOYMENTS AND RECREATIONS.

EVERY means of habitual instruction, and occasional admonition, were employed by our parents to affect the hearts of their children with religious principles: and there is reason to believe that Jane, very early, received strong impressions of this kind. But being reserved and timid by disposition, and peculiarly distrustful of herself, little was known of the state of her mind. Her imagination, susceptible as it was in the highest degree of impressions of fear, rendered her liable, at times, to those deep and painful emotions which belong to a conscience that is enlightened, but not fully pacified. And these feelings, when blended with the pensiveness of her tender heart, gave a character of mournfulness and distress to her religious feelings during several years. Re- ligious principles, if thus clouded, must always be less influential than when the mind is in a happier state; for the heart cannot be favorably ruled by fear: yet they were not destitute of influence upon her conduct; and I find, dated in her fourteenth year, records of pious resolutions, and emphatic expressions of the sense she had of the supreme importance of the objects of christian faith. Some unfinished verses, written about this time, were evidently composed under the influence of feelings too strong to allow of the exercise of her poetic talent:–they are interesting as records of deep and genuine religious feeling; but are too rude for publication.

A religious education, meeting with feelings so highly excitable, and at the same time exposed to many fascinations, is likely to produce frequent and painful conflicts between opposing principles, before that peace is obtained which makes religion the source of all that is happy and excellent in the character. Such was, for a length of time, the state of my sister's mind. But I believe that though often perplexed and distressed by seeming difficulties, her conviction of the truth of revealed religion was never materially shaken; and her habitual belief in its reality was full and firm: and in the latter years of her life, I think I may say, it was never disturbed. Every word on the subject of religion, contained, either in her letters to her friends, or in her published writings, was the genuine expression of an unfeigned faith.

In a letter to a friend, Jane says, "Our early friendships, though they must ever be remembered with interest and fond affection, were little adapted to promote our truest welfare; though to them, indeed, we are indebted for many benefits of a less valuable nature."

With our parents, the only choice at this time was, either to seclude their children from all society; or to allow them such as was within their reach, though not altogether of the kind they would have wished. The first alternative was hardly practicable; and, in admitting the latter, many advantages of a secondary kind were enjoyed. But the effect, upon the minds of young persons, of frequenting the society of those in whose conversation and manners religious principle or feeling does not appear, will almost inevitably be to render what they know of religion the source of uneasiness, and of fruitless conflicts between conscience and inclination: and if, at the same time, much of hollow religionism is witnessed by them, the probable result will be either immovable indifference, or confirmed infidelity. Happily neither of these effects were produced upon the mind of my sister; but instead of them, her religious comfort was impaired long afterwards, by the habit of feeling then formed.

That religion was the subject of her habitual regard, will appear by the following passages from letters of early date:–

"O it is hard fighting in our own strength against the evil bias of the heart, and external enemies. Their united forces are, I am daily more convinced, far too much for anything but grace to overcome. No good resolutions, no efforts of reason, no desire to please, can alone succeed:–they may varnish the character; but O! how insufficient are such motives for the trying occasions of common life. I would shine most at home; yet I would not be good for the sake of shining; but for its own sake; and when thus I trace the subject to first principles, I find a change of heart can alone effect what I desire; that 'new heart and right spirit' which is the gift of God."

To the same friend, soon after, she writes–

"I am grieved, my dear E., to hear from you so melancholy an account of the state of your mind; I wish I were a more able counsellor; or rather, I wish you would overcome your feelings, and apply to those whose consolations and advice might be useful to you. I can sincerely sympathize with you in all your griefs. I rejoice in having obtained your confidence; and I cannot make a better use of it than to urge you to seek some abler adviser. I speak from experience when I say, how much benefit you might derive from an open communication of your feelings to your dear mother. Well do I know how difficult it is; yet the good to be gained is worthy the effort. You say she is so total a stranger to your feelings, that she even supposes you to be an enemy to re- ligious principles. If then you consider the pleasure it would afford her to find you seriously inquiring on such subjects, I think you will feel it to be an additional argument for the disclosure. Two or three years ago, my mind was in a state of extreme depression:–for months I had been conflicting with the most distressing fears, and longing to disburden myself to my father: at last I could no longer support myself, and breaking through, what I had thought unsurmountable difficulties, I opened my mind to him completely. It was a struggle; but the immediate relief I experienced fully repaid me; and the unspeakable benefit I have derived from the conversations I have since, from time to time, held with him encourages me to persevere."

"Mr. — was very urgent with me not to give way to that unhappy reluctance to converse on religious subjects, so common to young persons: he says we do not know how much we are our own enemies by this reserve. If I understand you aright, you are giving way to discontent as to your outward circumstances. 'The heart knoweth its own bitterness,' and it is not for me to say you are happy; yet from all I know of you–your friends, circumstances, and prospects, you are one of the last persons whose situation would excite my commiseration. When I feel disposed to indulge discontent or fretfulness, which, alas! is sometimes the case–I always find it a good way to compare myself with the thousands of my fel- low creatures who are exposed to the miseries of poverty and want;–miseries which I never knew, and in the absence of which, I invent calamities, which the smallest exposure to those real ones would presently put to flight. But these reflections, consolatory as they may be, will not always avail to restore our comfort. Discontent, no doubt much oftener springs from internal causes, than immediately from those that are external: with affectionate friends, affluent circumstances, and while in the possession of all the world calls good, one may be very miserable. Happiness is very much in our own power; for it depends much more upon what we are than upon what we have. But now I cannot help laughing at myself; for at this instant while recommending contentedness to you, I am indulging an internal murmur, and vexing at what I ought to account a trifle; so much easier is it to talk, or to write, than to act!"

The tendency of the education bestowed upon his children by their father, as I have already said, was to give them a taste for every branch of knowledge that can well be made the subject of early instruction. This general taste was greatly promoted among them about this time–that is, when Jane was in her sixteenth year,–by Mr. Taylor's delivering philosophical lectures to a number of young persons who were, in part, his pupils; and which were frequented by many of their friends. The lectures were rendered inter- esting by numerous graphic illustrations of every subject; and in the preparation of these diagrams, my father was assisted by his children, who were thus familiarized, in the readiest way, with the topics of the lecture. Though Jane's peculiar taste was of a different kind, she entered with the fullest zest into these pursuits; and ever retained a relish for matters of science. Especially for the general and more interesting facts of astronomy, she possessed a genuine taste. Her eye was never indifferent to the revelations of night;–she describes her own feelings in saying–

"I used to roam and revel 'mid the stars:

*      *      *      *

When in my attic, with untold delight,
I watched the changing splendours of the night."

Their father determined to qualify his daughters to provide for themselves the means of independence, in some ways suited to their tastes and capacities, and to his own circumstances. With this view, no plan seemed more eligible than to instruct them in that branch of the arts which he himself practised;–being a line in which several females have succeeded in gaining, not only independence, but distinction as artists. This plan, moreover, offered at the same time the advantage–so highly prized by our parents, of retaining their entire family under the paternal roof; and of carrying on a home education, while provision was made for their future comfort.

The actual consequences of this plan were not indeed precisely what their father had intended–that of making his daughters artists by profession; for after practising engraving during a few years, engagements and duties of a different kind were opened to them. But the indirect effects of it very plainly conduced to fit them for those engagements; while it secured other important advantages to the family. At the time when four of his children were thus placed under their father's eye, to acquire the knowledge and practice of the arts, they were already imbued with a relish for literary and scientific pursuits; and conversation, which was freely allowed, was often of a kind to promote these tastes, and to keep intellect in activity. During a part of the day some one of the pupils who were under Mr. Taylor's care read aloud; so that the double object was almost constantly pursued–of acquiring the means of independence, and of carrying on intellectual cultivation; nor, at any time did the pressing engagements connected with the first object, wholly interrupt the pursuit of the second.

In this scene of united employment, and of mutual education, was formed that close and endeared family friendship, which was the source of their best enjoyments during the years that the sisters and brothers remained undivided at home; and which continued to be their solace after they were separated. Many passages occurring in the subjoined selection from her correspondence, evince how fully and how warmly Jane participated in the pleasures of this home friendship. In truth her feelings of this kind were so strong as to form a leading feature of her character; and to require therefore distinct mention.

Lest her engagements with her father should produce a distaste or inaptness for domestic duties, Jane gave her assistance in the family, alternately with her sister: and her mother's solicitude that she should be thoroughly conversant with these employments, was not disappointed; for not even the excitement of her subsequent literary pursuits, ever impaired the domestic tastes and habits she acquired under her mother's care. Jane–far from being the mere literary lady, averse to household concerns,–was not only happy to be occupied with them; but became really a proficient in employments of this sort.

My sister's taste for the arts was such as to make her excel in the lighter branches; and many of her drawings, still in possession of her family, display a true feeling of the beautiful in nature, and a peculiar niceness and elegance of execution: but the business of engraving was not altogether suited to her talent, or taste, and it was relinquished without regret, when other paths of exertion opened before her. In a letter of an early date, she says–"The more I see of myself, and of the performances of others, the more I am convinced that nature never intended me for an artist: * * * no one can tell how my feelings are excruciated, when I am referred to, or my opinion asked, as an artist.–I look at the girls in the milliners' shops, with envy; because their business and their genius are on a level. I think it is what I shall come to at last."

All the intervals of time between the stated hours of employment in engraving, were carefully husbanded. Early rising was the custom of the family; and the morning and evening hours, during the winter, were employed, either in literary pursuits, or in the maintenance of friendly correspondences;–so that as few moments as can be imagined were lost from the day.

In mentioning family arrangements, and in detailing the lesser circumstances which gave their coloring to my sister's mind, or which may be necessary to be understood, to explain the allusions occurring in her correspondence, it is almost impossible to avoid what I would fain avoid–giving the history of a family along with that of one of its members. In this difficulty I can only throw myself upon the candor of that class of readers whom I would most wish to please–I mean those who, feeling an interest in these minor incidents and descriptions, will not be disposed to impute an absurd egotism to the writer, who must either enter into such particulars, or confine himself to a narrative, too meagre to be either interesting or instructive.

Our pleasures were always of a social kind:– at intervals, during the winter months, we were accustomed to spend the whole evening together, while my mother read aloud; and each was occupied with some lighter work of the pencil. Simple and easily procured as were these pleasures, they have been remembered with more delight than, perhaps, often follows the most exciting amusements.

In a letter to her earliest friend, Jane W., my sister says–"We continue to pursue our employments with regularity:–seldom or never encroaching on the usual hours. And though we sometimes wish our confinement was less; I believe we enjoy a greater proportion of real happiness than many who live a life of apparent ease and pleasure. We find it is employment that gives recreation its greatest charm; and we enjoy, with a double relish, little pleasures which, to those who are already fatigued with doing nothing, appear tiresome, or uninteresting. When I see people perpetually tormented with ennui –satiated with amusements–indifferent to every object of interest, I indeed congratulate myself that I have not one spare moment, in which these demons can assail me. You, my dear Jane, know the pleasures of industry; and you know that it is essential to our happiness."

To another friend she writes–"I feel with you the approach of winter; and though I have not to apprehend from it the distressing effects which you experience, yet the loss of our delight- ful evening walks–the desolated garden–the decaying vegetation–the shortening days–all tend rather to depress than to enliven. Yet I have much to love in winter: and I can truly say, I enjoy the hours of quiet industry it always introduces. Ann and I often remark to each other that, whatever agreeable recreations we may occasionally indulge in, and much as we really enjoy them, we are never so happy as when steadily engaged in the room where we engrave: that is our paradise:–you may smile at the comparison; and we know the inconveniences connected with our engagements there; but use reconciles us to them; and experience teaches us that comfort and happiness are compatible with these apparent inconveniences:–we have every inducement to industry; and we are thankful that that which is necessary, is also agreeable to us. We want nothing but a little more society;–one congenial family within our reach would be a treasure: for though we do love each other, and enjoy each other's society greatly; yet there are times when we long to recreate our wearied spirits with an intelligent friend."

During the summer our family parties were carried to some little distance in the country; and indeed, whenever weather permitted, the sisters and their brothers walked together. Jane records in many of her letters the happiness she tasted in these summer evening rambles. They served not merely the purpose of recruiting health and spirits; but tended greatly to cement the friendship to which the brothers, especially, have thought themselves indebted for the most important advantages. At the same time a taste for the beauties of nature was roused and cherished, by the interchanged expression of delight in these ever-new sources of enjoyment. The superstitions of the heart were respected among us; and birth days were generally given up to social pleasures. Our family, at this time, was much secluded from extraneous society. The circle of my sister's early friends had been broken up, by the death of several of those who formed it, and the removal of others; and an interval of three or four years elapsed, before those friendships were formed of which the letters soon to be introduced were the fruits. During this interval, the family learned to look, almost entirely, within itself for its pleasures. This, while it tended, as has been mentioned, to cherish family affection, must be confessed to have produced a rather exclusive feeling, which was afterwards not easily broken up; and when, subsequently, distant friendships were formed, that were in the highest degree gratifying and exciting, an unfavorable feeling towards less congenial society nearer home, was perhaps increased. In Jane's mind this seclusive feeling was augmented by an extreme diffidence, and by a thousand nice sensibilities, which neither a wider intercourse with the world, nor the measure of public favor she obtained, ever entirely conquered. To the last, she would always gladly retreat from general society to the bosom of her family; or to the circle of those friends whom she intimately knew and loved. Yet, whatever feelings of reserve might belong to my sister's character, I think it will not be said by any who knew her, that her behavior ever indicated intellectual arrogance, or supercilious indifference towards persons whose worth might want the embellishments of education. Her distaste for vulgarity of sentiment and manners was strong; but virtue never suffered in her esteem from the mere deficiency of mental adornments. In explaining her conduct, on some particular occasion, in a letter to her mother, she says–"At any rate, my dear mother, do not accuse me of a vanity and arrogance which I, from my very heart, disclaim. If, in comparison with some of my friends, others of them may appear less pleasing, or less intelligent, believe me, whenever I compare any with myself, the result is always humiliating. And perhaps nothing is less likely to raise any one highly in my esteem than their 'writing at the rate I do:'–my dear mother, do me the justice to believe that, at whatever crevice my vanity may endeavor to peep out, it will ever fly from the literary corner of my character. I am not indifferent to the opinion of any one; though I never expect to acquire that sort of philosophic serenity which shall enable me to regard the whole circle of my acquaintance with the same glow of affection, or smile of complacency."

Whenever the health or the interests of those dear to her were at stake, the vigor of Jane's mind was roused;–her diffidence, her reserve, disappeared; and she exhibited not only disinterestedness, but a high degree of spirit and courage. In times of family affliction, the keenness of her sympathy made her actually a sufferer with those who suffered; especially if life seemed threatened, she endured the tortures of tender apprehension, in a degree that always impaired her own health. These dispositions were exercised during the autumn of the year 1801. At that time the scarlet fever prevailed very generally; and was, in many instances, fatal. It entered our family, Jane's elder sister, and three of her brothers being affected by it. DECIMUS, the youngest of them, then about six years old, received the infection at school, and after less than a week's illness became its victim.

CHAPTER IV.
NEW FRIENDSHIPS, AND LITERARY ENGAGEMENTS.

IN the spring of the following year Jane visited London, for the first time since her childhood. It was during this visit that were commenced those lasting and inestimable friendships from which she derived, through the remainder of her life, so much of the highest enjoyment; and to which she was wont to attribute the happiest influence upon her character. This visit was, in a manner, the commencement of a new era both to her heart and understanding: she was then in her nineteenth year, and was prepared by sensibilities of the liveliest kind, as well as by the long privation of social pleasures, except those found at home, to enjoy to the full, an introduction to a new circle. In this circle, I may venture to say, was found a very rare assemblage of excellence, in virtue, refinement, and intelligence. Most of the young friends with whom she had hitherto been connected were well educated, and intelligent; but among her new friends were some distinguished in their circle–and who would have been distinguished in any circle, by brilliant qualities of mind: they were, moreover, decided in their religious principles; and for the most part, influenced by a spirit of serious piety. Among them, the alternation from literary to religious conversation was not felt to be difficult, or chargeable with incongruity. Instead of seeing, as she had before too often seen, piety and intelligence disjoined, she now saw them so united as to give attractiveness to the former, and true elevation to the latter.

She did not take her place among her new friends as an aspirant to literary distinction. Her talent had not yet been so called forth as to be felt by herself, or much known by others. She failed not, however, strongly to interest those to whom she was now introduced, or to make subsequent intercourse fully as much desired on the one part as on the other. Friendships, formed at the very age of romance, are very commonly broken up when the illusions on which they were founded are dissipated: but the friendships formed at this time by my sister, were dissolved only by death.

Although the timidity of her disposition rendered her peculiarly averse to competition of every kind, yet Jane could not but feel, indirectly, the stimulating influence of the friendships she now enjoyed; for they were precisely of the sort most likely to rouse her own powers, and to render the exercise of them a means of winning pleasures which she ever valued more highly than any gratification of literary vanity. I think I may affirm that a very principal incentive, or perhaps the principal incentive, to her poetical efforts–at least till the hope of doing good came in place of it, was the desire of enhancing the regard of the few friends whom she loved. A sentiment of this kind so frequently occurs in the course of her correspondence, that it cannot be doubted to have been a leading motive with her. Nor, indeed, did it seem in any degree impaired, after she had been exposed to excitements which too often injure the better feelings of the heart. To be loved, was to her a pleasure of incalculably higher price than to be admired. She first wrote to cherish the affection of her friends; and when, afterwards, she felt the obligation of a more serious motive–that of making a faithful employment of the talent committed to her; still that first feeling, being most congenial to her character, continued to yield her the sweetest reward of her labors.

Rarely does it happen that a sphere of peculiar usefulness is chosen, and entered upon by the deliberate determination of the agent. For the Author of all good, in the more usual order of his procedure, not only chooses who shall serve him, but leads those whom he calls into his service in a path of which, when they enter upon it, they know not the direction. Ambitious minds, it is true, often devise schemes big with importance, which they imagine themselves destined to execute. But how seldom are such enterprises borne onward by the prosperous breath of heaven!

Certainly it was with no ambitious intention, nor even with the expectation of ever being heard of as authors beyond the circle of their friends, that Jane and her sister first wrote for the press. The circumstances which led them to do so were, in themselves, trivial; nor were they quick to attach any great importance to this new occupation. Jane wrote because she was accustomed, in every thing, to be her sister's companion and partner. She could not soon admit the idea that she was responsible for the exercise of a peculiar talent. This impression did, however, at length, gain its proper influence; and throughout the latter years of her life she was under a powerful sense of duty in this respect. I know it was her constant practice, whenever she took up the pen to write for the press, to implore guidance and assistance from Him, from whom "every good and every perfect gift descends." Yet she could never receive the comfort of believing that she had done well in the charge committed to her; for both constitutional diffidence and christian humility, inclined her to renounce every assumption of merit.

The first piece of Jane's which appeared in print was a contribution to the Minor's Pocket Book, for the year 1804. It is inserted among the Poetical Remains. The pathos, simplicity, and sprightliness of "The Beggar Boy," even though the verse is fettered by the necessity of introducing a list of incongruous words, attracted much more attention than is often the lot of productions appearing in so humble a walk of literature. Her sister had contributed to the same publication for several preceding years, and had gained not less attention. The authors of these pieces became the subjects of inquiry; and it was not doubted by those who were competent to calculate the probable success of literary enterprises, that a volume of pieces, exhibiting the same vivacity, truth of description, good taste, and sound sentiment, would gain public favor.

Their father viewed with pleasure the new engagements of his daughters, and yet with some anxiety, for he was strongly averse to the idea of their becoming authors by profession. He therefore favored their literary occupations so far as they might consist with the predominance of those pursuits, which he considered to be much more safe and certain, as the means of independence. Nor did their mother (who then would have thought any thing as probable as that she herself should become known as a writer) look with less watchfulness upon the effect of these new and exciting engagements. They were therefore carried on under just so much of restriction as prevented their engrossing too much of thought and of time. Almost every thing written by my sisters for some years after they had first published, was composed, either before the regular occupations of the day commenced, or after they were concluded. It was for the most part, after several hours of assiduous application, that the pieces contained in the volumes of Original Poems, Rhymes for the Nursery, &c. were written: nor was it, I believe, till a much later period, that ever an entire day was indulged to the labors of the pen.

Under restrictions such as these many of the most useful, and some, even of the most admired literary works have been produced. It is true that to those who are thus at once urged and impeded on the course of intellectual labor, such circum- stances seem altogether unfavorable; and they are fain to imagine that, if freed from the fetter, and exempted from the goad, genius would make a wider circuit, and bring home richer treasures. But this supposition is not often well founded: for so great is the vis inertiæ of mind, so vague its spontaneous efforts, and so much higher and more painful is the effort necessary for useful production, than that of which most minds are at all capable, when free from urgent motives, that, perhaps, these seemingly unfavorable circumstances ought to be welcomed as the stimulus necessary to put the mind in full activity. It must, however, be granted that there are regions of thought into which those minds can only rise which neither require the stimulus of secondary motives, nor can submit to be so embarrassed.

The little volume of "Original Poems for Infant Minds, by several Young Persons," was found to be highly agreeable to children, and so useful in the business of early education, that, in a very short time, it obtained an extensive circulation: it was quickly reprinted in America; and translated into the German and Dutch languages. What share of this success belongs to each of the contributors to the volume, could not be ascertained, even if to make the inquiry were of any importance. Jane, for her part, was ever forward to surrender all praise to others.

The success of this volume presently suggested the production of a second, of a similar kind; and the young writers, gratified by the unexpected favor they had won, readily listened to the wishes of parents and children. Although children will not be long entertained, or effectively instructed by mere dulness; yet it is true that, even the more intelligent of them, may be entertained, and to a certain extent, instructed, by what is very trivial, or very much deformed by faults of style. But it is happy when the power of pleasing children, and of strongly engaging their attention, is so united with good taste and delicate tact in the choice of embellishments, and correct judgment, and sound principle in all that bears upon morals, as to give to such productions those negative merits that, in the work of education, are of higher importance than, perhaps, any other excellences. For, to furnish reading, without vulgarising the taste, or contaminating the imagination, or enfeebling the judgment, or perverting the feelings, is high praise in those who write for youth.

A part of my sister's contributions to some of these little works, was composed under rather peculiar circumstances, which must here be briefly narrated; because they served to mature her character, and to exhibit its solid excellences in a somewhat new and difficult situation.

During the autumn and winter of the year 1803, the alarm of a French invasion (and it has since appeared to have been a well-founded alarm) prevailed through the country, and espe- cially along the eastern and southern coasts. Colchester was at that time a principal military station: the active movements therefore of a large body of troops, always in a state of readiness to meet the expected enemy, tended of itself to keep alive a constant impression of the impending danger: besides this, the military persons high in command on the station, were not backward in exciting the popular fears. Every day, some whispered intimation of immediate danger from "the best authority," was circulated through the town, till a strong and general persuasion prevailed that it might, very probably, become the scene of the first conflict with the invaders. In this state of public feeling, not a few of the inhabitants whose means allowed them to do so, either left the town for a time; or made such arrangements as should enable them to leave it at an hour's notice.

At this time the house which, as has been mentioned, Mr. Taylor owned at Lavenham, was without a tenant: this circumstance seemed to invite the step which the fears of the time suggested–that of removing a part of the family thither, where a home would be always in readiness for those who remained, should it be needed. No material difficulty prevented the execution of this plan, and it was determined that Jane, with two of her brothers, and an infant sister, should remove to the vacant house. This separation of the family took place in the middle of October.

So great was the confidence placed by her parents in Jane's discretion and ability, that they committed this divided portion of their family to her care without anxiety; nor do I think that, in any instance, their confidence was abused of disappointed. Jane, though gifted with uncommon vivacity of spirit, was thoughtful and provident in a degree rarely found at her age. I can perfectly remember her active, laborious, and well-concerted management of our little affairs. Such was her industry, that the new cares of a family were suffered but in a small degree to infringe upon the customary hours devoted to engraving; nor these upon her literary engagements; for her winter evenings were assiduously occupied in composing her share of some little works which soon after appeared.

The house stood in one of the least frequented parts of the town–the garden abutting upon a common: and being only in part occupied, and scantily furnished, the aspect of things within, as well as without, was very much in harmony with the feelings of terror under which we had sought this asylum. Jane exhibited, on this occasion, the strength of her mind: she was peculiarly subject to impressions of fear, both from real and imaginary dangers; but such was her resolution, and so great was the strength of her principle, that, without wishing to retreat from her situation, she endured (what those who have more physical courage never endure) the terrors of a suscepti- ble, and strongly excited imagination. This is indeed the courage of woman: and it may be questioned whether, in the possession and exercise of this high quality, the weaker sex does not often surpass the stronger.

Yet our banishment was not without its enjoyments; for Jane, who had a genuine domestic taste, soon gave an air of comfort to the part of the house we occupied; and we received, during our stay, the kindest attentions from several families with which ours had been on terms of intimacy while resident at Lavenham. I may here insert a few extracts from letters written by my sister at this time. To her friend Jane W. she writes–"I believe Mrs. W. has received from Ann a full account of our late flight to Lavenham, where, after the first alarm had subsided, we found a very pleasant and comfortable asylum, for some months. Though we felt it a little mortifying, that our neighbor Bonaparte should have it in his power to give us such a thorough panic, and so completely to derange all our affairs, yet, I own, I enjoyed my residence in the old spot exceedingly. Being in our own house, and for so long a time, I began to fancy myself once more an inhabitant; and it was not without pain that I took leave of a place that will ever be dear to me. During our stay at Lavenham, I took some delightful walks:–perhaps you have by this time forgotten most of them. I found it highly interesting once more to tread the oft-trod path; and to recognise many a spot that had been the scene of former enjoyments. I know not whether to you it is so; but with me, no local attachments are so strong as those formed in childhood." * * *

From a letter of a later date, a few sentences may be extracted:–"I write this in hopes of your having it in time for the carrier, that you may know what things I most want. Of news I have none; and should not have written now, but for the reason above mentioned. Thank you for the carpet; it is quite a luxury to us. Although we brought every thing absolutely necessary, we have few conveniences; and though, if we were all huddled together in a barn, expecting the French to overtake us every instant, we might be very well contented with–

'An open broken elbow chair;
A caudle cup without an ear;' &c.

Yet, living quietly, like our neighbors, we rather miss the conveniences we have been used to. I must confess we did not fast on the fast day; we went however in the morning to the prayer-meeting, where we heard an excellent prayer from Mr. — of three-quarters of an hour:–its length spoiled it; for we were all ready to faint. In the afternoon we walked with the children. I thank you and father for what you say about walking; but really we seem very little to need more exercise than we have in the house and garden, where the children play continually. If we take a walk once or twice a week, just to look at the old places, and show the children the new ones, it is quite sufficient."

Towards the close of her stay at Lavenham, Jane writes to her mother–"Could you see us just now, I cannot tell whether you would most laugh at, or pity us. I am sitting in the middle of the room, surrounded with beds, chairs, tables, boxes, &c. &c.; and every room is the same. But our brains are in still greater confusion–not knowing now what to do. Have you heard this new alarm? It is said the French are actually embarking. Mr. — strongly advises us not to move till we hear something more; so we are quite perplexed. We have at length resolved to wait, at all events, till Saturday, and if you write by return of post, we shall be able to act then according to your wishes; but in the meantime, we shall be in a most delightful plight, for most of the things are packed up, ready to go to-morrow; and then, if after all, we must stay, it will be vexatious enough. If you find there is no foundation for the alarm, you will of course, order us home directly. But do not fail to write, for we are quite deplorable.

"And now, having despatched all my business, let me thank my dear mother for her wholesome reprimand, which I hope will be a lesson for the future. I feel no inclination to apologize for myself; but acknowledge, upon reflection, I was wrong–when I wrote I did not reflect. Yet this I can say, that whatever opinion I may have formed of Mr. —, I have never been otherwise than polite to him. What I said to L. was unpremeditated; and believe, if I had thought it probable that she would ever have met him, I should not have said what I did; further I declare, I do not despise the gentleman, and I wrote only for my amusement, though it should not have been at another person's expense."

The alarm of invasion scarcely subsided till the spring of the following year. But at the earliest appearance of returning security, Mr. Taylor gladly recalled his family to their home; and in the month of February we were once more united under his roof.

CHAPTER V.
EXTRACTS FROM CORRESPONDENCE.

ABOUT this time commenced that series of deaths among her earlier young friends, to which frequent allusion is made in Jane's letters. The death of the four lovely sisters, of whom mention has already been made, was succeeded by that of several other endeared companions. But while early intimacies were thus dissolved, the more important and more lasting friendships that had now been formed, were strengthened, and became every year the sources of more pleasure and advantage. The summer months were always enlivened by visits from some of our young friends; and the records which I find, among my sister's papers, of these social enjoyments, show that she derived from them both the liveliest delight, and the most important benefits. The interruption occasioned by these visits to ordinary occupation, was not much greater than was need- ed to recruit the spirits, and to prepare the mind for the unremitting application of the winter months; for as soon as evening walks were no longer practicable, the labors of the pen were eagerly resumed; and, till the returning summer, rarely suspended.

Her letters to her young friends will best exhibit her feelings, and describe her employments at this period.

CHAPTER VI.
LITERARY ENGAGEMENTS AND RELIGIOUS FEELINGS.

JANE was at this time employed, conjointly with her sister, upon some little works to which their names have not since been attached. To this indeed they were always extremely reluctant; and yielded their names only when it was no longer within their option to withhold them. It may be added, that, if publicity was not sought for by my sisters, neither were they incited by any prospects of considerable pecuniary advantage; for, with one or two exceptions, the authors' share of the profits arising from the sale of their works never amounted to a sum which, if they had been dependant upon their exertions in this line, could have afforded them a comfortable subsistence. I feel it to be due to my sister's memory–and not to her memory alone–thus explicitly to contradict a supposition entertained, I believe, by many persons, that the very extensive sale of their works has been the source of a large income to the authors.

In pecuniary matters, Jane was, at once, provident, exact, and liberal; but her tastes and habits made her utterly averse to the care of accumulating money. Her feelings in writing were dissociated from the idea of gain; and she would neither personally interfere to secure what she might deem her rights, nor suffer her mind to be long disturbed by solicitudes of this sort. She received, with gratitude to the Giver of all good, whatever share she actually obtained in the products of her writings, and strove, as far as possible, to put away from her thoughts the disquieting recollection of what that share might have been. Often have I heard her break off a conversation on pecuniary matters, by an exclamation of this kind–"Ah well, it is God who determines what I am to have; and if I were to gain all that I might fairly gain, He would know how, in other ways, to reduce the amount to the exact sum at which he sees best to fix my income."

The success of her first attempt to write for the press, administered no more stimulus to my sister's mind, than her diffidence needed. Still she considered herself as merely filling up a subordinate part; and it was with no feigned humility that, in addressing her sister, she says–

"My Ann, you had taken the lyre,
  And I, from the pattern you set,
Attempted the art to acquire;
  And often we play a duet.
But those who, in grateful return,
  Have said they were pleased with the lay,
The discord could always discern;
  And yet I continued to play."

The second volume of Original Poems met with as much favor as the first;–both volumes were soon reprinted in America; and have to the present time, continued there, as well as in England, to be very generally used in the nursery.

From the period of which I am now speaking, the history of my sister's mind will best be given by herself, in the extracts from her Correspondence; the part, therefore, of her biographer, will chiefly be to furnish such connecting facts as may render the perusal of the selected letters intelligible and interesting. The sound good sense which has recommended the latter productions of her pen, began then to temper the sprightliness of her fancy; and the letters of each succeeding year will exhibit a very marked progression in this respect. For not only did her understanding ripen, but the false diffidence by which it had been shackled was gradually removed by the successful exercise of her talents. In some young persons self-confidence occasions a precocious developement of the reasoning powers; while in others, a morbid diffidence retards the expansion of them, and even protracts a certain jejeuneness of style in writing, long after the substance of thought has become more worthy of mature years. This was very much the case with Jane:–if earlier in life she had felt herself possessed of the powers she afterwards displayed, she might have moved in a wider and higher sphere. She continued to address herself to childhood and youth, not merely because she thought that to be the work for which she was fitted; but in great measure because, within this humble sphere, she felt herself safe; and that, while she moved not out of it, the dreaded charge of presumption could not well be brought against her. On many of the most important topics of religion, morals, and manners, she thought justly, and felt strongly; and seemed only to need the persuasion that she could gain the attention of adult readers, in order to do so with success. But though representations of this kind were often made to her, she could never be prevailed upon to make the attempt.

The little volume of "Rhymes for the Nursery" appeared not long after the two of Original Poems:–to this volume no one but my sisters contributed. Their aim was to present ideas and to awaken emotions in a form adapted to the earliest childhood. The question which the authors propose in their preface–"Whether ideas adapted to the comprehension of infancy admit the restrictions of rhyme and metre"–seems now to be pretty well determined in the affirmative; for it may be said to have been "carried by acclamation" from thousands of infant voices, that rhyme and metre are the friends of infancy; and that, far from being "restrictions" upon the communication of ideas, they open the avenues of intellect more readily than any other means. Experience proves that poetry itself, as distinguished from mere rhyme and metre, though not fully apprehended by the mind of a child, has truly a charm for it. Those who have been en- gaged in the instruction of the children of the poor will grant it to be a fact, that if children of active minds are allowed to make their own selection of hymns to be committed to memory, they will, for the most part, choose rather such as have something of the spirit of poetry in them, than those which might seem the best adapted to their comprehension by being altogether prosaic in their style. The Rhymes for the Nursery, though in phraseology brought down to a lower level, are, many of them, more poetical in their character than the Original Poems; and it is believed that the success of the one has been, at least, fully equal to that of the other.

Jane's literary pursuits were facilitated about this time, and her comfort much increased, by the appropriation of a room to her exclusive use; which she fitted up to her own taste. This attic was secluded from the rest of the house;–the window commanded a view of the country, and a "tract of sky" as a field for that nightly soaring of the fancy of which she was so fond. Our parents always considered the exclusive occupation of a chamber or study, by each of their family, as a most important advantage, both for the cultivation of the mind, and the cherishing of devotional habits. So far as it was possible we were all favored in this respect; and Jane was always forward to avail herself of the privilege. Addressing a literary friend, she thus describes her study:–

"My verses have certainly one advantage to boast, beyond any that ever before escaped from my pen;–that of being composed in my own study. Whether instigated by the sight of your retired literarium, or what, I cannot exactly tell; but certain it is, that one of my first engagements on my return home, was to fit up an unoccupied attic, hitherto devoted only to household lumber: this I removed by the most spirited exertions, and supplied its place with all the apparatus necessary for a poet; which, you know, is not of a very extensive nature:–a few book-shelves, a table for my writing-desk, one chair for myself, and another for my muse, is a pretty accurate inventory of my furniture. But though my study cannot boast the elegance of yours, it possesses one advantage which, as a poet, you ought to allow surpasses them all–it commands a view of the country;–the only room in the house, except one, which is thus favored; and to me this is invaluable. You may now expect me to do wonders. But even if others should derive no advantages from this new arrangement, to me, I am sure they will be numerous. For years I have been longing for such a luxury; and never before had wit enough to think of this convenient place: it will add so much to the comfort of my life, that I can do nothing but congratulate myself upon the happy thought; and I demand a large share of your poetical sympathy on the occasion. Although it is morning, and, I must tell you, but little past six, I have half filled this sheet, which capability I attribute, chiefly, to the sweet fields that are now smiling in vernal beauty before me."

There is reason to believe that the advantage of being able to fulfil, literally, the command "to enter into the closet, and shut the door," was not slighted; but that religious exercises were more regularly attended to by my sister, from this time; and that a consequent improvement in the state of her mind took place; though it still fell short of the peace and hope which become christian faith. Nevertheless the native soundness of her judgment showed itself when she was called to animadvert upon any morbid sentiments expressed by her young friends.–

A similar strain of good sense appears in the following passages.

"Those," she says in a letter to a friend, "who are in the habit of reading their own hearts, know that the heart may be as devotedly fixed on what is in itself a truly worthy and proper object of regard as on the sinful vanities of the world: and if that object be any thing but God, its intrinsic value diminishes nothing from the idolatry of the feeling. Perhaps I need not blush to enumerate those worldly pleasures on which my heart is most intent;–but I know I ought to blush, could I disclose the high, monopolizing place they hold there:–they reign;–when will these idols fall before the ark of God? Are they to be torn from their hiding-place as yours have been? O! Why have I not had this trial rather than you?

"You have well described the difficulty, the exertion, requisite for real and fervent prayer. I am glad that I do know the difference between that, and the offering of lifeless petitions: you rightly affirmed that 'true prayer surpasses every other mental exercise, and is entirely be- yond human attainment, without divine aid.' Certainly, no one ever prayed who was not a Christian; but though sometimes I have found every faculty, for a few moments, intensely engaged in the exercise, how can I hope this was really prayer, when I remember the indifference the coldness, the reluctance that characterize the general state of my mind. Yet in the midst of the darkness that surrounds my own mind, I rejoice, my dear friend, in the light which shines upon yours."

How far this want of the comfort which religion should afford, might have been attributed to an obscured apprehension of "the hope set before us in the Gospel," is a question worthy of inquiry;–that it was not the consequence of cynical feelings or habits will be made apparent by a quotation from a letter addressed to a friend, whose mind was in some degree perverted by sentiments of that sort.

"In a certain sense, I may say with you, 'that my views of life are dark and melancholy:' yet I believe when you say so, you mean something more than I do. You do not permit yourself to receive the comforts and delights that are offered to you by Providence, with 'a merry heart, giving God thanks.' Now I think that though, when compared with heavenly happiness, the best joys of earth should appear mean and trifling in our eyes; yet, considered in themselves, as they were given for our enjoyment, surely a cheerful and grateful delight in them, must be even acceptable to our all-bountiful Father. When we survey all our comforts–a happy home, affectionate friends, easy circumstances, and the numerous train of common mercies, and social delights, ought we to call the prospect 'dark and melancholy?' Surely the cheerful song of praise befits us better than the sigh of discontent. Do not suppose I would plead for the gay amusements, and dangerous pleasures of the world. I am as firmly convinced of their evil tendency as you can be; and would avoid them as carefully. I am referring only to the natural comforts, and lawful enjoyments of life; and of these even I would say, that we must still 'hold them as if we held them not; and use them as not abusing them.'"

The same order of sentiment appears in a letter of consolation, addressed to this friend, soon afterward, on the death of a beloved brother. "Afflictions rightly improved, are indeed blessings; yet how apt are we to abuse them by receiving impressions very different from what they were intended to produce. I mention this from a fear, that notwithstanding your cheerful acquiescence in the Divine will, you do, in a degree, mistake the intentions of Providence. I hear your cough is become habitual, and that you firmly expect, and almost wish to join your dear brother very soon. Now I am persuaded it is not merely from a selfish motive that I would say, do not court death; but I am sure it is the language of reason, and the voice of duty. It cannot be a wholesome state of mind, even in the midst of the severest trial, when it is looking to death as a relief. The holy desire 'to depart, and to be with Christ,' is very different from the desire to depart, that we may be with some dear friend, which can arise only from a worldly principle. In sending these sorrows, God usually intends to fit us for living more to his glory here below; and though they certainly contain a loud warning to 'prepare to meet our God,' as we know not how soon our turn may come, it is showing a degree of impatience under them to say–I cannot bear the separation, let me die also. Let me entreat you then, my dear E., to take great and constant care of your health; for vain is the attention of your friends, unless you join your own endeavors; especially restrain yourself from that ardent pursuit of whatever happens to engage your present interest, which, I am very sure has greatly undermined your health already, and which, if persisted in, will assuredly destroy it. May your soul also prosper. I shall rejoice to hear that you have been led by this affliction, more confidently than ever, 'to lay hold of the only hope set before us.'"

Unconsciously to herself, a real progression appears, from her letters, to have been taking place in Jane's religious feeling; if not more happy in hope, she was more established in principle. In a letter of an earlier date than the last, she says –"Well, I hope I can say that I have different views of life, and a higher ambition than formerly. I dare not trust my treacherous heart a moment. But yet, upon examination, I think I may say, I should feel at least contented, to pass silently and soberly through the world, with a humble hope of reaching heaven at the end of my pilgrimage. I have many, many difficulties in my way; and when I compare the state of my mind with that which is required of those who follow Jesus, and see how much must be done ere I can attain it, I have no other comfort than this–'With God, all things are possible.' Yes, indeed, my dear E., we have each of us dangerous snares to avoid, and as you say, temptations to love the world. But I well know, and with shame I would allow it, that yours are far more inviting, and require more courage and self-denial to resist, than mine: yet you escape, and I become the victim. With half your graces and accomplishments, what should I have been! You mention talents;–but indeed you mistake in supposing that the accidental success that has attended my feeble efforts, has been very hurtful to me. I wish I had no worse enemies than my wits. I do not deny–it would be ungrateful to do so, that the approbation we have met with, and the applause, especially of some whose opinion was particularly precious, have been sources of constant satisfaction; and perhaps occasionally, my weak mind has been partly overset by them. Yet I think I may say, my humiliations have generally counterbalanced such feeling, and kept my mind in equilibrio. No, though I own my muse has done me a few good turns, for which I shall always feel grateful; yet she has been the means of procuring me as many good, wholesome mortifications, as any personage, real or ideal, that I know of. I do not say all this to prove that I am not vain, for I am; if I were not, you know, I should not be liable to mortifications; nor have I yet thrown aside my pen in disgust, though I have many a time longed to do so."

Her letters about this time, when notoriety as an author was new to her, abound with similar sentiments. "We have been visiting some friends in the country, who correspond with the description you give of yours. They possess that natural intelligence, sound sense, and intrinsic excellence, which cannot fail to render them interesting, though deficient in cultivation, and unpolished in matters of taste. Now, among these friends, our poor superficial acquirements blaze away most splendidly. But though I am conscious of feeling elated at such times, yet it is checked by a humiliating sense of my real inferiority. I see them living in the daily exercise of virtues and graces to which I never approached. In all that is sound, sterling, durable–in all that a heart-searching God can approve, I see how far I fall short; and then, how contemptible and worthless is all in which I may have the advantage. Although that degree of vanity which amounts to conceit, and obvious and obtrusive self-complacency, must, I think, be absolutely incompatible with dignity and refinement of mind, as well as with the christian graces; yet where is the heart, in which, in a state more or less subdued, it exists not?–and those who are wont to speak and to think meanly of themselves–who are willing to prefer others to themselves–and who are continually deploring their deficiencies, yet, after all, evince great ignorance of their own hearts, if they imagine that, beneath all this humiliation, no seeds of vanity lie concealed; in truth, they may spring up nowhere more luxuriantly than in the soil that is watered by the tears of self-condemnation. With respect to this baleful weed, it may with peculiar propriety be said–

'We cannot bear diviner fruit,
Till grace refine the ground.'

Here is the only remedy–religion, and religion only, can humble the proud spirit to the dust."

Jane's intimate friends were not ignorant of the embarrassed state of her religious feelings; nor were they backward in affording to her the direction and encouragement she seemed to require. These offices of christian friendship were acknowledged by her with lively affection.

"With feelings of sincere gratitude and love, I would again thank you, my very dear A., for the tender concern you manifested on my behalf; and the readiness with which you afforded the advice and encouragement I solicited. You are highly privileged, dear A., in having it in your power to promote pleasure and cheerfulness wherever you appear. Your visit was truly a season of sunshine; and how sweetly refreshing are such occasional gleams, breaking forth from a clouded sky–and such indeed is mine. I could bear the roughness of the road, if it were but bright overhead: however, I dare not turn back; and you, dear A., while going on your way rejoicing, will not, I am sure, be unmindful of your benighted friend. It may be long before we meet again; but my heart has been accustomed to love the absent, and my thoughts have been trained to fly towards every point of the compass: and whether at —, or at —, they will frequently attend you, laden with sincere affection."

In reply to a letter of religious consolation and advice, addressed, about this time, to Jane, by another friend, she says–"I have already thanked you for a letter received two months ago; but I have yet to assure you of what you seem to entertain a doubt–that the principal subject of it was very far from being uninteresting or unwelcome to me. I own indeed, I do feel a backwardness in introducing these topics; and that, as you say, greatly arising from a false shame, that ought not to be encouraged; but I have other impediments; and if I cannot speak with entire freedom on religious subjects, it is not indeed because I cannot 'confide in you;' but for want of confi- dence in myself. I dread much more than total silence, falling into a common-place, technical style of expression, without real meaning and feeling; and thereby, deceiving both myself and others. I well know how ready my friends are to give me encouragement; and how willing to hope the best concerning me; and as I cannot open to them the secret recesses of my heart, they put a too favorable construction on my expressions. You will not then impute it to a want of confidence, though I cannot speak otherwise than generally on this subject. * * * Yet I do hope that I have of late seen something of the vanity of the world; and increasingly feel that it cannot be my rest. The companions of my youth are no more:–our own domestic circle is breaking up:–time seems every day to fly with increased rapidity; and must I not say 'the world recedes.' Under these impressions, I would seek consolation where only I know it is to be found. I long to be able to make heaven and eternity the home of my thoughts, to which, though they must often wander abroad on other concerns, they may regularly return and find their best entertainment. But I always indulge with fear and self-suspicion in these most interesting contemplations; and doubtless, the enjoyments arising from them belong rather to the advanced Christian, than to the doubting, wandering beginner. I am afraid I feel poetically, rather than piously on these subjects;–and while I am in- dulging in vain conjectures on the employments and enjoyments of a future state, I must envy the humble Christian who, with juster views, and better claims, is longing 'to depart and be with Christ.' Nor would I mistake a fretful impatience with the fatigues and crosses of life, for a temper weaned from the world. I could, indeed, sometimes say–

'I long to lay this painful head,
And aching heart, beneath the soil;–
To slumber in that dreamless bed
         From all my toil.'

And I have felt too those lines–

'The bitter tear–the arduous struggle ceases here–
The doubt, the danger, and the fear,
       All, all, for ever o'er.'

But these feelings, though they may afford occasional relief, I could not indulge in."

The extracts from her correspondence will be found to exhibit, again and again the same constitutional feelings, but counterpoised by a more established faith, and a brighter hope. Yet the improvement took place too insensibly to be ascertained in its immediate causes. At the time the above cited letters were written, perhaps no advice, no representations of the simplicity and certainty of that offer of happiness which is made to us in the Scriptures, would have availed to dispel the obscurity and discomfort of my sister's mind; for constitutional feelings will be long in admitting amelioration.

She nevertheless knew how to address consolations to her suffering friends.

CHAPTER VII.
CORRESPONDENCE ON GENERAL SUBJECTS–DOMESTIC FEELINGS.

In the course of the year 1809, our long united family was separated, by the removal of two of its members to London; and if the expressions of regret, on this subject, with which Jane's letters abound, were to be quoted, they would seem, to many readers, to go beyond the merits of the occasion. But none of her feelings were more vivid than those of family affection; and, almost blind to the reason of the case, she would fain have held the endeared circle entire, at the cost of all secular interests. "I regard," she says, "this separation, as one of the greatest sorrows I have ever known. I cannot view it merely as a parting with a friend, whom I may hope to meet again in a few months; for though our interviews may be frequent, our separation as companions is final. We are to travel different roads; and all the time we may actually pass together, in the course of occasional meetings in our whole future lives, may not amount to more than a year or two of constant intercourse. "

This foreboding was falsified by the event; for in fact, only a year or two of separation took place between Jane and the brother to whom she here refers;–excepting that short interval, it was his happiness to be the constant companion of her life.

In a letter written to her brothers soon after their leaving home, she says,–"Oh this cruel separation! It would have killed me to have known, when we first parted, how complete it would be. I am glad we deceived ourselves with the hope of keeping up frequent intercourse by letters and visits; it saved us a severer pang than any we then endured. These painful recollections are revived by the disappointment of our fond hopes of a speedy reunion, which is now rendered not only distant, but very doubtful. You, engaged in business, and surrounded with friends, cannot feel as we do on this subject. We have nothing to do but contemplate our cheerless prospects, or to think of the days that are past. I do not mean it reproachfully when I say, that you will soon learn to do without us; it is the natural consequence of your situation, and we ought to be reconciled to the 'common lot.' But how can I forget the happy years in which we were every thing to each other? I am sometimes half jealous of our friends, especially of —, who now has that confidence which we once enjoyed. But I will not proceed in this mournful strain; and do not think, my dear brothers, that I am charging you with neglect, or any decrease of affection; though I do sometimes anticipate, and that with bitter regret, the natural effect of a long continued separation."

So eminently characteristic of my sister's mind were feelings of this sort, that I must exhibit them in one or two more quotations from her letters to her brothers.

"We have not yet tried separation long enough to know what its effects will eventually be. I dread lest, in time, we should become so accustomed to it, as to feel contented to live apart, and forget the pleasure of our former intercourse; and I cannot suffer myself to believe what, after all, is most probable, that we never shall be united again.–It is a forlorn idea; for what will two or three flying visits in the course of the year amount to? Life is short, and we are, perhaps, half-way through it already. Well, I ought to be thankful that so large a portion of it we have passed in company, and that the best part too; and as to the future, if I could be sure that years of separation would not, in the least, estrange our affections from each other, and that the glow which warms the youthful breast, would never be chilled by our passage through a cold, heartless world, I would be content. But the idea of becoming such brothers and sisters as we see every where, is incomparably more painful than that of a final banishment, in which we should love each other as we now do.

"We still indulge the hope of renewed intercourse; this hope may indeed be fallacious, but I cannot reject it. In the meantime, we do, and we will continue to love each other; and this is consolation. Long before the dear circle was broken up, I looked forward to the time of separation with dread; chiefly from the apprehension lest that loveliest of plants, family affection (which, in spite of many storms, had been successfully reared, and tenderly cherished among us) should droop, and in time wither; when the distracting cares of life should call off our attention from it. For my own part, I have scarcely yet made the trial; for although the separation has taken place, yet, as my situation remains the same, I have found no difficulty in retaining and cultivating that affection which flourished when we were companions; and I am willing to believe that the scenes you have passed through since you left your home, have rather increased than lessened your attachment to it. It must be delightful, cheering, soothing, to turn from the chilling selfishness of those with whom you must often have to do, to the affection of your family and friends; to know that there are those who do, and who always will love you–whose happiness, in a great measure, depends upon yours, and who consider your interest the same as their own.

"From experience I know how baleful it is to the disposition to be placed in circumstances in which the malevolent passions are liable to be roused, and in which we have to be concerned with those whom it is not only impossible to love, but whom it seems a sort of virtue to dislike. There is the same difference between love and hatred, as between happiness and misery; and more real enjoyment in the pains of the former, than in the gratifications of the latter. I envy those who can look with an eye of benevolent compassion upon the lowest instances of human depravity; who, discerning in their own hearts the seeds of the same hateful dispositions, feel more gratitude for the providential restraints to which they must attribute the difference, than anger towards those who have wanted these advantages."

The same strong feelings of affection appear in the following letters to her friend Miss S. L. C.:–

The regrets occasioned by the separation of the family were soon afterwards diverted by literary interests. Poetry had formed the bond of union in that circle of friends in which Jane thought herself so happy to be included; and about this time a volume was projected, in which the talents of those of them to whom poetical composition was familiar, should be conjoined. My sister was reluctantly persuaded to take her part in this volume:–she expresses her feelings on the subject in a letter to the friend who conducted the work. Alluding to some verses which she was solicited to surrender for publication, she says:–

"They were written to gratify my own feelings, and not for the 'Wreath;' (such was then proposed to be the title of the volume) yet you have pressed them into the service; and what shall I say? I feel that, in permitting them to be published, I make some sacrifice;–as indeed all do who once begin to express their feelings in rhyme; for sentiments and feelings that, in plain prose, would only be whispered in secret to a chosen friend, in this form gain courage, and court the gaze, and bear the ridicule of the vulgar and unfeeling. Since I have had time to think soberly about the 'Wreath'–for this must always be its title, I have felt far less anxious about the share I am to have in it. Now I am not going to tease you with any of my 'morbid humility;' for I am as weary of it, and as angry with it, as you are; but I must just tell you how it affects me. I think I know pretty well how to estimate my poetical talent; at least, I am perfectly persuaded I do not underrate it; and, in comparison with my blooming companions in this garland, I allow my pieces to rank as the leaves; which are, you know, always reckoned a necessary, and even pleasing part of a bouquet: and I may add that I am not only contented, but pleased with this station;–it is safe, and snug; and my chief anxiety is not to suffer any thing ridiculous, or very lame to appear:–with these views, I consent. The opinion of the little hallowed circle of my own private friends is more to me than the applauses of a world of strangers. To them my pieces are already known; by them their merits and their faults are already determined; and if they continue to smile kindly upon my simple muse, she will not, I think, easily be put in ill-humour."

This volume was published under the title of "The Associate Minstrels." My sister's contributions to it (the volume being out of print) I have placed among the Poetical Remains subjoined to this volume: they were, none of them, written with any idea of publication; but were the simple expressions of feeling on particular occasions. They exhibit the tender playfulness of her fancy, and the warmth of her heart; but the vigor she afterwards displayed had not then been roused. Yet she has since written nothing more characteristic of herself, or perhaps more beautiful, than the Remonstrance to Time." In this piece–in the Birthday Retrospect, and in one or two of the pieces, which will be found among the Remains, she has given the portrait of her own mind with so much truth and life, that those who knew her, seem to see and to converse with her while perusing them. To portray itself, her mind needed only the mild excitement of her habitual feelings. But to display its force, it required the stimulus of the strongest extraneous motives. The productions of her pen under these different impulses are widely dissimilar; and perhaps will hardly both please the same readers.

Up to the time to which I am now referring, Jane had written chiefly as an expression of spontaneous feeling; but after the conviction of possessing a talent which might be rendered useful to others was admitted by her, she very rarely wrote for her own gratification, as she had been wont to do. The Poetical Remains contain, however, a few exceptions to this remark; and these exhibit sentiments of a higher order than those which were indulged in early life.

Soon after the publication of the volume just mentioned, my sisters entered upon a task of peculiar difficulty–that of composing a volume of Hymns for the use of children. This difficulty will not be thought lightly of by those who have had much experience in the business of education, and who have allowed themselves ingenuously to perceive the many perplexities which meet the teacher in his attempts to impart to a child any religious ideas that go beyond the mere notion of invisible power; for not only do these notions seem to surpass his apprehension–but they are felt to have in them a repellent contrariety to the prejudices of our fallen nature, in the very earliest developement of the moral principle. The utmost, perhaps, that can be done is to employ a phraseology, and to use illustrations, so well adapted to the infant mind, as that no unnecessary difficulty shall be added to that which is inevitable; and that the memory may, as it were, be taken possession of by notions of religion, before the slumbering evils of the heart are fully quickened. "I think," says my sister in a letter of this date, "I think I have some idea of what a child's hymn ought to be; and when I commenced the task, it was with the presumptuous determination that none of them should fall short of the standard I had formed in my mind. In order to this, my method was to shut my eyes, and imagine the presence of some pretty little mortal; and then endeavor to catch, as it were, the very language it would use on the subject before me. If, in any instances, I have succeeded, to this little imaginary being I should attribute my success. And I have failed so frequently, because so frequently I was compelled to say–'Now you may go, my dear, I shall finish the hymn myself.'"

The authors, in their advertisement justly say that, "The Divine Songs of Dr. Watts, so beautiful, and so justly admired, almost discourage, by their excellence, a similar attempt; and lead the way, where it appears temerity to follow." The want, however, of a greater number of hymns of this kind, has always been felt by parents; and parents, very generally, have seemed to think the want well supplied in this volume. It was soon after followed by a smaller collection of a similar kind, adapted to the use of Sunday schools. In this last, the attempt to simplify language has, perhaps, been carried as far as is at all desirable. If one might judge by the appearance of the manuscript copy of these hymns–its intricate interlineations, and multiplied revisions, it would seem that many of them cost the author more labor than any other of her writings. But a labor of this kind suited well Jane's habitual feelings; for it was at once wholly undisturbed by any ambitious desire of literary distinction, and blessed with the hope of extensive usefulness.

CHAPTER VIII.
REMOVAL TO ONGAR.

TOWARDS the close of the year 1810, Mr. Taylor resigned his ministerial charge at Colchester; and about the same time of the following year, removed with his family to Ongar, having accepted the invitation of the dissenting congregration in that town to become their pastor. During the time in which the place whither her father might remove was uncertain, Jane writes thus to a friend.–

"It is a strange sensation to survey the map of England without an idea of what part of it we are to occupy. Yet perhaps we feel less anxiety about it than you may suppose. Not to be further removed from London than we are now, is our chief solicitude; and to be nearer would be very desirable; more especially on account of being able to see our dear brothers more frequently. For my own part, might I choose a situation, it should be a very retired one among plain good people, whom we could love:–a village, not a town. My love of quiet and retirement daily increases; and I wish to cultivate this taste:–it suits me, and does me good. To part with our house here–the high woods, and the springs, will cost me a struggle; and more especially my dear quiet attic. Might I hope to find such another in our next encampment, I should be less uneasy."

Allusions to the expected change of abode occur in other letters written during the same year, and the commencement of the next.

CHAPTER IX.
CORRESPONDENCE AT ONGAR.

THE wishes Jane had indulged were, for the most part, gratified in the removal to Ongar; especially as they regarded the house–its accommodations, and its vicinity: and she once more enjoyed her room; which, though not an attic, was all she could desire. The Castle House which my father occupied during the first three years after his removal to Ongar, was highly agreeable in itself, and in the objects which surround it; combining a picturesque antiquity, with the air of seclusion and comfort.

But it was only for a few months that Jane was an inmate at home, during the time that her father occupied the Castle House. For soon after the removal of the family to Ongar, she and her sister–much more from the suggestion of their friends, than from the instigation of their own wishes, formed the design of establishing a school; and some measures were taken in furtherance of the plan; and among these preparatory measures, was their spending a great part of the following winter in London, with a view to perfect themselves in some lesser accomplishments. But obstacles arising, their averseness to the plan prevailed; it was quickly abandoned; and they joyfully returned to their father's house.

Her frequent absence from home, her increas- ing literary engagements, and other circumstances, had, before this time, induced my sister to relinquish the practice of the arts, as a profession: this change in her occupations was made without reluctance; though she always retained a taste for drawing; and practised it occasionally, for the gratification of her friends: and she retained also, without any diminution, that vivid relish of the beauties of nature which perhaps seldom exists in its highest degree, apart from some knowledge and practice of the imitative arts.

Very soon after the removal of the family to Ongar, Jane addressed thence her correspondents. The first of these letters is to

About this time several of Jane's friends entered into the married state, and received her congratulations.

CHAPTER X.
FIRST AND SECOND VISIT TO DEVONSHIRE.

MY sister's taste for the beauties of nature was gratified about this time, by a residence of some months in the most romantic part of Devonshire. The occasion of this visit must be mentioned, as it determined the course of her life for several succeeding years.

The brother to whose part it has fallen to prepare this memoir, had lately spent some months in the west of England, for the recovery of his health, and had returned to London in a great degree restored; but on the approach of the following winter, being advised to seek a milder climate, it was determined that his two sisters should accompany him to Devonshire.

Having just before roamed over a great part of that delightful country, and become familiar with its beauties, it was to him a pleasure of the liveliest kind, to introduce his sisters to these novel scenes. To young persons whose taste for the beauties of nature is very strong, and who have been accustomed only to the uniform surface, and the simple rural amenities of the eastern countries, a first sight of the scenery of the west of England excites the most vivid delight. Jane felt these pleasures to the full; and even after a second and a lengthened residence at Ilfracombe had rendered her familiar with its scenery, the pleasure with which she rambled daily among its rocks was undiminished.

During the whole of the first winter passed at Ilfracombe, the change in my sister's mode of life was almost as great as could be; for instead of the assiduous occupation of time to which she had always been accustomed, the mornings, whenever the weather permitted, were spent in social or solitary rambles; and the evenings, most often, in agreeable society–and some highly agreeable society was indeed found at Ilfracombe. Except in maintaining correspondence with her friends, I do not know that she wrote anything during this winter: the time, however, was not lost, for she not only improved in health, but gained expansion of mind, enriched her imagination, and acquired those more free habits of thought which are scarcely compatible with unremitted application.

Yet she was impatient of this long-continued inaction. "I have found," she says, "(but not now for the first time) that any great external interest, for a continuance, will not agree with my mind; it is living upon dainties, instead of plain food. Accustomed to expect my evening's entertainment from myself, in some kind of mental exertion, a complete relaxation from this, and depending wholly, for many months, on external means of gratification, is a kind of indulgence which will not do to live upon; my mind never had so long a holyday, and I feel it is time to send it home."

Referring to the same time, in a letter of a later date, she writes–

"As to my employments during the winter, it is very true I have been disappointed in my expectations of writing; but I have not neglected a favorable opportunity; for none has presented itself. I went to Ilfracombe, expecting to find there complete retirement, and much leisure. You know how mistaken we were in this calculation. The engagement of the evening with our welcome visitors, completely deprived me of the only time I can ever profitably devote to writing. I am far, however, from thinking this a lost winter, or that I have enjoyed a too expensive pleasure; for I would not but have known and seen what I have at Ilfracombe, for twice the expense of time and money. I do, however, look forward, with much satisfaction, to the prospect of resum- ing my former habits, after this long relaxation; and whenever I take up the pen again, I hope to reap the advantage of the past winter."

The swell of the sea is not indeed so great at Ilfracombe, as on the northwestern coast of Cornwall; but when the pent-up tides of the Bristol channel meet a hurricane from the Atlantic, and the contention falls upon the sharp and towering precipices of this coast, the beauty and terror of a sea-storm can hardly be better displayed. Not at all intimidated by rain or wind, Jane would seldom stay within, when the breaking of the sea over the house in which we lodged, announced the coming storm.

The neighborhood of Ilfracombe has also, in several spots, the charm of rural and sequestered beauty. The deep ravines which commence upon the elevated moors, and run down to the sea-side, are, many of them, thickly wooded, and studded with stone-built, and ivy-covered cottages; and though not on the largest scale, some of these glens present the most finished combinations of picturesque objects. Scenery of this kind depends upon the decorations of summer, for its effect, much less than the wooded slopes of a merely rural country; for there it is alone the clustered evergreens that hide the desolation of the season; but here the permanent forms are equally beautiful with those that are evanescent: and indeed, many of these spots produce a more congruous effect upon the mind, in the gloom of a December afternoon, than under the splendors of July.

The description with which the Fragment opens, that stands first among the Poetical Remains, will be recognized by the reader who has traversed the coast of North Devon. The peculiar scenery of Lea filled Jane's imagination; it was her favorite walk, and having heard the melancholy story of a secluded being who, with his maniac daughter, had long inhabited one of its few dwellings, she fixed upon it as the scene of a history which floated in her mind for three or four years, but of which no more than what is now published, was ever committed to paper.

The following letter to her friend, Mr. J. C., should here find a place.

Early in the spring of the year 1813, we prepared to leave Ilfracombe: in the expectation of doing so, my sister says–

"In a week or two we expect to take our leave of Ilfracombe:–thus ends another short chapter of the little history of life:–like many others, its contents have not corresponded with the title:–it has disappointed our fears, and greatly exceeded our expectations of enjoyment: may it end with a hymn of praise!"

The most romantic part of the North Devon coast is about eighteen miles east of Ilfracombe: this spot we determined to visit, on our way home:–the excursion is described by Jane in a letter written at Linton, to her father and mother.

"Here we are at this celebrated part of North Devon: we arrived yesterday, about four o'clock; and I think you will pity us when I tell you that, from an hour after we left Ilfracombe to the present moment, it has rained incessantly. We calculated upon getting in time enough to ramble before evening; and to spend the whole of this day in exploring the beauties of the place; instead of all this, we have been obliged to content ourselves with sitting before a blazing fire–turning over an odd volume of the Gentleman's Magazine, Warner's Walk in the Western Counties, and The Miseries of Human Life. Nor is this all; for I awoke yesterday at Ilfracombe with every symptom of a bad cold; which is now at its height; so that I have no hope of going out, even if the weather had cleared up:–this is pleasure! Ann and Isaac have twice ventured out in the course of the day; and have taken a hasty view of the valley of Rocks, and of the village of Linmouth; and I have had the satisfaction of hearing a description of what I am within half a mile of, and came on purpose to see. However, not to make the worst of our story, I must add, that when we arrived within about two miles of Linton, a scene of grandeur and beauty opened upon us which alone would repay us for coming. We had travelled several miles over a high, wild, and dreary tract of country;–giving the idea of travelling over the world as a planet, and rendered still more desolate in appearance by torrents of rain. We were obliged to continue in the chaise in ascending hills where travellers almost always alight to relieve the horses; and were even constrained to do the same in passing a frightful precipice, where there is neither fence nor hedge; and where a chaise, very lately, fell over. At this point, a fine mountain scene opened upon us; and a sudden turn of the road discovered the enchanting vale and village of Linmouth, close to the sea, and at the base of rocks of tremendous height, and most exquisitely diversified in their coloring. After a long and steep ascent, we reached the inn where, fortunately, the room we occupy overlooks a considerable part of this fine prospect. This inn stands near the edge of the precipice that overhangs the sea, and seems to be in the clouds. To-morrow morning we are to meet a chaise from Minehead, at the top of the opposite hill–the ascent being so steep that chaises rarely come across the valley."

The letter is continued from Axminster:–"On Thursday morning, finding my cold surprisingly better, and the weather being finer, I resolved, at least, to see the valley of Rocks: so at half-past five, we set off full speed; and I was gratified with a hasty sight of it. The scene gives the idea of gigantic architectural ruins; and the impression left upon my mind by the novelty and silent solemnity of this magnificent scene, will not soon be effaced. We returned to breakfast at the inn, and directly afterwards set off to climb the opposite hill; attended by a horse with panniers, carrying our luggage. This walk afforded us an opportunity of seeing something of the beauties of the vale of Linmouth, which I will not attempt to describe: at the summit of the hill we found our chaise; and at the end of the day reached Taunton; where we staid a day with Mr. —, and the next, set out for Axminster; and found the kindest welcome from our dear friends."

With these kind friends, and with others in the south of Devon, and Dorsetshire, some weeks were very agreeably passed by my sisters, before their return to their father's house; where they spent the summer.

During her stay at Ongar, Jane took an active part, I believe for the first time, in a Sunday school, then lately established at some distance from the town; but of her labors in the Sunday school I shall again have occasion to speak.

On the approach of autumn it once more seemed desirable to return to Devonshire; and Jane's sisterly affection was now tried, not only by the call to banish herself from a kind and comfortable home, but by the necessity of leaving behind the companion of her former excursion; for her sister was now preparing for a final separation from the paternal roof. Jane expresses her poignant feelings in this separation from the constant companion of her life, in a letter addressed to Mr. J. C. some time after her return to Devonshire:–

In the beginning of October, Jane and her brother were once more comfortably settled at Ilfracombe; and though the social attractions of the place, were now less than they had been in our first visit, it still contained kind friends, and the advantage of more leisure and seclusion was now wished for, enjoyed, and improved by my sister, who presently resumed her literary pursuits with eagerness.

At the close of this year, Jane addressed a let- ter to her sister, on the occasion of her marriage to the Rev. Joseph Gilbert–then one of the tutors of the Independent College at Rotherham. From this letter the following passages are extracted:–

The snow continued to render the road between Barnstaple and Ilfracombe nearly impassable for more than a month. Jane's solicitude on her brother's account, induced her to hazard the journey the first day on which it was pronounced to be practicable; and she returned to Ilfracombe on horseback, sometime before any carriage could pass the road.

Without obtruding what relates to myself, more than I wish in this memoir, I could not fully display the self-denying, indefatigable, and tender assiduity with which Jane devoted herself to her brother's comfort; to promote his restoration to health, was indeed, the business of her life, during several years. The reader of her memoir must not forget this principal feature of Jane Taylor's character–her generous devotedness to the welfare of those she loved, though the exemplification of it may appear in these pages less prominently than it might.

The seclusion and leisure of this second winter at Ilfracombe were employed by my sister in writing the greater part of the Tale, published some time afterwards. She commenced it with a specific idea of the qualities she designed to exhibit, but with no definite plan for its execution. In pursuit of the same general object she followed, every day, the suggestion of the moment; and this was, perhaps, the only way in which she would ever have written. It was her custom, in a solitary ramble among the rocks, for half an hour after breakfast, to seek that pitch of excitement without which she never took up the pen. This fever of thought was usually exhausted in two or three hours of writing, after which she enjoyed a social walk, and seldom attempted a second effort in the day; for she had now adopted the salutary plan of writing in the morning only. To this plan she adhered ever after, with only occasional exceptions.

A letter to Mrs. G. exhibits the tranquil happiness she enjoyed at Ilfracombe.

CHAPTER XI.
RESIDENCE AT MARAZION–PUBLICATION OF "DISPLAY," AND "ESSAYS IN RHYME"–CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE YOUTH'S MAGAZINE.

MY sister's literary engagements were suspended during the following summer, by our leaving Ilfracombe. Having determined to spend the next winter in Cornwall, we held ourselves ready to take the first opportunity that should offer of going thither by sea. It was on a fine evening in June that we left Ilfracombe in a small fishing vessel, intending to pass round the Land's End, to Mount's Bay; but Jane suffered so much from sickness, that in the evening of the next day we landed at St. Ives; and after spending a few days there, proceeded to Marazion, where we had already engaged lodgings.

If she had not found agreeable society at Marazion, and formed there some friendships which she highly valued, my sister would have continued to regret the rocks and solitudes of North Devon; its gloomy and romantic scenery suited peculiarly her tastes, and the temper of her mind, which were little pleased by the business, and bustle, and open bareness of Cornwall. Yet nothing hardly can be more agreeable than the aspect of Mount's Bay; and Penzance is, perhaps, one of the most pleasantly situated towns in the kingdom. The country in its immediate neighborhood is more wooded than other parts of the county; and the Bay, the villages on its margin, the Mount, with its castle, and the distant rocky hills, form a most complete and pleasing picture.

At Marazion she staid long enough to form a strong local attachment; our mode of life was suited to her tastes; her occupations filled her thoughts, and were relieved by frequent intercourse with two or three individuals whom she was happy to call her friends. Speaking of her feelings at this time, she says–

"The ease, tranquillity, and comfort of my present lot, so perfectly congenial to my temper and feelings, demand my constant thankfulness. It is no business of mine to inquire how long it will last. Long, I know, it will not last; and this I feel so sensibly, that my anxiety for myself, and my dear family, lessens as it respects our prosperity in this world, and increases for better things–that it may be well with us all in the next."

And again, in a letter to her mother–

"Notwithstanding the toil of writing, it has its pleasures; and often, both this winter and last, when I have sat down at ten o'clock, all alone, in our snug parlor, with a cheerful fire, and with nothing to interrupt me for four hours, I have really felt very happy. As to my writing 'under disadvantageous circumstances,' it is so far from being the case, that I am sure I can never expect to be more favored. All domestic cares, except just giving orders, and settling my accounts, are completely taken off my hands by Mrs. Thomas. The afternoon suffices for the needle-work I have to do; and we are little interrupted by visiters; besides the rare privilege of having a room and fire quite to myself during the morning. I cannot therefore plead my present circumstances in excuse, either for the poverty, or slowness of my writing; for I do actually, what you describe as so desirable–'sit down composed and unembarrassed in my study.' Indeed, I cannot be sufficiently thankful for the large share of comfort I have enjoyed the last three years; with nothing to try my temper, and exempt from most of those unpleasant realities which you mention as inseparable from the charge of a household. But I do not wish to fly from family cares; and one of the satisfactions of returning to you, for a time, would be, that I might share them with you."

From the friendships above alluded to, and from intercourse of a more general kind enjoyed at Marazion, Miss Taylor derived new and important advantages. For, hitherto, her connexions had been almost exclusively within the pale of one religious community; but her Marazion friends were, most of them, members of the established church, and moreover, very zealously attached to its constitution and its forms. She had also full opportunity of observing the state and spirit of another religious body–the Wesleyan Methodists, who, in the western part of Cornwall are the predominant sect. She ever after looked back upon the expansion of her views and feelings, which took place at this time, with great satisfaction. Yet her attachment to the principles in which she had been educated did not become at all less firm, but on the contrary, it was made more decided by the comparison she had now the means of forming, between different practices and opinions.

There being at Marazion no society of congregational dissenters, Miss Taylor attended alternately the service of the Established Church, and that of the Wesleyan Methodists; and she gave her assistance regularly, at the Sunday school connected with the former–making only this exception,–that she should not be required to teach the church catechism. The concession was amicably yielded; and in this school she continued to labor with great pleasure, during the two years of her residence at Marazion. Her exertions on the Sunday were however so much beyond her strength, that they evidently impaired her general health. To those whose six days are occupied with general business, or manual labor, Sunday school teaching may, by the agreeable excitement it affords to the mind, and to the feelings, be in the very best sense of the word, a real and beneficial holyday. But so great is the exhaustion consequent upon continued intellectual effort, that those who are called to undergo this peculiar species of toil may perhaps in most instances, lawfully use the day of rest for them- selves. But Jane, far from yielding, on her own behalf, to a plea of this kind, adhered so resolutely to the principle of "doing what she could," that she continued her labors in the Sunday school during years of declining health; and indeed, till the very last day of her attending public worship, a few weeks before her death.

Soon after our removal to Marazion, my sister resumed writing the Tale she had commenced at Ilfracombe; and late in the same year it was sent to press, under the title of "Display." The favor with which this little work was received, and more especially the high praise bestowed upon it by a few individuals, whose judgment and sincerity could not be questioned, produced a very desirable effect upon her mind; for it gave her, in some degree, that confidence in her own powers which she so much needed. Hitherto, she had persisted in attributing almost the whole success of the works in which she had had part to her sister; but this was all her own; and she was constrained to believe that she could write well, and that too in a higher line than she had before attempted;–for Display was admired on account of excellencies of a higher kind than such as belong merely to an entertaining or pathetic fiction. The advice which had been long and often urged upon her, of undertaking to write for mature readers, was now greatly corroborated. Yet, perhaps, had she attempted a fiction upon a more extended scale, she might have found herself out of her proper sphere. For the beauties of her style accord best with a brief, inartificial, and condensed narrative. Breadth of design, amplification, and digression, seemed not to be within her range–her simple story is merely a thread, supporting a series of exquisite ornaments, and sparkling graces. That knowledge of the human heart which is evinced in Display, might merit to be called profound; but it is exhibited in touches so delicate, that they might escape the notice of the reader whose eye was less quick and piercing than that of the author. But probably it has been these fine and half-hidden beauties that have procured for this Tale the praise (not often won by mere fictions,) of being read again and again, with new pleasure.

The volume did not however escape without some strong animadversions–chiefly on the ground of the opinions professed in it. In reply to some observations on one point, the author says–

"As to the dancing, I certainly did not think I had erred on the strict side; and I think I have observed the distinction you mention, of not objecting to dancing in itself. The children at Stokely, you may remember, were all dancing very merrily one evening. But, in fact, except with mere children, there is no such thing as 'select christian dances.'–Go where you will, it is the world who dance; and the serious who do not. E— is an instance of what is said about Emily; her newly acquired religion is so far from having made her dull or precise, that there are many whom I have seen shake their heads at her youthful sprightliness. Yet since she has been a Christian, she says she does not wish to dance, especially as it could not be without associating with those who think only about this world. As to what Mr. Leddenhurst says about 'dancing through the world,' it is a remark I have heard made by those who are very far from being puritanical in their manners, or narrow in their views; and I merely understand by it, that a person of a contemplative and serious turn of mind, impressed with the grand realities of religion, and intent upon remedying, as far as possible, the sin and misery of the world, will not be much disposed to go 'dancing through it.'"

The suggestions of her friends were so far admitted, as to induce Miss Taylor to look wider abroad than hitherto, for the topics of her next undertaking. But to express her opinions on grave subjects, in naked prose, was more than she could dare. In verse, she felt as if sheltered. She therefore determined to write what she thought and felt, with less reserve than hitherto, but under the cover of poetry. Such were the views with which (soon after the publication of Display) she began writing her "Essays in Rhyme." With an exception presently to be mentioned, the composition of this volume occupied her time during the remainder of her stay at Marazion.

Throughout the winter of the year 1814–15, my sister read much more than she had ever before done, in a like extent of time. The works she selected were of the kind best adapted to invigorate the understanding–her taste in reading was for history, which always excited in her mind a much deeper interest than even the most fascinating fictions;–fictions she did indeed occasionally read; but it was only in those seasons when the exhaustion of long-continued excitement in writing had rendered her incapable of close attention. The interests of reality were fast prevailing over those of the ideal world; her mind, every day more and more, needed the stimulus of an object, such as she could deem important; and it became indisposed to exertion, at the impulse of mere fancy, or personal feeling.

This marked change in her mind and habits of feeling, was evidently much promoted by the new scenes she witnessed, and the new friendships she formed in Cornwall. Before the time of her visit to Marazion, she had had too little opportunity of becoming acquainted with the sufferings and the wants of the poor. She knew by report the miseries and the vices of the real world; but her experience had scarcely presented to her any other evils than those sorrows of the heart, and of the imagination, which are either wholly creat- ed, or greatly aggravated by vacant and morbid sensibilities; and which, however interesting and amiable they may seem, are all more or less seclusive, if not selfish in their influence. Friendships–and literary friendships–and polished tastes, and the delights of fancy, and wit and criticism, are fine things; and where they exclude either frivolity or grossness, they are good things. But in a sound understanding, and a rightly disposed heart, they will sink in estimation, when we are called daily to administer relief to the common and real sufferings of human life. And perhaps the instances are very rare (if indeed such instances are at all to be found) in which an abounding and laborious zeal in works of mercy, exists in union with a strong relish for the pleasures of the imagination. Be this as it may, it was observable with my sister, that, in proportion as her mind admitted the paramount claims which the sufferings of those around us have upon our sympathy and our activities, she became less regardful of the gratifications of taste, and of the luxuries and sensibilities of the imagination, and more solicitous in all her engagements to pursue utility.

The two or three excellent persons at Marazion, whom my sister ever after thought it her happiness to have known, were distinguished by their christian zeal in every good work; and she at once admitted and cherished, in her own character, the influence of those solid qualities.

The tendency of her acquaintance with Methodism was also of the same kind. And while, as will be apparent from her letters, she was very far from being blind to the defects of that religious system, or converted to its peculiar opinions, she confessed herself to owe to it a new impression of some branches of christian feeling and duty.

Early in the year 1816, while still at Marazion, Miss Taylor commenced her contributions to the Youth's Magazine; which she continued, with few exceptions, to supply during the succeeding seven years. It was with the most extreme reluctance, and not without the urgent persuasion of those to whose advice she was accustomed to listen, that she yielded to the repeated request of the conductors of that publication, to write statedly for it. She dreaded the bondage which she felt such an engagement would bring her under; she dreaded, especially, lest the necessity of writing at stated times, whether or not she felt a spontaneous impulse and excitement, should induce the habit of prosing; or should impair that feeling of sincerity, simplicity, and genuine interest, with which, hitherto, she had always written; and without which, to write at all, she would have thought an abuse of her talent, and a presumption upon that degree of favor she had won. Happily, these objections were overruled; and soon finding herself successful, she felt a pleasure in the employment; and was incited to use her best exertions to improve, for the highest purposes, this opportunity of addressing constantly so large a number of young persons.

To a person whose invention is fertile, whose judgment and taste is matured, and who, above all, has too much self-respect to allow him to sink into inanity or frivolity, the necessity of writing at stated times, may be advantageous; for it is likely to produce, at once, freedom, and simplicity of style. Under such circumstances, that fastidiousness which would substitute lifeless proprieties for faulty beauties, must be laid aside:–a subject having once presented itself to the thoughts, must not be dismissed, merely because it seems unpromising; and the mind, by the very feeling of being tied to an unpromising subject, is roused to make an extraordinary effort. Thus, I well know, it often was with my sister:–and the result has been, that this collection of papers contains perhaps, her happiest and her most useful compositions.

The Essays in Rhyme on Morals and Manners, were finished in the spring of the year 1816. Miss Taylor never wrote any thing with so much zest and excitement, as the pieces composing this volume. While employed upon them, she was almost lost to other interests:–even her prevailing domestic tastes seemed forgotten; and in our daily walks, she was often quite abstracted from the scene around her.

In truth she had stepped upon ground new to herself; and felt an impulse which gave unwonted vigor to her mind. Her impatience of pretension and perversity in matters of religion; and her piercing discernment of the deceptions of the heart, gave a peculiar force and pungency to many passages in the Essays in Rhyme; while others are distinguished by the same interchanging pathos and playfulness, which had been displayed in her earlier writings. A few lines, perhaps, in this volume may have seemed too pungent to some readers. This she fully anticipated; but would not shrink from the hazard. Her feelings, and her judgment, were averse to compromise, or to the timid concealment of opinions. Some such concealment had been recommended to her by a friend, to whom the manuscript had been submitted, previous to publication: in reply to these suggestions she says–

"It is now time to refer to a former letter of yours, respecting certain passages in the Essays in Rhyme. It is scarcely necessary to say, after having written them, that I do not agree with you, as to the propriety of total silence, on all disputed subjects. Had that plan been always pursued, what would now have been the state of the world! I am very far from blaming Mr. Cunningham for writing the Velvet Cushion (his doing it unfairly is another thing); and with regard to introducing particular sentiments in works of a general nature, it appears to me one of the best ways of doing it. Who ever blamed Mrs. More for poking the steeple into almost every page of her writings? What happened to Miss Hamilton for making the hero of her novel a dissenter? or, which is more to my purpose, what has been the consequence of the severe sarcasms of Cowper upon the church and its ministers? The consequence is, indeed, that he is hated by the high-church party; but that does neither him nor his works any harm. What harm did he suffer from the review of his poems when they first appeared, by our old friend the Critical Review, when they said–'This is an attempt to be witty in very lame verse?' I grant it is probable that no proselytes have been gained to any party by what he wrote; but who will deny that the diffusion of the liberal sentiments that abound in his writings, has been of great service to the cause of truth and moderation? Do not suppose I am here placing myself by the side of Cowper;–I am only pleading against the system of observing a profound silence on all controversial subjects, in works of a general nature."

To some criticisms of a different kind she thus replies.–

"You will not be surprised, and I am sure you will not be offended, to see in how few instances I have availed myself of your criticisms, if you reconsider the nature of them;–that is, how very few were merely literary. To that few I paid every attention;–most of them had already been marked for correction, either by myself, or other critical friends; but I was disappointed to find so few of that description; and still more, to find so many relating to matters of opinion, which you would hardly expect I should give up. I cannot guess why the very same opinions–or creed, if you please (for I know that is a word you are particularly fond of), which were, I believe, expressed with quite as much plainness in 'Display,' should offend you so much less there. You say, indeed, that you have only remarked upon that style of language which refers to a party; not to a principle; but on the contrary I found not a single note upon those few passages in which I write as a dissenter. If you mean to call religious sentiment party, I shall not dispute the term with you. Christianity has had a great many ill names from its commencement to this day; but they have never done it the least harm, nor ever will. Do you think I would condemn you for using a prayer-book, or kneeling at an altar–for going under water; or even for wearing a broad brim? No. But as I would not make my creed narrower than that of the Bible, so I dare not make it wider. 'There is no other name under Heaven, whereby we must be saved:'–'He that believes shall be saved; he that believes not shall be damned.' This is all I would contend for, and all, I think, that I have contended for, as essential; and if it is to this you object, I fear not boldly to say that you are wrong. And my heart's desire and prayer is, that you may be led, as many a confident opposer has been, to what I must still maintain to be 'the only place–the feet of Jesus.'

"I think your prejudice–may I say your party spirit (for never does party spirit show itself so openly, or speak so narrowly as when it embraces the skeptical creed) has got the better of your good taste, in the present instance: your taste is good, when left to its free exercise; but in several of your criticisms I scruple not to say you have, under the influence of other feelings, betrayed a very bad one. Where, for instance, you object to passages that are simple quotations from the Bible. Here I can speak quite confidently, in a literary view, that the effect of such quotations is good; and that they confer a dignity on the verse. Where, for instance, I have introduced, almost literally, those passages–'In thy presence is fulness of joy,'–'In my father's house are many mansions'–I am sure that I am more classical than you, in your very ill-chosen remark upon them. That these expressions have been quoted a thousand times by 'Lady Huntingdon;' or 'Mr. Huntingdon,' cannot render them at all less affecting or sublime; and to call such language 'religious cant,' is in my opinion, irreligious cant."

CHAPTER XII.
LETTERS WRITTEN FROM CORNWALL.

CHAPTER XIII.
VISITS–RESIDENCE AT ONGAR, AND AT HASTINGS.

THE consequences of the great and long sustained excitement occasioned by writing the Essays in Rhyme, upon my sister's health and spirits, were such as seemed to render change of scene, and complete relaxation, necessary. She therefore determined to spend some part of the ensuing summer in Yorkshire. We left Marazion in the month of June, 1816; and after an agreeable journey of a week, reached Masbro' near Rotherham, where Mr. Gilbert then resided. This visit afforded the most delightful and beneficial relaxation to her mind, by yielding her both the lively enjoyments of a renewed intercourse with those most dear to her; and the pleasures of an introduction to the very intelligent and agreeable society of that neighborhood.

Six weeks were thus pleasantly passed in Yorkshire: in August we returned to Ongar, after an absence from home of nearly three years. In this interval my father had left the Castle House, and removed to a farm-house a short distance from the town: with this house, and its garden, my sister was delighted, and felt the highest pleasure–a pleasure altogether congenial with her character, in being once again in seclusion, with those she most loved. Her feelings in this return home are described in a letter of this date:–

During this visit at home, Jane and her mother projected a work to be executed conjointly, in the form of a correspondence between a mother and her daughter, at school. These letters were commenced at Ongar, and completed at Hastings, where we passed the whole of the following winter. The composition of her part of these letters, together with her stated contributions to the Youth's Magazine, furnished her with just so much literary employment at Hastings, as was consistent with her health, which had materially suffered by the too great exertion she had made the preceding winter. She now devoted a much larger proportion of her time to reading, than at any former period. The usual consequence of much reading she soon felt and regretted; namely, a great indisposition to the exertion necessary for writing. And, indeed, after this time, she never again surrendered herself fully to the excitement necessary for productive efforts of the mind.

The months passed at Hastings, were passed in complete seclusion from society:–it was, however, to my sister an agreeable winter; for though she could relish the pleasures of general society, when they came in her way; they were what she never sought or wished for, when deprived of them: and, of the society of her dearest friends, she had long been accustomed to be deprived. With the pleasures of regular employment, books and fire-side comforts, she was ever satisfied and delighted. Writing to her sister from Hastings, she says:–

The leisure enjoyed by my sister at Hastings was employed in maintaining intercourse with her friends.

CHAPTER XIV.
RETURN TO ONGAR–RELIGIOUS FEELINGS.

IN April of the following year, we left Hastings; and Miss Taylor spent some weeks with her friends, in and near London; after which she once more returned to Ongar. It was about this time that she first perceived an induration in the breast, which continued, during the following years of her life, to hold her in a state of constant apprehension, and at length proved fatal.

My sister's religious comfort had been, for some time, gradually increasing; while the pensiveness and diffidence of her temper seemed to give way to the influence of matured judgment, and confirmed principle. Her religious belief had long been settled; but she had failed to apprehend, with comfort to herself, her own part in "the hope set before us in the gospel." It was at length, rather suddenly, in the summer of the year 1817, that the long standing doubts of her personal religion were dispelled; and she admitted joyfully the hope of salvation. The consequences of this change in her feelings was her making that public profession of faith in Christ which is required of His disciples. The extreme reserve of her temper, as well as her want of religious comfort, had hitherto withheld her from this explicit profession; now however, these reluctances gave way; and, in October 1817, she became a member of the Christian church at Ongar, under the pastoral care of her father.

Her own account of this transaction occurs in a letter addressed to her sister, written a few months afterwards.–

"My mother told you of my having joined the church. You may have supposed that I was frightened into it, by my complaint; but I feel thankful that this was not the case; for it was not till after I had consulted Mr. Clyne, that I felt any alarm about it; nor had I before, any idea of its being of a formidable kind. My mind, all the summer, had been much in the state it has been in for years past, that is, unable to apply the offer of the gospel to myself; and all confusion and perplexity, when I attempted to do so. One evening (about three weeks before going to London for advice), while alone in my room, and thinking on the subject, I saw, by an instantaneous light, that God would, for Christ's sake, forgive my sins:–the effect was so powerful that I was almost dissolved by it. * I was unspeakably happy; I believed that had I died that moment I should have been safe. Though the strength of the emotion soon abated, the effect in a great degree remained. A fortnight afterwards, I told Isaac what had taken place, and he urged me to be proposed immediately to the church. It was in this state I went to London; and when I heard what was to me wholly unexpected, I could not but consider the change in my feelings as a most kind and timely preparation for what, but a few weeks before, would have overwhelmed me with consternation and distress. As it was, I heard it with great composure; and my spirits did not at all sink till after I returned home. Since then I have had many desponding hours, from the fear of death. The happiness I enjoyed for a short time has given place to a hope, which, though faint, secures me from distress."

Soon afterwards Miss Taylor accepted an invitation from a beloved friend at Reading, to pass the winter there: she also spent some weeks with her kind relatives at Oxford. She left Reading early in the following spring, and after spending a month near London, once more returned to Ongar. During this winter, the symptoms of the disorder above mentioned became more specific and alarming:–she had before received the advice of eminent surgeons in London; and at Reading, she was daily under the care of a very highly esteemed medical friend, whose anxiety for her recovery could not have been greater had she been his daughter. This gentleman (father of the friend with whom she was a visiter) interdicted to her, absolutely, all literary labors; indeed she had now begun to feel the excitement of composition to be directly injurious to her health; and after this time she wrote only occasionally, and at distant intervals.

The summer of the year 1818, was a season of severe and continued sickness in our family. In turns, Jane herself, one of her brothers, and her father, were confined for several weeks, by dangerous illness. In her anxiety for those dear to her, she so much forgot herself, that her own alarming complaint seemed quiescent; and in the autumn, when family comfort was pretty well restored, she appeared to look more cheerfully upon life than lately she had been wont to do; and consented that arrangements should be made for increasing her comfort at home. With this view she once more fitted up a study, to which she became as strongly attached as to any one she had occupied.

Believing herself to be now likely to remain at Ongar, she actively engaged in works of Christian charity. During a former abode at her father's house, she had originated a ladies' working society, for the benefit of the poor; and to the meetings of this society she gave her attendance whenever she was at home. She became also a constant, and most laborious teacher in the Sunday school; and continued to be so long after it was apparent that the exertion exceeded her strength. It was in the sedulous and affectionate instruction of the children of her own class that alone she delighted; and so far was she from assuming any right of direction over her fellow teachers, that she retreated, as much as possible, from the precedence which would have been yielded to her:–doing less, perhaps, in matters of general direction, than she might have done with propriety.

My sister was in nothing an enthusiast;–she was not therefore supported through the fatigues and discouragements that attend these laborious duties, by those ardent feelings, or sanguine hopes, which often aid the benevolent activity of young persons. The reverse was too much the case; and whenever good appeared to result from her labors, it seemed to take her by surprise. Nor were her early habits, or her tastes, in unison with exertions of this sort: but whatever she did of this kind, was done simply from a full and strong conviction of the obligation of Christians, not "to please themselves," but to be "always abounding in the work of the Lord."

The influence of principle over her mind became still more conspicuous when she was called to take her part in promoting the objects of the Bible Society, in her neighborhood. For those business-like forms, and that publicity which seem inseparable from the conduct of this, and similar institutions, were peculiarly in opposition, if not to her judgment, at least to her habits and her feelings; yet when she was convinced that it was not practicable fully to attain the important ends of society by silent and unconnected exertions, she submitted to the apparent necessity of the case, and took her part in associations and committees.

Besides the attention bestowed on the children of her class on the Sunday, Miss Taylor instructed them in writing and arithmetic, one afternoon in the week. Labors of this kind were agreeable to her, because she found in them (what is needed by minds devoid of enthusiasm), a direct and perceptible benefit resulting from her exertions.

During this period my sister wrote fewer letters than she had been wont to do; yet dropped none of her epistolary connexions. The following letters belong to the time of which I am speaking:–

CHAPTER XV.
VISITS, AND CORRESPONDENCE FROM ONGAR.

THREE or four years were thus passed at home by my sister, in the quiet discharge of domestic and religious duties; interrupted only by occasional visits to her friends. During this time, the slow progress of her complaint kept her mind in a state of anxiety, and deterred her from attempting to execute some literary projects which had often employed her thoughts;–besides keeping up her correspondence with her friends, and writing the papers before mentioned, she composed, I believe, nothing but the fragment which stands first among the Poetical Remains; and some pieces expressive of personal feeling; of which two or three are also now printed.

Besides the delicate and declining state of her own health, my sister's thoughts were much occupied by the continued illness of her father:–during these times of domestic affliction, it was impossible for her to abstract her attention from present interests. In the autumn of the year 1820, she attended him to Margate; and had the pleasure of seeing her beloved parent surmount a disorder which had long threatened his life.

Early in the following year, Miss Taylor again left home, to visit her sister, Mrs. Gilbert: she continued at Hull more than four months; in which time she made excursions to York and Scarborough. In this visit she seemed to enjoy the pleasures of general society more than at any former time. Yet it was but for an hour that ever the flattering attentions she often received abroad drew away her thoughts from the domestic circle, within which her heart reposed.

This excursion appeared so much to have improved her general health, that there seemed reason to believe that, so long as her mind could be agreeably occupied, without too much excitement, her complaint might remain in a quiescent state. In this hope, her many kind friends in Yorkshire, Devon, and in the neighborhood of London, warmly urged her to pass her time in successive visits among them:–she felt deeply the kindness of these invitations; and believed also that this frequent change of scene, and these social pleasures, would be more likely than any other means to promote her recovery. But she determined rather to remain at home. This determination, I have reason to know, was influenced chiefly by a regard to her religious interests; for she had felt, with regret and fear, the effects of continued external excitements, in diverting her attention from objects of supreme importance. She trembled at the danger of losing sight of her highest hopes: she wished, now, to call home her thoughts, and to converse with her own heart, without interruption. Such were the motives which she repeatedly avowed to those with whom she was accustomed to converse confidentially, when urged to avail herself of the kind invitations of her friends:–"I find," she often said, "that home is the place that suits me best."

It was, therefore, with a free and deliberate preference of the interests of the soul to those of this life, that she returned to seclusion, and to the offices of christian charity, when she had every facility, and strong motives for pursuing a different course.

But that tranquillity and abstraction from earthly interests which she so much desired and enjoyed, was not to be of long continuance; for soon after her return to Ongar, she found herself unexpectedly placed in circumstances in which her feelings became deeply interested; and the results of which continued, through the short remainder of her life, to keep her mind in a state of painful agitation, and to call into the fullest exercise her christian principles. Her health also suffered, as must be supposed, from the same causes; and from this time, she herself distinctly anticipated the fatal termination of the disease that had so long threatened her life.

The house at Marden Ash, near Ongar, in which my father had lived eight years, being at this time let with the farm to which it belonged, he removed from it to a house, which he purchased in the town. This new abode, though altogether more commodious than the last, was so much less suited to my sister's tastes, that she felt many regrets at the removal, and it evidently increased the depression of her spirits; and thus hastened the progress of her disorder. In the autumn of the year 1821, attended by one of her brothers, and a nephew, she visited Margate, where she placed herself under a new medical direction, and with the view of giving full effect to the course of remedies recommended, she passed the following winter months near London, where she could have the advantage of constant advice. The months passed in this way gave her the pleasure and advantage of daily intercourse with a new friend, to whose kindness and christian counsels she thought herself deeply indebted. At this time, her opinion of her own case had become decidedly unfavorable, though still, when alarming symptoms abated, she admitted the hope of recovery. The state of her mind under these circumstances, was neither so tranquil as she wished, nor so much agitated as those who knew the timidity of her disposition had feared it would have been.

Her feelings are described in a letter to Mrs. Gilbert; from which the following passages are extracted:–after informing her sister of the unfavorable opinion of her case, which had been given by two surgeons whom she had lately consulted, she says–

"You may judge then, dear Ann, what my expectations are, when I calmly and steadily view my present circumstances. Of late, too, I have felt my general health more affected than hitherto. But it requires much, utterly to extinguish the hope of recovery:–with God, nothing is impossible. Besides, it is really difficult, while occupied with the usual pursuits of life, and while able to go in and out, much as usual–it is difficult to realize the probability of death at hand. But it comes strangely across me at times, when, forgetting it, I have been planning as usual, for the future. Then a dark cloud overshadows me, and hides all earthly concerns from my sight; and I hear the murmurs of the deep waters: I expect I shall have deep waters to pass through:–already I feel 'the sting of death;' but am not without hope that it may be taken away."

Though the hope of recovery continued to agitate her mind, still her principal anxiety related to her hope of the better life. The doubts that, at times, distressed her, took their rise, for the most part, from the high notions she had formed of the requirements of Christianity. Of the way of salvation, as a free and full provision of mercy, she seemed to have a clear apprehension; but she had long believed, that, from the want of a sufficiently explicit, particular, and authoritative exposition of the law of Christ, as given to us in His discourses, and in the preceptive parts of the epistles, the Gospel is extensively and fatally abused in the professedly christian world; and she trembled lest the flatteries of self-love should delude her into a similar presumption.

It will be seen, from her letters, with how much pleasure she listened to those preachers with whom the great doctrine of salvation through the sacrifice of Christ, is the principal subject; and who, following the example of the apostles, make the freest offer of this salvation to their hearers. But still, she listened with jealousy, to the glad tidings thus proclaimed, unless constantly accompanied with a fearless, distinct, and uncompromising exposition of the parallel truth, that "every one shall receive according to his works." Her frequent expressions were such as these–"I have no doubt as to the way of salvation:–it lies upon the surface of the Scriptures; and appeals with the force of truth to every heart that is humbled by the conviction of personal guilt: but those who shall receive the benefit of this free salvation, and who shall be 'accounted worthy to stand before the throne,' are those who, on earth, are meet for heaven, by being truly like Christ:–and am I–are the mass of those of whom we are accustomed to think well–are they like Christ?"

Entertaining such views, my sister was often distressed with the apprehension that there are indeed "few who shall be saved;" and not being able to class herself among the few whose eminent holiness of temper, and of life, and whose abounding labors in the Lord, distinguish them, beyond doubt, as the disciples of Christ, she was long unable to admit the comfort of assured hope.

Whatever may be thought of this state of mind, and of the justness of those views which were the occasions of it, I have thought it right to mention them, and if it may suggest profitable reflection, to leave the subject with the reader.

Miss Taylor had, in consequence of peculiar circumstances, become deeply concerned for the welfare of the orphan family of a deceased friend. Her anxiety on their behalf, prompted her to address them, collectively, in the following letter:–

To the young lady, who, as the eldest of the same orphan family, sustained the responsibility of caring for her sisters and brothers, Miss Taylor writes–

To the second daughter of this family, she addressed several letters, from among which the following is selected:–

CHAPTER XVI.
LAST ILLNESS, AND DEATH.

THE last two letters have anticipated the course of the Memoir, to which I now revert. On the occasion of the death of her uncle, the Rev. James Hinton, of Oxford, which occurred in the month of July, Miss Taylor was impressed with the belief that death was not to visit the family with "a single blow;" and this foreboding was not falsified, for, in the following November, another uncle–Mr. Charles Taylor (the Editor of Calmet) was removed; and in a few months more, her own death took place.

With the hope of at least recruiting her spirits, my sister, accompanied by her brother, and a young friend visited Margate, once again; where she passed the month of October, tranquilly and pleasantly: on her return, she went to Bedford; and availed herself of the opportunity to visit Olney and Weston: the feelings of the moment she has expressed in the lines written on visiting Cowper's garden. Her return from Bedford took place at the time of an extraordinary inundation; and she, with the young friend who accompanied her, was exposed to considerable peril in the journey.

At this time, she was so far exempt from suffering, or any positive inconvenience from the disease that was preying upon her constitution, and her ordinary comfort was so little impaired, that she took her part in the common engagements of life, with scarcely any apparent diminution of her wonted activity and animation. In these respects she was indeed remarkably favored by the goodness of God: for, to the last, her sufferings were only those consequent upon extreme debility.–The local disease insensibly prevailed over the strength of her constitution, with little external show of its progress, and with scarcely any positive pain. This exemption from suffering was noted by herself, and her family, as calling for lively gratitude to the Father of mercies.

The event might probably have been somewhat different, had not new symptoms been induced by accidental exposure to cold. On the 21st of November my sister went to London, to take leave of one of her most intimate friends, who was then preparing to leave England. This interview, it was known by both parties, must terminate a friendship of long standing, and of unusual tenderness and confidence: the meeting was therefore protracted as long as possible, so as to allow my sister to return to Ongar the same day. Being unable to procure a coach, she and her friend took boat at Lambeth, late in the afternoon; and proceeded as far as London Bridge, through a chilly rain. This exposure produced general pains, which from that time, continued to be the principal cause of her suffering, and, apparently, of the rapid decay of her strength.

Notwithstanding her extreme weakness, she still continued to attend public worship; and even to teach her class in the Sunday school. The last time of her doing so, was on the 4th of January.–She went to the meeting-house, accompanied by the friend before mentioned, whom, after teaching the children the usual time, she took to a window, overlooking the burial ground; and pointing to a spot opposite, said–"There Betsey,–that is where my grave is to be." The same afternoon a funeral sermon was preached for a highly esteemed friend–the mother of a large family, whose death had very deeply affected her. She looked at the weeping family; and deliberately realized the scene, as she believed, soon to be repeated in the same place, when her own family should be the mourners.

Either by the too great excitement of her feelings on this occasion; or by her exposure to the weather, her symptoms seemed to be aggravated from this time:–her breathing became so quick and feeble, as to keep her spirits in constant agitation, and almost to prevent her joining in conversation. She still took her place in the family circle; though it had now become necessary that she should be carried from the parlor to her chamber.

Partly from the impulse of that restlessness which often attends a last illness, and with the hope of deriving at least some alleviation from medical advice, she determined, in the month of February, upon spending a week with her young friends at Newington, whose affection towards her gave her the assurance that she should find all the comforts of home in their house. Though extremely distressed by the exertion of being placed in the chaise, the journey seemed greatly to revive her:–she in some measure enjoyed the society of her friends; and returned home in amended health. She describes her feelings about this time, in the following letter to her sister:–

Neither Jane herself, nor her family, fully apprehended the now near approach of dissolution;–some degree of delusion is very frequent in such cases–and in this, the flatteries of hope were strengthened by that calmness and fortitude, and reluctance to receive any assistance she could possibly dispense with, which, in great measure, concealed the progress of her decline: and also by the undiminished vigor of her mind, and the unabated interest she took in every thing with which she was wont to be concerned.

Though she had, at this time, become incapable of long continued religious exercises, yet, to the last day of her life, the stated times of retirement were observed by her. Usually in the evening, by her request, her brother read to her some portion of scripture, and a few pages of Bennett's Christian Oratory–a book she highly valued. On these occasions her conversation, though not elevated by the language of unclouded hope, frequently contained the expression of a humble and growing trust in the power and grace of the Saviour.

Happily for herself, my sister's imagination which, throughout her life, had been too much alive to ideas of terror, seemed in a great degree quelled by the langours of disease. Thus her mind was relieved from those unreal fears which, otherwise, might have possessed her thoughts, in the near prospect of death. Still, occasionally, she seemed to be contending with what she acknowledged to be horrors of the imagination only.–"Oh!" she would say, "the grave!–the grave is dark and cold!–But surely, even to the wicked there is no suffering in the grave." For some time she seemed much distressed with the apprehension of her remains being disturbed after burial; but from this fear she was relieved by an explicit promise, that such precautions should be taken as should render such disturbance impossible. For the most part, however, the higher and the real interests of the future life occupied their proper place in her thoughts; and whatever other anxieties might harass her for a moment, she quickly returned to this sentiment–

"If sin be pardoned, I'm secure:
Death has no sting besides."

She had, for months past, been wishing to transcribe her will, with a view of amending it in some particulars; but had deferred doing so, in the hope of a return of strength, which might make her more equal to the task: but feeling now her powers of body rapidly declining, she roused herself by an extraordinary effort, and in a way quite characteristic of herself: for it was always some endeavor to promote the comfort or interests of those she loved, that called forth the vigor of her mind. She was therefore supported (April 5th) at her desk, and continued writing with evidently a very painful effort, more than an hour: she completed her task in the three or four following days. I may just take the occasion to say that, in the disposal of her affairs, she was guided by the most exact impartiality–acting consistently with the principle she had often warmly professed, and which is so rarely regarded–that there can be no more right to do wrong, (by indulging ca- pricious preferences,) in making a will, than in any other transaction of life.

Though the least exertion had now become distressingly painful, her mind was so perfectly collected, that the transcript of her will was made without errors, and the parts in which it differed from the original, were expressed with her wonted perspicuity; she also, the same afternoon in which she completed her task, entered some payments in her accounts, as well as the daily memorandums in her pocket-book, which are complete to the Thursday before her death.

On Saturday she was visited by the medical gentleman whom she had consulted when last in London. She was then, though actually dying, so little aware of the near approach of death, that she asked his opinion of the practicability of her leaving home for change of air. After he left her, however, recollecting his expressions, and manner of replying to her inquiries, she inferred the truth; and on Sunday plainly indicated to her family that she did so.

Her last Sabbath was passed tranquilly:–several times in the course of it she exerted her utmost strength to converse with her mother, into whose mind she endeavored to pour that consolation which she knew would be much needed. In the evening she conversed separately with her father and brother; and to them, as before to her mother, she professed her settled hope of heaven; to the latter she said–"I am now quite happy–as happy as my poor frame will bear."

On Monday she came down to the parlor at the usual hour, and was calm in spirit; seeming distressed only by increased debility. During the morning she conversed for some time with her brother, who received her dying wishes and injunctions: and an emphatic expression of affection, which will ever sound fresh in his recollection, as if heard but yesterday. In the afternoon she resolved to make a last effort to finish a letter to her young friends at Newington. For this purpose her brother supported her in his arms;–for she was now utterly unable to sustain herself: her affectionate earnestness to express to them her deep concern for their highest interests, cost her an effort that seemed as if it must have hastened her dissolution; it is as follows:–

In the evening a minister called, with whom she conversed a short time, in a tone of cheerful and confirmed faith. Afterwards with her mother, in terms of intermingled affection, consolation and hope.

When carried up stairs on Monday night, she for the first time, allowed her sister to do every thing for her. She passed the night quietly; but in the morning felt herself unable to rise as usual:–about ten o'clock her brother read a Psalm, and prayed with her. Soon afterwards she was placed in an easy chair by the bed-side. About the same time one of her brothers arrived from London; to him she spoke with the most emphatic earnestness, professing, very distinctly, the ground of her own hope, and the deep sense she then had of the reality and importance of eternal things. Her voice was now deep and hollow–her eye glazed, and the dews of death were on her features; but her recollection was perfect, and her soul full of feeling. While thus sitting up, and surrounded by her family, in a loud, but interrupted voice, she said–"Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me: thy rod and thy staff they comfort me."

Soon afterwards she repeated, with the same emphasis, the verse of Dr. Watts–

"Jesus, to thy dear faithful hand
  My naked soul I trust;
And my flesh waits for thy command,
  To drop into the dust."

repeating with intense fervor the words–

"Jesus to thee–my naked soul–
  My naked soul I trust."

Being then placed in bed, all withdrew but her sister, with whom she conversed some time, giving her several particular directions, with great clearness. She then requested that every thing in the room might be put in the most exact order; after this she lay tranquilly an hour or two, seeming to suffer only from the laborious heaving of the chest; and in reply to a question to that effect, said she was "quite comfortable."

In the afternoon she observed her brother to be writing a letter: she inquired to whom; being told it was to Mrs. Gilbert (who, with Mr. Gilbert, was then on her way to Ongar) she gave her opinion as to the best way of ensuring her sister's meeting the letter, so as, if possible, to hasten her arrival. She had just before said–"Well, I don't think now I shall see Ann again; I feel I am dying fast."

From this time she did not again speak so as to be understood; but seemed sensible, till about five o'clock, when a change took place; her breathing became interrupted: still she was tranquil, and her features perfectly placid. At half-past five she underwent a momentary struggle, and ceased to breathe.

THE interment took place in the burial-ground of the meeting-house at Ongar, where a simple monument has been erected to mark the spot.

The profile prefixed to this volume was taken some years ago: it has been deemed correct, and characteristic of the original. Yet I have to re- gret my inability to give, in place of it, a portrait; but no likeness of my sister exists which would be thought satisfactory by those who knew her. In truth, the expression of her face was of that kind which is the most difficult to be seized by the pencil; for it was the expression of the finest feelings, habitually veiled from observation. Her features were delicately formed, and regular:–her stature below the middle size; every movement bespoke the activity of her mind; and a peculiar archness and sprightliness of manner gave significance and grace to all she did.

But the truest image of the writer's character, is found in the foregoing Extracts from her Correspondence: for her letters were ever the genuine expression of her feelings. Not one of the many of which I have had the perusal, betrays any attempt to write "a clever letter:"–she corresponded with none but friends, and her intercourse with those she loved was inspired only by warm and generous affection. This may indeed be named as the prominent feature of her character–for to love, and to be loved, was the happiness she sought.

Once and again, these letters afford acknowledgements of the constitutional irritability of her temper. This irritability was, however, more often excited by excessive concern for the interests of those whom she loved, than by any other cause–I may say never by the thwarting of mere selfishness. Her abhorrence of every kind of pretension–of fraud, and of injustice, was indeed, strong; and this feeling, added to her piercing discernment of the secret motives of those with whom she had to do, often occasioned to her much fruitless uneasiness, and might sometimes give to her manner an air of constraint; for, to seem to accept as genuine, either actions or words, which she suspected to be spurious, required a degree of self-command of which she was hardly capable.

In her letters my sister frequently complains, also, of the languor and inertness of her mind; but these expressions might, without explanation, convey a false idea to the reader. It is indeed true that the delicacy of her constitution, especially after it was impaired by mental labors, and by sickness, rendered her liable to much languor; but her disposition, and her habits, were those of activity and diligence. In whatever she undertook, she was assiduous, persevering, and exact; and all her exertions were directed by the love of utility. She was fond of the labors of the needle, and of every domestic engagement. Indeed, so strong were her tastes of this kind–so completely feminine was her character, and so free was she from that ambition which often accompanies intellectual superiority, that had she, early in life, been placed in a sphere of home duties, her talents would probably never have been elicited.

The leisure she enjoyed in the latter years of her life, and the influence of some of her friendships, as well as her own tastes, might have led my sister to pursue the elegancies of literature; but her domestic habits, and the strong sense she had of the relative importance of different objects, alike prevented her from often seeking amusement amid the luxuries of intellect. To the character of a literary lady she had, in fact, a decided dislike; both on account of the affectation from which it is seldom exempt, and of the false importance commonly attached by such persons to the most trivial pursuits.

The combination of humor and pensiveness, in the same character, seems to result from some standing law of human nature;–at least, several remarkable instances of the kind might be named. This conjunction of opposite tastes belonged, in a peculiar degree, to my sister's mind, and gave a grace and an interest to the productions of her pen. Without this union and counteraction, humor is apt to become broad and offensive, and pensiveness to sink into sentimentality or dulness. But where it exists, even when both do not actually appear, the one will operate, by a latent influence, to give point and vividness to the most sombre sentiment; while the other serves, at once, to enrich, and to chastise the sports of fancy. To these qualities of my sister's mind were added a fine sense of the beautiful and sublime in nature, and a nice perception of the characteristic points of every object she observed.

In spontaneous conversation, especially on some matters of opinion, she might seem much influenced by peculiar predilections; but whenever she felt herself responsible for the opinion she gave, and especially when she wrote for the press, her judgment was acute and sound, and happily directed by intuitive good sense. Of this excellence, I think, her correspondence with her friends, and the papers contributed to the Youth's Magazine, will furnish frequent and striking instances.

The Poetical Remains exhibit a considerable versatility of talent. My sister first wrote simply to express the overflowing emotions of her heart:–these pieces breathe tenderness; and, relieved as they are by an elegant playfulness, give the truest image of the writer's mind. It was under the guidance of a peculiarly nice ear for the language of nature, that she accommodated these talents to the difficult task of writing verse for children: her compositions of this kind are, for the most part, distinguished by a perfect simplicity and transparency of diction–by brief, exact, and lively descriptions of scenery–by frequent and exquisite touches, both of humor and of pathos, and by a pervading purity and correctness of moral principle.

But her earlier compositions gave little promise of that energy of thought, elevation of sentiment, and force of diction, which appear in the Essays in Rhyme, and in some of the pieces now first published. This long latent vigor of intellect was soon quelled by the languors of sickness: had it been sustained a few years, she would probably have attempted some projects with which her mind was teeming at the time when she found it necessary to abstain from literary occupations. Yet perhaps her delicate frame, even if it had not been shaken by disease and sorrow, could never have sustained the effort necessary to command the thoughts with which, often, her imagination labored.

But whether or not there may be reason to suppose that, under more propitious circumstances, she might have moved, as a writer, in a higher sphere; it is enough to know that her talent has been most beneficially occupied. For, setting aside those of her works which display the most genius, she has, in an unpretending walk of literature, widely scattered the seeds of virtue and piety. Nor can it be doubted that the good fruits of her labors shall endure, and increase, long after those who now cherish a fond remembrance of her virtues in private life, shall have passed away.

POETICAL REMAINS.

POETICAL REMAINS.

PHILIP.
A FRAGMENT.

'MID scattered rocks, on Devon's northern sea,
Lies a small hamlet, and its name is Lea:
A drear lone place, whose few stone huts below
Seem to the spot spontaneously to grow:–
So rude, that to the eye they intermix
With rock and weed:–there are but five or six.
A rapid stream that dashes from the hill,
Turns the rude wheel-work of a noisy mill;
And falling there, where nought its fury bars
Flies from the wheel in thousand glittering stars;
Producing life, and sound, and movement here,
Where all beside is silent, still, and drear.
Like wit ill-timed, this playful pageant mocks
The gloomy aspect of the sea and rocks.

  Bare hills and barren downs for miles you trace,
Ere is attained the unfrequented place:
And when arrived, the traveller starts to find
So wild a spot, the abode of human kind.

Before him rolls the wild and lonely sea
Skirted with rocks–and there, below, is Lea.

  Our story says, that twenty years ago,
One decent dwelling this poor place could show,
A slated roof, the walls erect and square,
The windows curtained, and in good repair,
Bespoke the tenant's comfort: yes, and here
He lived, and walked, and mused, for many a year
He had no calling: so his time ran out,
Chiefly in lonely rambles, round about.
Well he explored each smoothly hollowed cave–
The work of ages, with the incessant wave.
Each rocky fragment, scattered wide to view,
Like an old friend, familiarly he knew.
On sunny days he loved for hours to lie
On some huge mass; and there, with patient eye,
The curious work of Nature's hand to trace,
–A work commenced when Time began his race,
And not yet finished:–ages as they rise,
Aid the slow process, and enrich the dyes.
Art's finest pencil could but rudely mock
The rich gray mosses broidered on a rock
–And those gay watery grots he would explore–
Small excavations on a rocky shore,
That seemed like fairy baths, or mimic wells,
Richly embossed with choicest weed and shells:
–As if her trinkets Nature chose to hide
Where naught invaded but the flowing tide.

  Such were his pastimes; and with these, his mind
A listless entertainment still could find;
For while the eye pursued its busy course,
His own long musings followed, as by force.

And thus the past, by memory's aid supplied,
–Its scenes and sufferings–closely seemed allied
With these wild objects–yes, identified:
Till each some deep remembrance would recall,
And the whole prospect yield the effect of all.

  This gloomy station, with intent perverse,
He chose, not for the better but the worse.
Denied the good he once had hoped to share
He scorned to take the refuse life might spare.
And long he sought a settlement to find,
Where joy could never come, if 't were inclined.
It was with strange delight–with bitter glee,
That first he stood, and gazed, and fixed on Lea.

  But man, short-sighted and dependant still,
Succeeds not fully, e'en in choosing ill.
When Philip used to see, at eve returned,
His white walls glowing, as the embers burned,
His neat small parlor, ever wont to bear
The recent marks of Peggy's daily care,
And Peggy's self, more nice and trim than he,
Preface with smiles the all-reviving tea,
He felt that, if of charm was life bereft,
Yet, e'en for him some comfort there was left.

  Peggy, his sole domestic, slowly grew
To be in fact, his sole companion too.
When first she came she never thought–nor he–
With her odd master she could make so free:–
She was not pert:–he wished not to confer
With any living–doubtless, not with her.
But man is social, e'en against his will;
And woman, kind, whatever rank she fill.

Her master came a lonely stranger here;
Feeble, dejected, friendless–'t would appear.
She pitied;–woman does; nor pitied less
For knowing not the cause of his distress.
She was not young; and had her troubles known;
So that she felt his sorrows with her own:
And soon resolved to labor, all she could,
To cheer his spirits, and to do him good.

  Though few and mean the attainments she could boast,
Peggy had passed her life upon the coast;
And she could thoughts and sentiments disclose,
Such as the inland peasant rarely knows.
On squally nights, or when it blew a gale,
Long she would stand, recounting tale on tale,
Of wreck or danger, or of rescue bold,
That she had witnessed, or her kindred told;
Bringing each long-lost circumstance to mind:
And genuine feeling taught her where to find
Terms more expressive, though of vulgar use,
Than hours of patient study will produce.
Her native eloquence would place in view
The very scene, and all its terrors too.
Meantime, to excuse her stay, she used to stand,
The tidy hearth still trimming–brush in hand:
TiIl he with kind though not familiar air,
Would interrupt with–"Peggy, take a chair."
A chair she took;–less easy when she had;
But soon resumed her tale, and both were glad.
Thus she became, at length, a parlor guest;
And he was happier, though 't was ne'er confessed:
Rocks, sea, and hills, were here his friends by choice;
–But there is music in the human voice.

  So passed their evenings oft; but now and then,
As the mood seized him, he would take a pen;
Wherewith, though slowly, into form was cast
A brief unfinished record of the past.
Whene'er for this her master gave the word,
His faithful Peggy neither spoke nor stirred,
She took her knitting–chose a distant seat.
And there she sat so still, and looked so neat,
'T was quite a picture:–there was e'en a grace
In the trim border round her placid face.

  When Philip wrote he never seemed so well,
–Was startled even if a cinder fell,
And quickly worried;–Peggy saw it all,
And felt the shock herself, if one did fall.
Of knowledge, she had little in her head;
But a nice feeling often serves instead;
And she had more than many better bred.

  But now he felt, like men of greater note,
The harmless wish of reading what he wrote;–
Not to the world;–no, that he could not bear;
But here sat candid Peggy, in her chair:
And so it was, that he, whose inward wo
Was much too sacred for mankind to know,
He–so refined, mysterious, and so proud,
To a poor servant read his life aloud.
How weak is man, amused with things like these!
Or else how vain are writers! which you please.

  All Peggy heard she deemed exceeding good;
But chiefly praised the parts she understood.
At these, by turns, she used to smile or sigh;
And with full credit, pass the other by:

While he, like men and wits of modern days,
Felt inly flattered by her humble praise.
Yet vigor failed to accomplish the design;
And 't was but seldom he would add a line:
But when he died–some years ago at Lea,
Old Peggy sent the manuscript to me.

  Much has been long forgotten; but I 'm sure
That I was always pensive, proud, and poor.
Much is remembered; and I partly know
How past events conspired to make me so.

  When first my gentle mother smiled on me,
The thing to her was no new sight to see.
Babies are surely novelties no more
When there have been eleven or twelve before;
And yet she smiled. But neighbors did not fail,
With one consent my coming to bewail:–
"Poor Mrs. Singleton!–I wish her joy:–
Bless me! poor woman–there's another boy!"
Such was my earliest greeting on this earth;
Yes, an intruder, from my very birth.
And such I've ever been, or felt to be,
Whate'er the cause–unhappiness to me.

  I never thrived; yet lived, as children will,
Where there are plenty;–though they're always ill–
I lived, and grew a pale unlikely lad.
The sweet attentions other children had,
I rarely knew; for none the trouble took
To cast on me the kind admiring look,
To pat my shapeless cheek, or stroke my hair;

There were no graces, no attractions there;
–Nothing to notice: so they passed me by,
And none could blame them for it; nor did I:
No–but I felt it–to neglect alive,
And to contempt too keenly sensitive,
Beyond my years I felt; none ever guessed
The feelings brooding in my childish breast;
Not e'en my mother, who would me employ
On servile errands, humbling to a boy;–
To fetch and carry as a servant goes,
All in broad daylight, in my shabby clothes:
She could not help it:–What was to be done:
We had to lend assistance, every one;
And as the youngest, 't was in turn my fate
To do what all had done, with inward hate.

  My parents, never vulgar, strove in vain,
A decent style of living to maintain:
And strove to make our minds and manners rise
Above our narrow means:–and they were wise.
But need by pride itself must be obeyed;
Though last to yield, and hardest to persuade.
So in and out I went, and up and down,
Our open, light, genteel and handsome town.
When groups of dressy people passed me by,
I shrunk along, and looked ashamed and shy:
And e'en the hated basket would employ,
To skreen the patched and spotted corduroy.
How needless this!–I did not then suspect
How properly neglect, is called neglect.
A thing so mean as I appeared to them,
They would not take the trouble to contemn–
Scarcely to look at:–and suppose they had?
They would have seen a meagre, shabby lad.

Is there an object to the senses brought,
That seems so little worth a second thought:
Or that the trouble would so ill repay,
To people well and handsome, smart and gay?

  Children are blessings, when your means o'erflow;
For all things then combine to make them so.
Nature is helped by art's directing care:–
The boys are noble, and the girls are fair:
Tempers are gentle, manners are polite;
And every graceful movement looks aright.

  But when fond parents are compelled by need
To count how many mouths they have to feed,
The touch of care each native grace consumes,
And beauty withers, even ere it blooms.
True;–love will triumph o'er the rubs it bears;
Yet the fine polish of affection wears.
Such love was ours; nor was it ever lost,
Though, by domestic troubles, chilled and crossed.

  'Mid daily straits and cares, our childish play
Was mischief:–we were always in the way.
The needful goods were hurt by every touch:
So that our sports and frolics cost too much.
The bread of carefulness was all our fare;
And we were reared an early yoke to bear.

  While youthful spirits and elastic hope,
Long kept my brothers and my sisters up;
I brooded:–'t was my nature–'t was my plague;
Pressed both by real sufferings and by vague.
My mind's disease, in brief description brought,
Perhaps might best be named–incessant thought.

'T was thought, that deep on every heart-string played,
Thrilled every nerve–on every vital preyed:
Consumed my vigor, checked my growth, and now
Its early lines are furrows on my brow.

  Years passed, and brought the dreaded time about,
When I must choose a calling, and go out.
They wished me most to turn my mind to trade;
And argued much; but never could persuade.
Some rare profession, 't was my wish to find
That leaves one independent of mankind.
I wished for money:–there was need of that:
But did not like myself to hold the hat.
The gold must always drop where none could look,
To see the hand that gave, nor that which took,
Like private offerings charitably slid
Through the small crevice in a box's lid.
But here invention proved so dull and slow,
Their patience failed:–my father told me so.
At last by luck, by favor, and in haste,
I in a neighboring banking house was placed.
I urged objections; but they scarce were heard:
And after all, I secretly preferred
To starve for life upon my pride and quill
Than thrive on savings, filtered through a till.

  A banker's clerk, without a second hope:–
Such was the prospect through my telescope!
My chief employer was a man of sense,
Although he dealt in shillings, pounds, and pence.
Expert in business, punctual, cautious, wise;
Whom those who hated, never could despise.
A man of consequence, for miles around;
And all dependants trembled, when he frowned.

He had a lordly air, a portly mien:
ln dress, some cost, and even pains, were seen:
And well the scattered powder used to shine
Upon the blue and glossy superfine!
To menials stern, and hard to be appeased–
No man was more agreeable–when he pleased.
He kept a table; and 't was often graced
By men of wealth, and even men of taste.
Then, frowns were banished by a courtly smile:
And all was bland and gracious–for awhile.

  His great concerns, like some complex machine,
He moved by springs, that more were felt than seen.
Of that machine, I seemed to him, at best,
A minor wheel, that turned with all the rest.
But as at first, I did not rightly hit,
Prompt means and harsh, were used to make me fit.
He taught me, not as one might teach a child;
But ground me down, till every notch was filed.
I had some talent; but 't was always hid,
For want of confidence in what I did.
Timid and bashful–nature formed me so;
My conscious meanness made the temper grow:
And now, beneath a rigor too severe,
I seemed a fool–perplexed with shame and fear.

  Here clerks of various office, half a score,
Spoke that contempt I had but guessed before.
Poorest and least, and lowest in degree,
There was no task too servile thought for me.
Small claims had some; but they could joke and chat;
And all were smart;–I was not even that.
I was unhappy: but I did not speak:
Too proud to vent a murmur–not too meek.

But yet I played a game at their expense:
All creatures have some weapon of defence;
And so had I: with woman's keenness cursed,
I saw the heart; and seeing, thought the worst:
Suspected evil where I could not see;
And motives well were analysed by me.

  Unnoticed, unsuspected, at my desk,
I loved to mark their manners and burlesque.
Amused, though vexed, to hear the loud pretence
Of some, who really had not half my sense:
–To find myself despised, and counted nought,
By those who nothing knew, and nothing thought.
I was not vain; nor need I this repeat;
There was enough to check my self-conceit!
But yet I knew, however low my lot,
I had a taste–a feeling, they had not.

  Yes, taste I had; and now all earthly bliss
Solace and refuge, seemed denied, but this:–
Shut from the world's delights by various bars
I used to roam and revel 'mid the stars.
Who could forbid the timid, bashful eye,
Downcast by day, from ranging through the sky.
When in my attic, with untold delight,
I watched the changing splendors of the night?
Those hours were sweet; nor can it be denied,
That with the pleasure, there was mingled pride.
Kings–no, nor bankers, that to me was more,
No brighter sight could see, with all their store.
But stars and worlds of light, are not the things
Most in esteem with bankers, or with kings.
Such thoughts I had; and let it be confessed,
The oppressor here, must yield to the oppressed.

While thought is free, howe'er enslaved the wretch,
He has a circuit where no arm can stretch.
Thought has a power that makes the meanest drudge,
At once the tyrant's censor, and his judge.

  In milder moods I looked from side to side,
For better comfort than I gained from pride:–
"Is there no object more sublimely bright,
More worthy high pursuit, than worlds of light?
Is there no refuge for the poor oppressed?
For weary wanderers, is not there a rest?
Cast out of men–despised by all about,
Is there no friend who will not cast me out?"

* * * * * * * *

TO MAD. DE STAEL.
WRITTEN AFTER READING "CORINNE OU L'ITALIE."

  O WOMAN, greatly gifted! why
Wert thou not gifted from on high?
What had that noble genius done–
That knew all hearts–all things, but one,
–Had that been known? O, would it might
Be whispered, here she took her flight!
Where, where is that fine spirit hurled,
That seemed unmeet for either world?

  While o'er thy magic page I bend,
I know thee–claim thee for my friend:
With thee a secret converse hold,
And see my inmost thoughts unfold.
Each notion crude, defined–expressed;
And certain, what I vaguely guessed.
And hast thou taught, with cruel skill,
The art to suffer better still:–
Grief's finest secret to explore,
Though understood too well before?
Ah well, I'd thank thee if I might;
Although so wrong, thou art so right!
While I condemn, my heart replies,
And deeper feelings sympathize.

  Thy view of life–that painful view,
How false it is!–and yet how true!

"Life without love–a cheerless strife;
Yet love so rarely given to life."
And why must truth and virtue, why,
This mighty claim of love deny?
–What was this earth, so full, so fair?–
A cheerless desert, bleak, and bare–
God knew it was–till love was there.
Say, has the heart a glance at bliss–
One–till it glance or gaze at this?
Ah no! unblessed, unsoothed the lot,
Fair though it seem, that knows it not!
'T is true!–and to the truth replies
A thousand joyless hearts and eyes;–
Eyes beamless–hearts that do not break–
They cannot–but that always ache;
And slowly wither, day by day,
Till life at last is dried away.

  "Love or Religion;" yes, she knew,
Life has no choice but 'twixt the two:
But when she sought that balm to find,
She guessed and groped; but still was blind.
Aloft she flew, yet failed to see
Aught but an earthly deity.
The humble Christian's holy love,
O, how it calmly soars above
These storms of passion!–Yes, too much
I've felt her talent's magic touch.
Return, my soul, to that retreat
From sin and wo–thy Savior's feet!
There learn an art she never knew,
The heart's own empire to subdue:–
A large, but willing sacrifice.
All to resign that He denies;–

To him in meek submission bend;
Own Him an all-sufficient friend;
Here, and in holy worlds above,
My portion–and my only love!

September 23, 1822.

TO THE MOON.

WHAT is it that gives thee, mild Queen of the Night,
  That secret intelligent grace?
O why should I gaze with such tender delight,
  On thy fair, but insensible face?

What gentle enchantment possesses thy beam,
  Beyond the warm sunshine of day?
Thy bosom is cold as the glittering stream,
  Where dances thy tremulous ray.

Canst thou the sad heart of its sorrow beguile,
  Or grief's fond indulgence suspend?
Yet where is the mourner but welcomes thy smile,
  And loves thee almost as a friend?

The tear that looks bright in thy beam as it flows
  Unmoved thou dost ever behold:
The sorrow that loves in thy light to repose,
  To thee it has never been told.

And yet thou dost soothe me, and ever I find,
  While watching thy gentle retreat,

A moonlight composure steal over the mind,
  Poetical, pensive, and sweet.

I think of the years that forever are fled,
  Of follies by others forgot;
Of joys that are vanished, of hopes that are dead,
  Of friendships that were, and are not.

I think of the future–still gazing the while,
  As thou couldst those secrets reveal:
But ne'er dost thou grant an encouraging smile,
  To answer the mournful appeal.

Those beams which so bright through my casement appear,
  To far distant scenes they extend;
Illumine the dwellings of those that are dear,
  And sleep on the grave of my friend.

Then still must I love thee, mild Queen of the Night,
  Since feeling and fancy agree
To make thee a source of unfailing delight,
  A friend and a solace to me.

    1811.

TO MRS. L.

WHY is it that my friend and I,
Look forth on life so variously?
She, on the present, future, past,
A sanguine smile is prone to cast:

–I weep o'er scenes for ever fled;
The impending future wait with dread;
And see the present moment fly,
With languid, listless apathy.

  'T is not that when our course was planned,
'T was done with such a partial hand
As strewed, for long succeeding years,
Thy path with flowers, and mine with tears:
For grief has aimed a shaft at thee;
And joy in turn has glanced at me.
E'en should the self-same path be ours,
Set with alternate weeds and flowers,
You from its entrance to its close,
Would point at these, and I at those.
In gathering clouds that o'er us form,
You greet a shade, I bode a storm–
Still choosing to expect the worst;
Since clouds are clouds, and often burst.
Yet soon, you say, they pass, and O,
How cheering is the faithful bow!
Thus argues each; and all the while
I weep;–and you persist to smile.

  If in the depth of nature's laws
Philosophy should seek the cause,
Perhaps the whole might be descried
In movements of the crimson tide;
As brisk or fainting pulses show
Its rapid, or its tardy flow.

  Howe'er that be, it might be wise
To form a mutual compromise–
Or friendly firm, combining so,

Hope, Fear, Indifference, Care and Co.
Then would concessions fair and true,
Encourage me, attemper you.
You would hope's guile allow, and I,
That fear exceeds reality:–
You, that all gladness shows alloy;
And I, that grief is dashed with joy:–
Care, too distrustful, I confess;
And you, a treacherous sanguineness.
When thus opposed extremes unite,
The aggregate will just be right:
The sanguine smile is checked by fear;
A hope shall glitter through a tear.

  April, 1820.

LOVE AND FAME.
A FABLE.

As once beneath a spreading shade–
  A deep serene seclusion,
Wandered alone a pensive maid,
  All thoughtless of intrusion,
Two gentle strangers wooing came;
And one was Love, and one was Fame.

Fame first, a silver trumpet fills,
  With one shrill blast inspiring:
It rang and echoed round the hills:–
  The maiden stood admiring;
Yet startled, trembled, at the blast;
But listened, till she smiled at last.

With timid voice and pleading eyes,
  Love told his gentle story;
But while he spoke of pains and sighs,
  His rival talked of glory:
Fame strove a brighter flame to prove;
But looked not so sincere as Love.

The maiden stood with changing hue,
  Their various language heeding;
To Fame she gave attention due;
  But when poor Love was pleading,
Assumed an aspect more severe,
And scarcely seemed to lend an ear.

When love confessed his secret flames,
  And told of pangs inflicted,
Fame boasted of superior claims,
  And boldly contradicted:
At length the contest warmer grew,
And words ran high between the two.

Fame talked of sway in distant years,
  When Love would laugh and leave her;
Love looked indignant through his tears,
  Exclaiming–you deceive her!
Ah, what so fickle as thy breath!
But I am faithful–strong as death.

In age, when you and friendship fly,
  And leave to gloom and sadness,
I live to gild the wintry sky
  With many a beam of gladness:
Yes, I would cheer her to the last,
When silent was your faithless blast.

But you, said Fame, have cares and strife,
  To cloud each gloomy morrow:–
And I allay the ills of life,
  Said Love, and sweeten sorrow;
And one soft word of mine can soothe,
And make its stormy current smooth.

I boast, said Fame, of hope and pride;
  And triumph in my treasures;
And I have pleasures, Love replied–
  Such peaceful, sacred pleasures
As you (although triumphant still)
Did never yield, nor ever will.

Yes, and the pleasures that I bring
  (While feeling's power endures)
More sweetly blend–more closely cling
  To woman's heart, than yours.
You may perchance her favor buy;
But nature sanctions not the tie.

The maiden wearied with debate,
  Arrests the fierce contention:
One anxious moment does but wait,
  In agonized suspension:–
Then urged by doubt, by pride, by shame,
She sighed, and gave her hand to Fame.

REMONSTRANCE TO TIME.

STAY hoary Sage! one moment deign
To hear thy duteous child complain;
  Nor scorn her pensive lay:
But while a suppliant at thy side,
Thy fearful scythe in pity hide,
And that old hour-glass throw aside;
  They fright my song away.

Regardless of thy hoary age,
Thou indefatigable Sage,
  Incessant is thy toil:
Thou canst, with an unnatural joy,
Thine own ingenious works destroy;
For 't is thy favorite employ
  To perfect and to spoil.

And Beauty's temple, Wisdom's brow,
Old Time! it well befits thee now,
  With pains to decorate:
Scatter thy silver honors there,
But, O, good father Time, forbear!
I ask thee not to deck my hair;
  It ill becomes thy state.

Go, bind thine ivy o'er the oak,
And spread thy rich embroidered cloak
  Around his trunk the while;
Or deck with moss the abbey wall,
And paint grotesque the Gothic hall,

And sculpture, with thy chisel small,
  The monumental pile:

But oh! from such majestic height,
Wilt thou, descending, stoop thy flight
  To seek my lowly door?
What glory canst thou reap from me,
By all neglected but by thee?–
Consider thine own dignity,
  And proudly pass me o'er.

–But false the hope! and vain the prayer!
Thy hand was never known to spare;
  Nor will thy speed delay:
Yet hear thy trembling victim's sigh;
If e'er thy microscopic eye
Perchance one youthful grace espy,
  May that become thy prey!

Thy wrinkles, and thy locks of snow
(The choicest gifts thy hand bestow)
  At those I do not start:
But come not thou a treacherous guest,
To steal those feelings, dearest, best–
That glow that warms the youthful breast:–
  With these I cannot part.

Oh! should such joys supplanted be
By frigid worldly policy;
  And cold distrust ensue;
Adieu, ye dear poetic powers,
And Fancy's fair enchanted bowers,
And all the sweets that once were ours;
  A long, a sad adieu!

But is it in thy power to chill
Affection's dear transporting thrill,
  And Friendship's fervid glow?
Ah! if thy cruel aim be this,
I shudder at thy marble kiss,
And clinging to my parting bliss,
  Call bitter tears to flow.

But, Sire, command these fears away:
Tell me, affection's milder ray
  Shall gild my wintry sky:–
That hope my fainting spirit cheers,
Dispels my sighs, and dries my tears:
Angelic now thy form appears,
  And mercy in thine eye.

June, 1808.

SUNSET.

GRAY twilight spreads her sable mantle far,
  And dewy mists obscure the tints of day;
Yet, with mild lustre glows the evening star,
  To cheer the lonely traveller on his way.

For Sol's departing rays no longer gleam
  To gild the mountain pine, or lofty spire;
O'er western waves he spreads his golden beam;
  And ocean gladdens, as the shades retire.

While Albion's sons in grateful slumbers rest,
  And silent darkness reigns around our isle,

He rides resplendent to the glowing west,
  On fair Columbia's fertile plains to smile;
Her busy cities wake to clamors gay;
Her waving woods resound, and hail the rising day.

THE FAIRIES' SONG.

From acorn cells we spring to view,
In robes of sunshine, tinged with blue,
And pearly bands of evening dew
                  Bound in our hair.

And now we form the magic ring,
And merrily dance and merrily sing;
A fairy's dance is a pretty thing
                  In the moonshine.

But ere the dawn returns again,
We wind along the wooded lane,
And glow-worm torches light the train
                  All the way home.

TO MISS G.
ON THE DEATH OF HER ROBIN.

WHERE Flora holds her court, arrayed
  In tints no art can borrow,
From that fair garden's leafy shade
  Proceeds the tone of sorrow.
Why is the tone of sorrow heard?–
It is for Mary's favorite bird.

How late on gay and glossy wing,
  He soared, as fancy led him:
And oft a grateful lay would sing
  To her who loved and fed him:
And little dreamed of ill–but oh!
Some wintry blast has laid him low.

Poor Robin! when the sunny beams
  Bespoke the year advancing,
With what fond visionary schemes
  Thy heart perhaps was dancing–
Of days of joy, and nights of rest,
Of speckled egg, and downy nest.

Yet no such thoughts might e'er arise
  To excite his joy or sorrow;
Too foolish he–or else too wise,
  To think about to-morrow,
Perhaps within his tiny pate,
There was no room to speculate.

But e'er could Mary's curious quest
  Discern, whene'er intruding,
What thoughts within her Robin's breast
  From morn to night were brooding:
She knows–and then enough is known–
What hopes have fluttered in her own.

And may she learn from Robin's end,
  To check hope's fond illusion;
And not unfaithful deem her friend,
  Nor think it an intrusion,
Who thus with chemic art appears,
To extract a moral from her tears.

AN ENIGMA.

        YE philosophers hark!
        My complexion is dark!
Reflection and silence my character mark.

        No record on earth
        Discovers my birth,
Long reigned I in solitude, silence and dearth.

        I travel away,
        In sombre array:
But my turban and sandals are silvery grey.

        Majestic my mien,
        And my dark form is seen
All sparkling in gems, like an African queen.

        One pearl that I wear
        Is more brilliant and rare
Than the loveliest gem in a princess's hair.

        My stature is tall,
        But at seasons I crawl,
Or shrink myself almost to nothing at all.

        Invisibly hurled,
        I traverse the world,
And o'er every land is my standard unfurled.

        I silently roll
        Round the icy-bound pole:
And long the wide region endures my control.

        From earliest time
        I was grave and sublime:
But often am made the accomplice of crime.

        My intellect teems
        With visions and dreams,
And wild tales of terror, my favorite themes.

        Yet sorrow and pain
        Oft welcome my reign,
And eagerly watch for my coming again:

        For a handmaid of mine,
        With aspect benign,
Deals out, at my bidding, a soft anodyne.

        My sister down there,
        Is transcendently fair,
But we never once happened to meet any where.

        Advancing behold
        Her banners of gold!
Then I must away with my story half told.

THE VASE AND THE PITCHER.
A FABLE.

ONE day when a grand entertainment was ended,
A rich China Vase, lately come from abroad,
In which every tint of the rainbow was blended,
Spoke thus to a Pitcher that stood on the board:–

"I hope, rustic neighbor, you do n't feel distressed
At standing before me, so shabbily dressed:
It will mitigate, may be, your feelings to know,
That though so superb, I can stoop to the low.

"'T is true, that before I arrived from abroad,
Beyond the wide Ganges, I lived with a lord:
'T is true, in the west, that no king can procure,
For his service of state, so splendid a ewer.

"'T is true that gay ladies, in feathers and pearls,
Survey and admire me–and barons and earls:
'T is true that I am, as you must understand,
Prodigiously rich, and excessively grand.

"But you, paltry bottle! I pity your fate:
Whence came ye, coarse neighbor, I prithee relate;
And tell us, how is it you ever endure
So graceless a shape, and so vile a contour?"

The Pitcher, who stood with his hand on his hip,
Shrug'd up his round shoulders, and curl'd his brown lip;
And grave to appearance, but laughing inside,
He thus, from his orifice, coolly replied:–

"I come, noble Vase, from the cottage below,
Where I serve a poor husbandman, if you must know;
And my trade (might I venture to name such a thing)
Is bringing pure water each morn from the spring.

"There's a notable lass, who at dawn of the day
When dew-drops yet glisten on meadow and spray,
When the lark soars aloft, and the breezes are cool,
Sets off on light tip-toe, with me to the pool.

"The pool is surrounded with willow and ash;
At noon, in the sun, its dark waters will flash;
And through the deep shade, you at intervals hear
The lowing of kine, in the meadow land near.

"The sheep with their lambkins there browse at their ease,
Beneath the cool arch of embowering trees;
While low creeping herbs give their sweets to the air;
Wild thyme, and the violet, and primroses fair.

"'T is here that myself every morning she bears;
Then back to the cot in the valley repairs:
The fagot is blazing, the breakfast is placed,
And appetite sweetens coarse fare to the taste.

"In these humble services passes my life,
Remote from the city–its noise and its strife:
Though homely, I 'm fit for the work of the day;
And I am not ashamed of my true British clay.

"And now, noble Vase, may I ask if 't is true,
That you stand every day here with nothing to do?
A poor idle gentleman, up in your niche,
Quite useless;–and nothing but handsome and rich!

"They neither intrust you with victuals nor drink:
You must have but a poor sorry life on't, I think;
And though such an elegant creature you're thought,
Pray are you not tired with doing of nought?"

But the Vase would not answer such questions as these;
And the Pitcher felt glad he was not a Chinese.

AN ENIGMA.

WHERE nature wears her wildest dress,
  In colors all her own,
Where howling winds rage merciless,
  I spread my stormy throne:
And loud and angry, wild and rude,
I reign in dreary solitude.

When summer skies are clear to view,
  And sunbeams dance around,
I wear a robe of purest blue,
  With silvery fringes bound;
And blush and sparkle, smile and play,
Like beauty on a festal day.

Sweet evening sets her earliest star
  Upon my peaceful breast,
And I restore the gem afar,

  To deck Aurora's vest;
The host of heaven in bright array,
To me, by turns, their homage pay.

The silent cave, the sparkling grot,
  In unknown realms, I ween,
Where foot of mortal enters not,
  Nor vulture's eye hath seen–
'T is there I love to steal along,
And pour my everlasting song.

And there with pearl and amber crowned,
  I hold my gentler court,
While freshest breezes play around,
  And merry mermaids sport;
And thousand graceful Naiads stand,
With streaming urns in either hand.

A STORY.

THERE once was a man who contrived a balloon,
To carry him whither?–why, up to the moon.
One fine starlight night he set sail for the sky,
And joyfully bid our poor planet good-by.
He mounted aloft with incredible speed,
And saw the green earth every moment recede.
"Farewell," he exclaimed, "to thy pride and conceit,
Oppression and injury, fraud and deceit;
Thy flagrant abuses, thy luxury too,
And all thy gay pageants, for ever adieu.
Thy festivals, spectacles, learning and lore;

My share in thy pleasures I gladly restore:
Thy kings and thy nobles, lords, ladies, and squires,
And all the poor world in its dotage admires.
From its factions and parties and politics free,
The statesmen and heroes are nothing to me:
Bonaparte in his cage, on Helena's wild shore,
And all his devices, to me are no more.
Farewell to thy valleys, in verdure arrayed;
Farewell to thy merchandise, traffic and trade;
Thy wide-swelling rivers that roll to the seas;
Thy dark waving forests, that sigh to the breeze:
From Britain to China, or Ganges' wide stream,
All fades from my sight like a vanishing dream."

  He spoke, and with pleasure soon darted his eyes on
The moon, just appearing above the horizon;
And sitting upright with his hand in his pocket,
Shot up the dark sky into space, like a rocket.
But the swiftness with which his light vehicle sped,
Brought on such a giddiness into his head,
That he lay a long time in his boat without knowing
How long he had been or which way he was going.
At length he aroused from his stupor, when lo!
The beautiful planet was shining below!
Already so near was he come, as to see
Its mountains and valleys, as plain as could be.
With feelings no language could well represent,
He quickly prepared his machine for descent.
A fine open plain, much resembling, he said,
Some spots in old England, before him was spread,
Whose smoothness and verdure his presence invited;
And there, all amazement, our traveller alighted.
What thrillings of rapture what tears of delight,
Now melted this signally fortunate wight:

And thus he expressed his astonishment soon
"Dear me, what a wonder to be in the moon!"

'T was now early morning, the firmament clear;
For there the sun rises, the same as down here.
He took out his pocket-book, therefore, and wrote
Whatever he saw that was worthy of note.
For instance, the soil appeared sandy and loose;
The pasture much finer than we can produce.
He picked up a stone, which he wished he could hand
To some learned geologists down in our land.
A blue little weed next attracted our writer,
Not very unlike to our hare-bell, but brighter,
And looked, as he said, most decidedly lunar:
–He wished he had come on this enterprise sooner.
But still he was far more impatient to trace
What sort of inhabitants lived in the place.
Perhaps they were dragons, or horrible things,
Like fishes with feathers, or serpents with wings.
Thus deeply engaged in conjectural thought,
His eye by an object was suddenly caught;
To which, on advancing, he found, you must know,
'T was just such a mile-stone as ours are below;
And he read, all amazed, in plain English this line–
"Twelve miles to old Sarum, to Andover nine."
In short, the whole wonder at once to explain,
The man had alighted on Salisbury Plain.

THE SHIPWRECKED LASCAR.
(A True Tale.)
ADDRESSED TO MISS M.

–SHE sailed in her pride from the regions of day;
Her cargo was rich, and her pennons were gay:
Long homeward she scudded, defying the blast,
Till Britain's green hills were descried from the mast.

Then gathered the tempest, then heightened the gale:
The hearts of her bravest were ready to fail:
Night adds to the horror, and deepens the roar:–
She lies in the morning a wreck on our shore.

And Heaven in its mercy has rescued the crew;
They live and return to their country anew:
But one sickly stranger–unfriended, unknown,
Is left by his comrades to perish alone.

He thinks of his home, for no shelter has he;
His wife and his mother are over the sea:
He came from the Islands of Spices afar,
–The dark Asiatic, the gentle Lascar.

He stretches in anguish the languishing limb,
Expecting no pity, no mercy for him;
–But England has pity–and O, there was one,
Who saw his dark face, and the kindness was done.

She took him, she nursed him with tender address;
And fair was the hand that relieved his distress:
She came like the angel of mercy from far,
To minister health to the dying Lascar.

His wants and her pity could only be known
By broken expressions, and sympathy's tone:
But pity has language no words can supply,
And gratitude speaks from the eloquent eye.

He watches her coming, for all must appear
In safety and comfort, if Madame be near;
He sits in her casa, unclouded by care,
For nothing is wanting if Madame be there.

Her care is rewarded:–the sick man is well;
And now he must bid her a final farewell:
Have pity, ye sailors, ye sons of the brave!
Oh, bear him in tenderness over the wave!

Borne on by the swell of the ocean he goes
To tell to his kindred the tale of his woes;
To tell his dark beauty, with many a tear,
Of Madame's kind casa, that sheltered him here.

And O, that the knowledge she strove to impart,
May lighten the gloom of his desolate heart!
And long as he lives will be heard from afar,
The blessings and prayers of the grateful Lascar.

  Marazion, November, 1815.

THE BEGGAR BOY.

I'M a poor little beggar, my mammy is dead;
My daddy is naughty, and gives me no bread:
O'er London's wide streets all the day long I roam,
And when night comes on, I've got never a home.

I would not be idle, like some wicked boys,
So I got me a basket with trinkets and toys;
Nobody was e'er more industrious than I,
Nobody more willing to sell if you'll buy.

I've Bonaparte's life, and adventures, and birth,
And histories of all the great men of the earth:
Enigmas, and riddles, and stories complete:
Come buy them, dear ladies, a penny a sheet.

Here's cottons, and bobbins, and laces so white,
And thimbles, and scissors, well polished and bright:
Fine pictures of Frenchmen, and Tartar, and Swede;
And Darton's gay books for good children to read.

I've all the debates, in the parliament made,
On sinecures, pensions, and taxes new laid:
Accounts of the battles by land and by sea,
That were fought in one thousand eight hundred and three.

In summer, gay flowers and nosegays I sell,
Sweet-cowslips, and roses, and jasmines to smell:
Watercresses for breakfast, fresh gathered and green,
From bad weeds and hemlock picked careful and clean.

But alas! 't is in vain that I mournfully cry,
And hold out my basket to all who pass by;
I fancy they 're thinking of other affairs;
For they seem not to notice or me or my wares.

I would get me a place that was decent and clean,
Though in a capacity ever so mean;
But nobody credits a word that I say,
For they call me a vagrant, and turn me away.

In the evening I wander, all hungry and cold,
And the bright Christmas fires thro' the windows behold:
Ah, while the gay circles such comforts enjoy,
They think not of me, a poor perishing boy!

Oh had I a coat, if 't were ever so old,
This poor trembling body to screen from the cold;
Or a hat from the weather to shelter my head;
Or an old pair of shoes, or a morsel of bread!

'T is almost a fortnight since I've tasted meat;
Pray give a poor creature a mouthful to eat;
And while you in plenty all comforts enjoy,
Oh think upon me, a poor perishing boy.

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.
"HE FASHIONETH THEIR HEARTS ALIKE."

A WISH, fair friend, you late expressed,
  –A modest wish, to know
The thoughts that in another's breast
  Were passing to and fro.
'T is little worth, I own, to say;
But Grace commands, and I obey.

Yet must I such a task fulfil,
  And e'en perform it now?
Yes, fair confessor–yes, I will,
  But you shall tell me how:
To see my heart, consult your own,
And all you wish to know, is known.

A free communion thus we hold:
  Compare our "common lot;"
And yet no secret need be told;
  Convenient–is it not?
So much we may:–no more we dare,
Friends, and yet strangers, as we are.

When wood and vale, and light and shade,
  Lay varied late to view,
When sunbeams on the waters played,
  And heaven was bright and blue,
We felt;–but what we felt, and why,
Could you explain?–no more could I.

Did fancy dare indulge that day
  In sport she loves so well?
Did fairies dance, did zephyrs play
  In every sylvan dell–
Then vanish–all reduced to nought,
Touched by the wand of sober thought?

Did pensive musing of the past,
  When other skies were bright,
Their momentary shadows cast
  O'er hills, and hearts, so light?–
It might be so perhaps with some,
While others glanced at joys to come.

Did lovely nature thus employ
  Her magic o'er the mind–
Awaking gladness, sadness, joy,
  By turns, or all combined;
Till eye to eye could best impart
The thrill that went from heart to heart?

Thus while the buoyant spirits flow,
  How soft the moments glide!
But tell me, tell me, if you know,
  Their far-receding tide!
From hence at least you may perceive
What flat and dreary sands they leave.

Then life looks cheerless, does it not?
  Not yet, perhaps, to you,
Who see it from a different spot,
  And gain a fairer view;
Then ask not if 't is smooth or rough;
For time will tell you soon enough.

But O, forgive the dark presage
  That shades too oft my sight;
Turn quickly to a fairer page,
  And read in lines of light–
(Most bright when life has lost its zest)
That word of cheer–"There is a rest."

  Hull, June 29, 1821.

TO A POETICAL FRIEND.

WHY so misname the writer's task?
  The honor all is hers;
"A favor," if a Poet ask,
  A favor he confers.

Yet to fulfil the kind request
  Is skill she dare not own;–
Who to a poet can suggest
  A thought to him unknown?

What can the roving eye explore
  That earth or heaven displays,
But his has glanced upon before,
  With more enraptured gaze?

Or should a heart its tale reveal
  Of hidden joy or wo;–
What is there that a heart can feel,
  But his must better know?

Forbear a further plea to bring,
  Since taste and truth agree,
That none can touch the sacred string
  With truth and taste, but he.

TO A FRIEND.

SWEET Jessamine, long may thy elegant flower
  Breathe fragrance and solace for me;
And long thy green sprays overshadow the bower
  Devoted to friendship and thee.

The eye that was dazzled where lilies and roses
  Their brilliant assemblage displayed,
With grateful delight on thy verdure reposes,
  –A tranquil and delicate shade.

But ah, what dejection that foliage expresses,
  Which pensively droops on her breast!
The dew of the evening has laden her tresses,
  And stands like a tear on her crest.

I'll watch by thy side through the gloom of the night,
  Impatient till morning appears;
No charm can awaken this heart to delight,
  My Jessamine, while thou art in tears.

But soon will the shadows of night be withdrawn,
  Which ever in mercy are given;
And thou shalt be cheered by the light of the morn,
  And fanned by the breezes of Heaven.

And still may thy tranquil and delicate shade
  Yield fragrance and solace to me;
For though all the flowers in my garden should fade,
  My heart will repose upon thee.

TO THE SAME, ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
APRIL 16TH.

    WITH garlands of primroses crowned,
      And smiling through eloquent tears–
    Her violets springing around,
      Sweet April returning appears:
Though showers have darkened her changeable sky
To me she is fairer than blooming July.

    For sparkling with sunbeams I see,
      In April's fair retinue here,
    What still is accounted by me
      The loveliest day in the year:
And soft gratulations shall ever ascend,
To welcome the morning that gave me a friend.

    But what to that morning I owe,
      Which dawned on my infantile state–
    What blessings it came to bestow–
      What light it has shed on my fate–
What sweet it has yielded, what balm for distress;
I ask not the language of song to express.

    Hope, joy, consolation and peace,
      That day on my infancy beamed:
    My smiles bade it welcome–and these,
      Prophetic of happiness seemed:
And might not the tears which unconsciously fell,
Possess a significant meaning as well!

    O friend of my bosom! I stray
      Through life's chequered valleys with thee:
    If clouds ever darken thy way,
      Their shadows must fall upon me:
While stars that illumine thy pilgrimage, shine,
With beams of encouraging mercy on mine.

    Then whether it enter arrayed
      In all the fair colors of spring,
    Or wrapped in as hoary a shade
      As winterly tempests can bring,
This day to my heart will for ever appear
The brightest, the loveliest day in the year.

TO THE SAME, ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

MUCH wishing, dear Susan, I something could say
Expressive of friendship and joy on this day,
I sent an express, my shy muse to invite,
And waited, in very necessitous plight;
But being on higher employment intent,
A truly discouraging message she sent–
That all applications at present were vain,
On account of a certain poetical swain,
Who now has some business to do in her way,
That must be completed by Susan's birth-day.
So bowing submissive, with diffidence due,
I determined to try what alone I could do.
But hard was the task;–not a wish could I bend
In the shape of a line with a rhyme at the end.
And though the north wind has been blowing all day,
Not one single thought has it wafted this way.
I went to the window, since nature's green vest
Some feeling poetic is wont to suggest.
But drear was the prospect that waited me there;
I looked at the trees, but their branches were bare;
And I nearly had given it up in despair,
When a little pale star through the twilight that shone,
Smiled kindly upon me, and bid me go on.
"But tell me, sweet star, will thy beams as they play,
Inspire my dull brain with some fanciful lay?"
'T was silent–but, sparkling and darting its rays,
It seemed to invite and encourage my gaze;
And as I continued its beams to explore,
They brightened and dazzled each moment the more.
Yet it seemed not to shine its own path to adorn,

But to guide the benighted, and cheer the forlorn.
My Susan! but no–you forbid me the rest:
Yet suffer the wish that escapes from my breast;
O may the bright beams that thy virtues display,
Direct my dark steps through the shadowy way.

TO TWO CHESTNUT TREES.

WHO will deny but there may be
Much inspiration in a tree?
Since Cowper's harp so sweetly spoke,
Fanned by the breeze of Yardly Oak.
Encouraged thus, my own I hung
Your darkly shadowed boughs among;
Thinking perchance some passing gale
Might tell affection's simple tale.

  But why should Fancy–used to stray
Where sheds the sun his golden ray
On cultured plains, and valleys gay,
Or idly sport her transient hour,
In magic grot, or rosy bower–
Why should she fly such scenes as these,
To hover near two modest trees,
Whose only office is to wait
As sentinels to guard the gate?

  Is it because your branches high,
Relieved against the pearly sky,
Seem giant forms in Fancy's eye,
When evening lets her shadows fall,
And shrouds you in her sable pall?

  Is it because the moon beam rests
So sweetly on your modest crests?
Is it because your foliage played
In varied forms of light and shade?
Had ye no other charms than these,
Ye would not be her favorite trees;
For many a fairer have I seen,
Of richer foliage, statelier mien,
That well might claim eulogium each–
The Oak, the Elm, and graceful Beech:
And let them richer, nobler be,
They are not half so dear to me.

  Where Fancy most delights to stray
Affection always leads the way,
Regardless if the favorite spot
Can boast exterior charm or not;
For love bestows a secret grace
On every object, every place:
E'en were it desolate and bare,
She finds a blooming Eden there;
Quickly each hidden grace can see,
And gives enchantment to a tree.

  Then well may Fancy love to stray
Where thousand graces court her stay;
Where ye in friendly union stand,
Like loving sisters, hand in hand,
Presiding o'er enchanted land.

  Long may your spreading branches meet,
The guardians of that loved retreat,
Where many a tender floweret blooms
Embosomed by your waving plumes:
And Fancy still, by love conveyed,
Shall fondly linger in your shade.

TO A SISTER,
ON HER BIRTH-DAY, JANUARY 30, 1809.

MY sister, companion, and friend,
  The guide of my devious way,
May a song of affection attend
  The return of this festival day!
We are friends by the earliest choice–
  Our union in childhood began–
And still we can weep, or rejoice,
  In unison only, my Ann.

While many in solitude walk,
  Together we travel along;
Or hang like twin buds on a stalk,
  (We may call ourselves flowers in song.)
The showers that kindly descend,
  Have nourished us both as they passed;
And together we shiver and blend,
  Assailed by the winterly blast.

But the blast, and the storm, and the shower,
  Have still been commissioned to spare;
Though fatal to many a flower,
  That grew in a gayer parterre:
And spreading sweet fragrancy wide,
  You flourish in verdure arrayed,
While, blighted and pale, at your side,
  I hang down my head in the shade.

My Ann, you had taken the lyre:
  And I, from the pattern you set,
Attempted the art to acquire,
  And often we played a duet:
But those who in grateful return,
  Have said they were pleased with the lay,
The discord could always discern:
  And yet I continued to play.

The garland the Muses have wrought,
  Your temples, my Ann, to entwine,
A few of the tendrils have caught,
  And so they appear upon mine:
But even the evergreens fade,
  And droop on my forehead, you see;
The wreath rather serves as a shade;
  'T is not ornamental to me.

But let every sigh be repressed,
  Since mutual our pleasures must be;–
The ivy that clings to its breast
  Is reckoned a part of the tree.
And oh! may we never divide,
  Till closed is this turbulent day!
Should I lose you, my sister and guide,
  How dreary the rest of the way!

The friends of our earliest years,
  (The gayest that ever we knew)
Alone, in this valley of tears,
  Have left us our way to pursue;–
But let these complainings subside,
  For blessings I cannot recall;
My Ann travels still by my side,
  And she is far dearer than all.

THE VIOLET TO THE ROSE.

ENCLOSED in the shade of a forest profound,
  Where silence and solitude reign,
In colors diversified, scattered around,
A little wild hamlet of flowers was found,
  The peasants of Flora's domain.

There blue-bells, and daisies, and primroses grew,
  From tumult and vanity far:
Their pleasures were simple–their wishes were few,
They sipped every morning fresh draughts of the dew,
  And slept with the evening star.

Amid the wild group, in this peaceful recess,
  A Violet peeped from the earth;
But lately indeed she had altered her dress;
And some in the hamlet had reason to guess,
  She was but a cowslip by birth.

While they with the breezes at play might be seen,
  Refusing to join in the sport,
She sighed for the garden where Rosa was queen,
And despised her pale crest, and her trappings of green,
  When she heard of the splendors at court.

And often at night the disconsolate maid
  Lamented, by others unseen;
Till a fairy from court who frequented the glade,
Overheard the complaint that poor Violet made,
  And told it again to the queen.

Kind Rosa was melted:–"My fairy," said she,
  "Again you must hasten away,
For none of my subjects unhappy shall be;
So bear this encouraging message from me,
  To make my poor Violet gay.

"Go tell her, assured of our royal support,
  No longer in sorrow to bend;
Entreat her to smile and to join in their sport,
For that blue is a favorite color at court,
  And Rosa, the queen, is her friend."

Away, on a moonbeam, her message to tell,
  The tiny ambassadress sped:
'T was night when she reached little Violet's dell,
But each nodding rustic unfolded his bell,
  To hear what Queen Rosa had said.

The Violet trembled such honors to share,
  And blushed for her folly and pride;
Yet pleased that a queen so enchantingly fair
Should deign for a poor simple peasant to care,
  She thus to the fairy replied:–

"Return gentle spirit–for Rosa will own
  The tear that from gratitude flows;
And tell her that here, in her hamlet alone,
Violetta will study, unseen and unknown,
Those virtues that sweetly embellish the throne,
  And love her fair sovereign–the Rose."

    1809.

BIRTH-DAY RETROSPECT.

THUS far life's little journey through,
  Of scenes for ever gone
I'll take one retrospective view,
  Before I speed me on.

Here, on this little hillock placed,
  A moment let me stand–
Before me lies a desert waste;
  Behind, a fairy land.

Winding through yon luxuriant vale,
  Half hid in distance gray,
By many a hill and many a dale
  I trace my youthful way.

But fast those fading scenes retire,
  And mingle into one;
Though here a cot, and there a spire,
  Still glitter in the sun.

And when athwart my wintry sky
  He darts his latest gleam,
Those spots, till closed is memory's eye,
  Will sparkle in his beam.

Yes; happy was my youthful day;
  I trod enchanted ground;
My spring, like other springs, was gay,
  And roses bloomed around:

And now, though flying o'er my head
  Are youth's departing years,
And often though the path I tread
  Is watered by my tears;–

Still Hope, in many a gloomy hour,
  Through many a weary mile,
Has cheered me with the magic power
  Of her bewitching smile.

But Hope, farewell!–thy visions bright
  Have dazzled me too long;
And shall I stay to watch thy flight,
  And hear thy parting song?

No: let me turn–it is enough–
  Too many tears have flowed:
The sky is dark, the way is rough;–
  But 't is the pilgrim's road:

And pilgrim-like, with staff and shell,
  And clothed in habit gray,
I bid the smiling past farewell,
  And speed me on my way.

But wherefore should my courage fail,
  And strains of sorrow flow?
Why need I through this gloomy vale
  A lonely wanderer go?

I see a little cheerful band;
  I hear their songs resound;–
Onward they travel, hand in hand;
  And all for Zion bound.

The sterile plain, the desert drear,
  Where howls the chilling blast–
The pains and perils that I fear–
  Already they have past.

And kindly would they welcome me:
  They bid me not despond;
For they a fairer land can see,
  And brighter skies beyond.–

O then, though fainting and distressed
  I will my way pursue:
There is a home, there is a rest,
  There is a heaven in view.

September 23, 1809.

TO A BROTHER,
ON HIS BIRTH-DAY.

DEAR brother, while weaving your birth-day address,
  I cannot but wish you were here;
For what the true feeling of love can express,
  So well as a smile and a tear?

The tear, should it fall on the track of my pen,
  May wash its effusions away:
The smile–give me credit till Christmas, for then
  I know I can promise to pay.

And why should I try in a song to enclose
  What never in language was dressed?
Away with the Muse, when the heart overflows,
  For silence expresses it best.

A sister's affection, the hope and the fear
  That flutter by turns in her heart,
When a brother sets out on his stormy career,
  What magic of words can impart?

Then why any more of such rhyming as this,
  At which all the critics might laugh?
And why, when a smile, and a tear, and a kiss,
  Would tell it you better by half?

  October 9, 1809.

TO MISS E. F.
ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

HAIL, dearest Eliza! and hail to the morn
  That smiled on your infantile charms:
Ah! were I not fettered at distance forlorn,
  I would tell all my joy in your arms.

If, true to affection, some child of the grove
  Would lend me her pinion awhile,
How gladly I'd fly, with the swiftness of love,
  Exchanging my song for a smile!

Though if any mortal those heavenly things
  With beings angelic might share,
Eliza had surely been furnished with wings,
  To bear her light form on the air.

But seeing the Fates, to our friendship averse,
  Such intercourse ever delay,
Permit me, my love, in affectionate verse,
  To greet the return of the day.

And since I no train of kind genii can boast,
  On errands of friendship to soar,
I send a rude sprite, in the form of the post,
  To knock with my song at your door.

Accept then, my love, from my heart as they flow,
  Of wishes the kindest and best;
For thousand sweet pleasures I fain would bestow,
  To find an abode in your breast.

Yet what are the blessings that never have graced,
  Eliza, thy favored abode?
Not virtue, or beauty, refinement, or taste,
  No: these are already bestowed.

But sorrow too often that bosom invites
  Which soonest and longest will bleed;
And sickness, the epicure, chiefly delights
  On lilies and roses to feed.

Yet still she can smile and rejoice on her way!
  Though sorrow and suffering begin;
They cause the fair casket to fade and decay,
  But brighten the jewel within.

Till, freed from a dwelling of darkness and wo,
  This gem from its prison shall rise,
All brilliant with glory for ever to glow,
  A sun in unchangeable skies.

Then, might my dim star with a tremulous ray
  Ascend to that heavenly sphere,
That friendship shall flourish which lightens the way
  Of my wearisome pilgrimage here.

  January 15, 1808.

TO MR. C— SENIOR,
WITH A DRAWING.

MY harp, though out of tune so long,
  May yield a simple strain:
I will not aim at lofty song,
  Well knowing that were vain.

And will you not the tribute own:
  The simple numbers hear?
May not affection's gentle tone
  Be soothing to your ear?

And may I hope the unpolished thought
  Your goodness will excuse?
Though surely ne'er for favor sought
  A less aspiring Muse.

Not born Parnassus' heights to hail,
  She shuns the lofty place;
And only owns a lowly vale,
  Embosomed at its base.

She never soared on Fancy's wing,
  Nor learned poetic art;
Nor knew she e'er to touch a string,
  But those that twine the heart.

Will you the humble traveller scorn,
  And mock her low estate?
Behold! all trembling and forlorn,
  She lingers at your gate.

But ah! of favor she despairs,
  And prays no more to roam;–
Then take the offering that she bears,
  And send her blushing home.

    November, 1807.

TO THE SAME.

AH! say not, dear sir, that poetical pleasures,
  The voice of the Muse, shall invite you in vain;
For soothing and sweet were your musical measures:
  We linger, still hoping to hear them again.

To strains so pathetic, so plaintive, to listen,
  Is pleasure delightfully tempered with pain:
And while the sly tear for a moment will glisten,
  It seems to invite the soft music again.

Though life's pelting storms and its pitiless billows
  Have oft beat around you in murmurs of pain,
Oh! hang not desponding your harp on the willows,
  But strike its sweet chords, and delight us again.

The lark, the gay carols of morning expresses;
  But if we have heard Philomela complain,
We hasten, more pleased, to her shady recesses,
  And sigh for the evening to hear her again.

Then say not the years and the cares that surround you
  Can dissipate Poesy's fanciful train:
The Muses still wait, if they dance not, around you;
  Like us they will mourn, till you seek them again.

And though the wild music of youth may be dying,
  Or but the faint echo of pleasure remain;
The tones of your harp were so sweetly replying,
  That still we would hear it again and again.

    August, 1809.

AN INFANT'S HYMN.

THE moon is very fair and bright,
  And also very high:
I think it is a pretty sight
  To see it in the sky:
It shone upon me where I lay,
And seemed almost as bright as day.

The stars are very pretty too,
  And scattered all about–
At first there seem a very few;
  But soon the rest come out:
I'm sure I could not count them all,
They are so very bright and small.

The sun is brighter still than they:
  He blazes in the skies;
I dare not turn my face that way,
  Unless I shut my eyes:
Yet when he shines our hearts revive,
And all the trees rejoice and thrive.

God made and keeps them every one,
  By his great power and might:
He is more glorious than the sun,

  And all the stars of light:
But when we end our mortal race,
The pure in heart shall see his face.

HYMN,
SUNG BY THE CHILDREN OF A SUNDAY SCHOOL.

THERE is a glorious world of light,
  Above the starry sky;
Where saints departed, clothed in white,
  Adore the Lord most High.

And hark! amid the sacred songs
  Those heavenly voices raise,
Ten thousand, thousand, infant tongues
  Unite, and perfect praise.

Those are the hymns that we shall know,
  If Jesus we obey;
That is the place where we shall go,
  If found in Wisdom's way.

This is the joy we ought to seek,
  And make our chief concern;
For this we come, from week to week,
  To read, and hear, and learn.

Soon will our earthly race be run,
  Our mortal frame decay;
Children and teachers, one by one,
  Must droop, and pass away.

Great God! impress the serious thought,
  This day on every breast;
That both the teachers, and the taught
  May enter to thy rest.

HYMN FOR CHILDREN.

JESUS, our gentle Shepherd, see
  These tender lambs of Zion's fold:
Lo! we are come to follow thee;
  Gather and guard us as of old:
While through the desert world we stray,
Preserve us in the narrow way.

Where thy refreshing pastures grow,
  Where all thy chosen flock is fed,
Where living waters gently flow,
  There may our wandering feet be led:
Direct us towards the heavenly hill;
And bear us in thy bosom still.

Much do we need thy watchful care,
  Through every day and every hour;
For life is set with many a snare,
  And Satan wanders to devour:
But we are safe from all alarms,
Within our heavenly Shepherd's arms.

Here in the gospel we are told,
  What great compassion was in Thee,
When mothers brought their babes of old–

  Poor helpless children, such as we–
E'en to thy tender bosom brought–
And thou didst say "Forbid them not."

And thus encouraged by thy grace,
  To those still open arms we fly;
And though we cannot see thy face,
  Yet Thou canst bless us from on high:
For still thy gracious word, we see,
Says–"Suffer them to come to me."

HYMN.
FOR THE CHILDREN OF A SUNDAY SCHOOL.

  COME let our songs resound
  Within these peaceful walls:
The light of knowledge shines around,
  And e'en on us it falls.

  Through God our father's care,
  Though we deserved it not,
Our lines in pleasant places are,
  And goodly is our lot.

  This cheerful morning sun,
  That lights our happy plains,
Shines, ere its daily course is run,
  Where heathen darkness reigns.

  Before the dawn of day
  On Britain's favored isle,
Downward he casts his burning ray
  On many a pagan pile.

  He saw the savage wild,
  Some idol's help implore;
He saw the untaught Indian child
  His painted gods adore.

  Lord, let thy light, we pray,
  On them–on us arise:
For we are foolish, blind as they,
  Till Jesus make us wise.

  We learn thy blessed will,
  We read thy holy word,
Then may we thy commands fulfil,
  Which others never heard.

SAILOR'S HYMN.

OF old did Jesus condescend
  To calm the stormy sea?
Yes, he was then the Sailor's friend:
  And such he still would be.

He does but wait to hear us crave,
  As they besought him then–
"Master, we perish! come and save,
  For we are dying men!"

Not to sustain our mortal breath,
  We raise the earnest cry;–
Lord, save our precious souls from death,
  And make us fit to die.

Then blow ye winds! ye surges roar!
  'T will not our souls appal;
Though waves and billows pass us o'er,
  And deep to deep should call.

But O! without that blessed hope,
  Without a Saviour near,
What desperate courage bears us up!
  What madness not to fear!

Jesus, on thee our hopes we cast,
  No more thy wrath defy;
This is the anchor, sure and fast,
  On which we may rely.

Soon shall the sea give up its dead,
  And should our graves be there,
With joy we'll quit our watery bed,
  To meet Him in the air.

HYMN.

COME, my fond fluttering heart,
  Come, struggle to be free:
Thou and the world must part,
  However hard it be:
My trembling spirit owns it just,
But cleaves yet closer to the dust.

Ye tempting sweets forbear–
  Ye dearest idols fall:
My love ye must not share;
  Jesus shall have it all:
'T is bitter pain–'t is cruel smart,
But O! thou must consent, my heart!

Ye fair enchanting throng,
  Ye golden dreams, farewell!
Earth has prevailed too long,
  And now I break the spell:
Ye cherished joys of early years!
Jesus forgive these parting tears.

But must I part with all,
  My heart still fondly pleads:
Yes–Dagon's self must fall:–
  It beats, it throbs, it bleeds:
Is there no balm in Gilead found
To soothe and heal the smarting wound?

O yes, there is a balm,
  A kind physician there,
My fevered mind to calm,
  To bid me not despair:
Dear Saviour! help me, set me free,
And I will all resign to thee!

O may I feel thy worth,
  And let no idol dare–
No vanity of earth
  With Thee, my Lord, compare:
Now bid all worldly joys depart,
And reign supremely in my heart!

EPITAPH.

WHILE o'er this dear remain affection weeps,
A voice proclaims–"She is not dead, but sleeps:"
Jesus again descending from the skies
Shall break her slumbers, saying–"Maid arise;"
Then gently lead her to her Father's feet,
With kind command to give her angel's meat,
Assured in hope, we wait the promised hour,
'T is sown in weakness–it is raised in power.

ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT.

WITH what unknown delight the mother smiled
  When this frail treasure in her arms she pressed!
Her prayer was heard–she clasped a living child;
  –But how the gift transcends the poor request!
A child was all she asked, with many a vow;–
Mother–Behold the child an angel now!

Now in her Father's house she finds a place;
  Or if to earth she take a transient flight,
'T is to fulfil the purpose of His grace,
  To guide thy footsteps to the world of light;–
A ministering spirit sent to thee,
That where she is, there thou mayst also be.

ON VISITING AN OLD FAMILY RESIDENCE.

LET pensive Memory trace her wonted round
In these familiar walks:–'t is fairy ground:
Still to her view upheld in bright array,
Birds in the bowers, and roses ever gay.
Let grateful thought with deeper musings roam
Through each loved haunt of this deserted home.
Long from the social altar, year by year,
The patriarch's prayer went up accepted here,
And lo! in answer to the faithful call,
On children's children showers of blessings fall.
Embowered retreat! how fair to Christians' eyes:
Sure 't was heaven's gate! a nursery for the skies!

TRITE THOUGHTS IN A PLACE OF WORSHIP.

THESE courts, how amiable! 't is sweet
  To spend the day of rest,
Where minds in pure communion meet
  (Though but a stranger guest),
Where Peace and Love their hearts expand
And Friendship's holy flame is fanned.

When clouds of fragrant incense rise
  (The prayer of hearts sincere)
When hymns of praise address the skies,

  'T is pleasant to be here!
But while my soul the influence feels,
A vision o'er my fancy steals.

I hear the rush of noiseless wings,
  A viewless form descry;
The keys of death and hell he brings,
  Commissioned from on high:
The walls with solemn airs resound,
And sable banners wave around.

Angel of death!–with pallid shroud
  O'er his high stature spread,
He moves amid the unconscious crowd,
  With slow and silent tread;
Marks who shall first, and latest fall;
But drops the mantle over all.

May none escape–the chosen few,
  That Friendship fain would spare?
Nay, Death hath oft his favorites too,
  And O, his taste is rare!
The crowd he often passes by–
To fix on such his hollow eye.

That head in hoary honors dressed–
  A pillar in his place–
That blooming pair whom love has blessed
  With such peculiar grace–
These youths and maids–a fair array;
And does he beckon these away?

There is a voice, familiar now,
  And soon must this be hushed!
And must that high and thoughtful brow

  By death's rude hand be crushed?
Beneath these stones that head shall hide,
With one to slumber at his side.

An age rolls on–in Fancy's eye
  I see the distant day;
Strangers these vacant seats supply–
  Our fathers, where are they?
The faithful marble does but tell,
They served their generation well.

The vision fades;–but others rise,
  Too bright for mortal gaze;–
A vista opens in the skies–
  'T is but a moment's blaze,
And straight the wondrous scene departs,
For still the veil is on our hearts.

    Hull, 1821.

SOLILOQUY.

HERE'S a beautiful earth, and a wonderful sky,
And to see them God gives us a heart and an eye;
Nor leaves us untouched by the pleasures they yield,
Like the fowl of the heaven, or the beasts of the field.

The soul though encumbered with sense and with sin,
Can range through her own mystic chambers within;
Then soar like the eagle, to regions of light,
And dart wondrous thoughts to the stars of the night.

Yea more, it is gifted with vision so keen
As to know the unknown, and to see the unseen;
To glance at eternity's numberless days,
Till dazzled, confounded, and lost in the maze.

Nor will this suffice it;–O wonderful germ
Of infinite blessing vouchsafed to a worm!
It quickens, it rises with boundless desires,
And heaven is the lowest to which it aspires.

Such, such is the soul, though bewildered and dark;
A vital, ethereal, unquenchable spark:
Thus onward and upward by nature it tends;–
Then wherefore descends it? ah! whither descends?

Soon droops its light pinion, borne down by a gust,
It flutters, it faulters;–it cleaves to the dust;
Then feeds upon ashes–deceived and astray;
And fastens and clings to the perishing clay.

For robes that too proud were the lilies to wear–
For food we divide with the fowls of the air–
For joy that just sparkles, and then disappears–
We drop from heaven's gate, to this valley of tears.

How tranquil and blameless the pleasures it sought,
While it rested within the calm region of thought!
How fraught with disgust, and how sullied with wo,
Is all that detains and beguiles it below!

O Thou who, when silent and senseless it lay,
Didst breathe into life the inanimate clay,
Now nourish and quicken the languishing fire,
And fan to a flame that shall never expire!

"THE THINGS THAT ARE UNSEEN ARE ETERNAL."

THERE is a state unknown, unseen,
  Where parted souls must be;
And but a step may be between
  That world of souls and me.

The friend I loved has thither fled,
  With whom I sojourned here:
I see no sight–I hear no tread;
  But may she not be near?

I see no light–I hear no sound,
  When midnight shades are spread;
Yet angels pitch their tents around,
  And guard my quiet bed.

Jesus was rapt from mortal gaze,
  And clouds conveyed him hence;
Enthroned amid the sapphire blaze,
  Beyond our feeble sense.–

Yet say not–who shall mount on high,
  To bring him from above?
For lo! the Lord is always nigh
  The children of his love.

The Saviour whom I long have sought,
  And would, but cannot see–
And is he here? O wondrous thought!
  And will he dwell with me?

I ask not with my mortal eye
  To view the vision bright?
I dare not see Thee, lest I die;
  Yet Lord, restore my sight!

Give me to see Thee, and to feel–
  The mental vision clear:
The things unseen reveal! reveal!
  And let me know them near.

I seek not fancy's glittering height,
  That charmed my ardent youth;
But in thy light would see the light,
  And learn thy perfect truth.

The gathering clouds of sense dispel,
  That wrap my soul around;
In heavenly places make me dwell,
  While treading earthly ground.

Illume this shadowy soul of mine
  That still in darkness lies;
O let the light in darkness shine,
  And bid the day-star rise!

Impart the faith that soars on high,
  Beyond this earthly strife,
That holds sweet converse with the sky,
  And lives Eternal Life!

1823.