"My sick mother, Louise, and myself will stay here. Emily will in a short time leave for America with her whole family. My children have grown in these adverse circumstances, with less favourable developments than I once expected. The loss may, however, be still recovered; there is as yet time for it. They, too, send you their love. How could you have supposed of me that I could have loved my children to forget my friend? You say you are not changed. God be praised for it! I, too, can say that I am not changed in anything—no not even in respect to my faith in mankind. I have a strong will, in spite of so many bitter disappointments. And so I address you in the open-hearted voice of old friendship, and I expect your letters written in the same spirit. Let me not wait long for them. God bless you, and may He extend over your life all the good which is contained in the best wishes of your dear friend,"Meszlenyi."
"My sick mother, Louise, and myself will stay here. Emily will in a short time leave for America with her whole family. My children have grown in these adverse circumstances, with less favourable developments than I once expected. The loss may, however, be still recovered; there is as yet time for it. They, too, send you their love. How could you have supposed of me that I could have loved my children to forget my friend? You say you are not changed. God be praised for it! I, too, can say that I am not changed in anything—no not even in respect to my faith in mankind. I have a strong will, in spite of so many bitter disappointments. And so I address you in the open-hearted voice of old friendship, and I expect your letters written in the same spirit. Let me not wait long for them. God bless you, and may He extend over your life all the good which is contained in the best wishes of your dear friend,
"Meszlenyi."
During her enforced stay at Brussels Madame Meszlenyi sought amongst the lace manufacturers to obtain work as a means of support of herself and those dependent upon her. She set about learning to make the lace, and, having learnt, worked with such constant industry that she was not only able to maintain the family, but at the end of about eighteen months, when her mother died, she had saved a small sum of money, which she invested in lace to be used when she arrived in the New World.
With the death of her mother the necessity for any longer stay in Brussels came to an end. Madame Meszlenyi, and her sister, Madame Ruttkai, accordingly proceeded to the land of their exile.
Arriving at New York, Madame Meszlenyi found it necessary at once to take steps for the maintenance of the party. Her reply to an enquiry whether anything could be done for her was, "Give me work." And in her endeavours she was as fertile as in her labours she was indefatigable. She not only started a store for the sale of lace, which she superintended and took a place at the desk, but finding further exertion necessary, added to her business that of dressmaking, which she had also, with a thoughtful eye to the future of the children, learnt at Brussels.
But while carrying on business in the manner in which her sense of duty required it, Madame Meszlenyi's days were numbered. Never strong, the trials and exposure of the night of her last arrest had effected their work of ravage in her constitution. Had she been able to have succeeded the leisure and refreshment of the sea voyage by rest and care, the course of disease might have been arrested and her life spared for many years. But she felt that necessity was laid upon her for work, for immediate and constant work. And having undertaken any duty, she would perform it at whatever cost to herself. The requirements of her dressmaking business would often, in the absence of sufficient help, find this heroic and high-born lady burning the midnight oil, to herself finish a dress which had been promised by a certain time.
The knowledge of her condition no doubt stimulated her exertion. She knew that her days were numbered; and she had an object to accomplish. She wished to leave behind her sufficient means to provide a good education for her little girls, so that they might thus be put into the way of earning their own livelihood as teachers. And although it was often represented to Madame Meszlenyi that in the event of her dying her children would be taken care of, the independence of her spirit would flash into her face while she declared that she only desired that her children should have the opportunity of working as she had done herself.
As may, however, be imagined, the difficulties and trials of these Hungarian women were many. But, notwithstanding all discouragements, the growing feebleness of the moving spirit of all, the spark of life burning but dimly, the well-being of her children kept the flickering flame alive. But the finely-strung spirit was strained to the utmost. Friends were not wanting; but, like many another whose soul has been touched to its finest issues, Madame Meszlenyi could not endure the thought of either herself or her children being dependent on charity. Upon her physician saying that she must have rest and change apart from the scene of her labours, a lady, who had been her friend from the first, offered her an old family mansion. Other friends came to her with offers of money, and provided a fund for a period of rest. It went much against her inclination to accept help so willingly offered. She said with a flood of tears: "We did not come to this country counting upon sympathy, but to work, as we heard everybody here could do. Heretofore in no distressing circumstances have I lost my courage, nor have I lost it now. But this illness is the hand of God; to Him I now yield in accepting charity."
Madame Meszlenyi endeavoured vainly to recruit her strength sufficiently to enable her to make a voyage to Belgium in order to engage lace workers, and to found a permanent and prosperous business, in which she might before her own death obtain a partner who might provide the means of accomplishing what lay so near her own heart, the completion of the education of her daughters when she should be taken from them.
As the winter of 1853 thus passed, and the succeeding spring opened, difficulties arose which had not been anticipated, while the exertion which was attendant upon explanations and negotiations was more than the feeble spirit was able to bear. Even after arrangements had been made for her voyage to Europe in the hope that success in her endeavours might stimulate her energies, and yet prolong her life, it became evident that nothing in this world could avail further—that if her earthly hopes were to be brought to fruition it would be by other hands than hers.
It is some satisfaction for us to know that when Madame Meszlenyi learnt at last that it would be impossible for her to accomplish the desire of her heart, the friend in whose house she had resided during the winter cheered her by an assurance that her children would be provided for, and that the education so wisely begun under the eye of the mother would be completed according to her desire. As this desire was fully known to her beloved sister Emilie, this assurance proved to be a great consolation to the dying mother.
The last scene should be told in the words of one who speaks with authority.
"In the course of June she called for the administration of the Lord's Supper, which she took for the last time from the hands of the Lutheran clergyman, and continually afterwards expressed that she was ready and anxious to go. On the afternoon of the 28th of that month she said to those around her that the hour was approaching, and summoned her sister Ruttkai and the children to the leave-taking, at which was also present one of her family physicians, the sister of her heart and soul being far away.
"Having said the last tender words, and embraced them, she looked at the doctor earnestly, and inaudibly pronounced the words 'How long?' 'Not long,' he replied gently, and she brilliantly smiled. She breathed some hours after, but said nothing more except to give a negative when asked if she were in pain. A humble Hungarian friend who sat by her bedside, watching her last breath, and at last closed her eyes, has said that an hour before she died so brilliant a look came into her face she thought she was going to rally, and perhaps recover. She then attempted to give her a message to Emilie, of which she uttered not words enough to be wholly understood by the auditor; then the wonderful expression faded, and hardly had done so when the last breath came. It was on the 29th June, 1854, when this noble and gifted being, at the early age of thirty-four, ascended to the Father of Spirits."
The aged brother and patriot yet lives in the neighbourhood of Turin, where his last years are being spent in the society of his surviving sister, Madame Ruttkai.
The heights by great men reached and keptWere not attained by sudden flight;But they, while their companions slept,Were toiling upward in the night.Longfellow.
The heights by great men reached and keptWere not attained by sudden flight;But they, while their companions slept,Were toiling upward in the night.Longfellow.
The heights by great men reached and keptWere not attained by sudden flight;But they, while their companions slept,Were toiling upward in the night.
The heights by great men reached and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight;
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night.
Longfellow.
Longfellow.
Georges Sand has somewhere said that the only virtue is the eternal sacrifice of self—a remark which will bear careful consideration. If we do well because it is pleasant to do so, or for a reward to be obtained, there does not seem to be much merit in so doing. But if, to our own sacrifice and discomfort, we follow the right for the sake only of duty, then, whether the motive be love to God or man, the thorny road will at last lead to the sunny tableland—to the home of content. The remark is commonplace; but it is the common that needs most to be remembered.
Among instances of self-abnegation we have that of Caroline Herschel—brave, loving, and unwearying, following with unwavering devotion the path of patient duty until it became one of abounding pleasure. But it was not with thoughts of self; self-love moved not the tender heart, the strong will, the willing hand. Love of her brother set in motion the will of a whole-souled woman; and while she sought only to be his humble helper, she was destined to share in his greatness.
Caroline Lucretia Herschel was a member of a Hanoverian family, many of whom, if not born to greatness, signally achieved it. She was born in the month of March, 1750, having a sister many years older and several brothers, one of whom—William—became the famous astronomer. Her father—Isaac Herschel—was the master of a military band, and took delight in encouraging the cultivation of music in his children. In this as well as his devotion to his other studies, William displayed unusual talent and perseverance. It is stated that although his brother Jacob was four years older, William "mastered the French language in half the time needed by the elder."
In the large family of the Herschels the lot of the little Caroline does not seem to have been over bright, or her education much cared for. They were, however, an intelligent household, the elder ones attaining considerable proficiency in music, William by no means limiting his desires in that direction. In her diary, in which Caroline afterwards noted reminiscences of her early days, she mentions the enlivening conversations on musical and philosophical subjects which frequently kept her father and brothers engaged until morning. "Often," she says, "I would keep myself awake that I might listen to their animating remarks,for it made me so happy to see them so happy."
Caroline for some time attended with her brothers the garrison school; but her mother's ambition for her seems only to have been that she should learn domestic duties and needlework. This arose from no disregard on the part of the excellent mother as to her daughter's well-being, but from the idea that much book-learning was not desirable in girls. Her father, however, found opportunities for instructing his little daughter in music. He would himself have given her, according to her own desire, a superior education, had it not been for the opposition of her mother. So little Caroline was in danger of growing up a household drudge in a straitened home. ButL'homme propose, et Dieu dispose. A visit to England of the regiment to which they were attached resulted in William settling in Bath as a musician. He had always been to Caroline the dear brother. While her inability to satisfy the dainty tastes of her "gentleman" brother Jacob had earned her many a whipping, the considerate love of William had come into her young life as a soothing balm, a stimulating power. And, like good seed, it brought forth fruit a hundredfold.
The loss of her father, when she was seventeen years old, was to Caroline a source of great sorrow. In him she lost the one whom, next to her now absent brother, she loved. With his death all hope of further education for Caroline came to an end, and for some years further her life as maid of all work continued.
A change, however, as unexpected as it was decisive, came into her life when she was about twenty-two years old. Her brother William being over on a visit from England, suggested that she should return with him to Bath, which proved to be the opening of a new era.
Being settled at Bath Miss Herschel entered with ardour into her brother's career as musician and his studies as astronomer. He toiled hard in his profession for the purpose of gaining a livelihood, at the same time reading and working for the object nearest his heart. In both his pursuits his sister became his ready and laborious helper—his constant and sympathising companion. For this purpose she acquired a considerable proficiency in music, and for many years assisted her brother, not only by copying musical scores for large orchestras, but also in taking part in lessons and rehearsals, and herself singing in oratorios conducted by him.
The industry of both brother and sister at this period of their joint labours seems, indeed, to have been almost without parallel. While, their days were given to musical work to such an extent as would have sufficed for an ordinary occupation—and that a busy one—their nights were devoted to the heavens, and to the manufacture of telescopes and telescopic appliances on a scale hitherto unknown.
William Herschel's fame as an astronomer, inventor, and discoverer having become established, in 1782 he gave up his attention to music, in order to devote himself entirely to astronomical research, and was appointed Royal Astronomer. In this year he removed to Datchet, and, a few years after, to Slough. Absorbing as was their pursuit, it was carried on at an enormous self-sacrifice and hardship, and was not by any means free from danger. Miss Herschel writes in her diary: "That my fears of danger and accidents were not wholly imaginary I had an unlucky proof on the night of the 31st December. The evening had been cloudy, but about ten o'clock a few stars became visible, and in the greatest hurry all was got ready for observing. My brother, at the front of the telescope, directed me to make some alteration in the lateral motion, which was done by machinery, on which the point of support of the tube and mirror rested. At each end of the machine or trough was an iron hook, such as butchers use for hanging their joints upon, and having to run in the dark on ground covered a foot deep with melting snow, I fell on one of these hooks, which entered my right leg above the knee. My brother's call, 'Make haste!' I could only answer by a pitiful cry, 'I am hooked!' He and the workman were instantly with me, but they could not lift me without leaving nearly two ounces of my flesh behind. The workman's wife was called, but I was afraid to do anything, and I was obliged to be my own surgeon by applying aquabusade and tying a kerchief about it for some days, till Dr. Lind, hearing of my accident, brought me ointment and lint, and told me how to use them. At the end of six weeks I began to have some fears about my poor limb, and asked again for Dr. Lind's opinion. He said if a soldier had met with such a hurt, he would have been entitled to six weeks' nursing in a hospital. I had, however, the comfort to know that my brother was no loser through the accident, for the remainder of the night was cloudy, and several nights afterwards afforded only a few short intervals favourable for sweeping, and until the 16th of January there was no necessity for my exposing myself for a whole night to the severity of the season."
"It would be impossible for me," she also writes, "if it were required, to give a regular account of all that passed around me in the lapse of the two following years, for they were spent in a perfect chaos of business. The garden and workrooms were swarming with labourers and workmen, smiths and carpenters going to and fro between the forge and the forty-foot machinery, and I ought not to forget that there is not one screw-bolt about the whole apparatus but what was fixed under the immediate eye of my brother. I have seen him lie stretched many an hour, in a burning sun, across the top beam whilst the iron-work for the various motions was being fixed. At one time no less than twenty-four men (twelve and twelve relieving each other) kept polishing day and night; my brother, of course, never leaving them all the while, taking his food without allowing himself time to sit down to table."
Miss Herschel's services to her brother, as well as to science as an independent discoverer, were recognised, when, in 1787, she was appointed assistant to her brother at a salary of £50 per annum.
In the following year, after she had enjoyed the closest companionship and identity with her brother for sixteen years, Mr. Herschel's marriage brought a considerable change in the life of the sister. Her devotion to his interests and pursuits became no less, but the supreme place by his side was gone.
Although Miss Herschel seems to have felt keenly the separation from her brother in domestic life, her zeal in the objects to which he had devoted himself never waned. Having entered upon them from a sense of grateful love, she became passionately attached to the work. Although living apart from him, she continued to the end of his life to be his indefatigable assistant, as well as an independent observer of the heavens. In this character she came into contact from time to time not only with members of the Royal families of England and Germany, but with the leading astronomers of the age, who acknowledged in her an honoured comrade. A celebrated astronomer, referring to one of the many comets she was the first to discover, says in a letter to her: "I am more pleased than you can well conceive that you have made this discovery. You have immortalised your name, and you deserve such a reward from the Being who has ordered all these things to move as we find them, for your assiduity in the business of an astronomer, and for your love for so celebrated and deserving a brother."
As all the world knows, Mr. Herschel (then Sir William) was long recognised as the most celebrated astronomer of the time. And while none rejoiced more in his proud position than his sister, he was ever ready to acknowledge his indebtedness to her, as his companion in his herculean toils. The marvel is that the constant and exhausting strain of many long years did not prematurely wear out the strength and brain of both. They, however, grew old together, and alike lived to a remarkable old age. Sir William, who was twelve years the senior, was the first whose splendid constitution gave way. He died in the year 1822.
After her brother's death Miss Herschel, then in her 72nd year, seems to have felt unsettled in England and unable to face the scenes and life she had for so many years shared with her brother. Notwithstanding her attachment to her sister-in-law and her favourite nephew (who in some measure took the place in her affections of her beloved brother), she decided to return to Hanover. An absence of half a century from any place makes a wonderful difference in its associations, and Miss Herschel lived to regret her return to her native city, where, however, she resided for the remainder of her life. If her work by her brother's side was done, her long evening of life was, nevertheless, one of grateful recollection and laborious industry. Among other tasks, she undertook and completed a "Reduction and Arrangement, in the form of a catalogue in zones, of all the Star Clusters and Nebulæ observed by Sir W. Herschel in his Sweeps." For this she was, at a meeting of the Royal Astronomical Society in 1828, awarded the gold medal of the Society. The remarks made by Mr. South, the Vice-President, on that occasion, perhaps best summarise her great achievements. He said: "The labours of Miss Herschel are so intimately connected with, and are generally so dependent upon, those of her illustrious brother, that an investigation of the latter is absolutely necessary ere we can form the most remote idea of the extent of the former. But when it is considered that Sir W. Herschel's contributions to astronomical science occupy sixty-seven memoirs, communicated from time to time to the Royal Society, and embrace a period of forty years, it will not be expected that I should enter into their discussion. To the Philosophical Transactions I must refer you, and shall content myself with the hasty mention of some of her more immediate claims to the distinction now conferred. To deliver an eulogy, however deserved, uponhismemory is not the purpose for which I am placed here…. But when we have thus enumerated the results obtained in the course ofsweepswith this instrument, and taken into consideration the extent and variety of the other observations which were at the same time in progress, a most important part yet remains untold. Who participated in his toils? Who braved with him the inclemency of the weather? Who shared his privations? A female. Who was she? His sister. Miss Herschel it was who bynightacted as his amanuensis; she it was whose pen conveyed to paper his observations as they issued from his lips; she it was who noted the night ascensions and polar distances of the objects observed; she it was who, having passed the night near the instrument, took the rough manuscripts to her cottage at the dawn of day, and produced a fair copy of the night's work on the following morning; she it was who planned the labour of each succeeding night; she it was who reduced every observation, made every calculation; she it was who arranged everything in systematic order; and she it was who helped him to obtain his imperishable name.
"But her claims to our gratitude do not end here. As an original observer she demands, and I am sure she has, our unfeigned thanks. Occasionally, her immediate attendance during the observations could be dispensed with. Did she pass the night in repose? No such thing. Wherever her brother was, there you were sure to find her. A sweeper planted on the lawn became her object of amusement; but her amusements were of the higher order, and to them we stand indebted for the discovery of the comet of 1786, of the comet of 1788, of the comet of 1791, of the comet of 1793, of the comet of 1795, since rendered familiar to us by the remarkable discovery of Encke. Many also of the nebulæ contained in Sir W. Herschel's catalogues were detected by her during these hours of enjoyment. Indeed, in looking at the joint labours of these extraordinary personages, we scarcely know whether most to admire the intellectual power of the brother, or the unconquerable industry of the sister."
A few years after this, in 1835, Miss Herschel was, along with Mrs. Somerville, made an Honorary Member of the Astronomical Society. The report of the council to the annual meeting contains the following well deserved words of praise:—
"Your Council has no small pleasure in recommending that the names of two ladies, distinguished in different walks of astronomy, be placed on the list of honorary members. On the propriety of such a step, in an astronomical point of view, there can be but one voice; and your Council is of opinion that the time has gone by when either feeling or prejudice, by whichever name it may be proper to call it, should be allowed to interfere with the payment of a well-earned tribute of respect. Your Council has hitherto felt that, whatever might be its own sentiment on the subject, it had no right to place the name of a lady in a position the propriety of which might be contested, though upon what it might consider narrow grounds and false principles. But your Council has no fear that such a difference could now take place between any men whose opinion could avail to guide that of society at large; and, abandoning compliment on the one hand, and false delicacy on the other, submits, that while the tests of astronomical merit should in no case be applied to the works of a woman less severely than to those of a man, the sex of the former should no longer be an obstacle to her receiving any acknowledgment which may be held due to the latter. And your Council therefore recommends this meeting to add to the list of honorary members the names of Miss Caroline Herschel and Mrs. Somerville, of whose astronomical knowledge, and of the utility of the ends to which it has been applied, it is not necessary to recount the proofs."
Miss Herschel always maintained a warm correspondence with her relatives in England, and when over eighty years of age wrote some recollections of her early years for her nephew. Notwithstanding her life of toil, she lived and retained her faculties to the wonderful age of ninety-seven years and ten months.
Her life affords an illustrious example of constant sisterly devotion from the days of lisping childhood, when her brother's love was her great joy, until when, after the lapse of almost a century—his memory her greatest happiness—she desired a lock of his hair to be placed in her coffin.
Only a sister's part—yes, that was all;And yet her life was bright, and full, and free.She did not feel, "I give up all for him";She only knew, "'Tis mine his friend to be."
Only a sister's part—yes, that was all;And yet her life was bright, and full, and free.She did not feel, "I give up all for him";She only knew, "'Tis mine his friend to be."
Only a sister's part—yes, that was all;And yet her life was bright, and full, and free.She did not feel, "I give up all for him";She only knew, "'Tis mine his friend to be."
Only a sister's part—yes, that was all;
And yet her life was bright, and full, and free.
She did not feel, "I give up all for him";
She only knew, "'Tis mine his friend to be."
The author of "Mornings in Spring" refers to Sir Philip and Mary Sidney as affording the most pleasing example of devotion between a brother and sister on record. He was probably correct in his estimate, for at the time when he wrote, the story of Dorothy Wordsworth was unknown. The opinion cannot, however, any longer be held. For among the fair cluster who in life's firmament hallow the sphere of sisterhood is one who must long claim the honoured place—Dorothy Wordsworth; look where we will, in her life she is the same, always loving, helpful, stimulating, inspiring, and faithful. The childhood's playmate feeds the brother's love, and becomes, even then, his "blessing." The very thought of the absent sister is like a "flash of light" cheering the loneliness of college chambers. The young woman stimulates the youthful poet, and calls back faith to the soul and hope to the despairing life, praises where others blame, with the prophetic eye of love divines the dormant power, and foresees the honoured future. Then follows the life-long companionship, involving for many years devoted service, both intellectual and household. For Dorothy Wordsworth was often the provider of subjects for her brother's poems, with diligent labour copied those poems, at the same time, by her reading and study, making herself his intellectual companion, and presiding over the household. And through all not the least part of her service lay in her complete self-effacement. With her intellectual endowment and rare literary skill she possessed the ability to have made herself no mean place in literature. All were surrendered in thought for the brother. Faithful Dorothy! Well might her brother love her with an almost unexampled love, this brightest example of sisterly devotion!
William and Dorothy Wordsworth were children of John Wordsworth, a solicitor practising in the quiet town of Cockermouth and agent of the then Earl of Lonsdale. Dorothy, who was the only daughter, was about a year and nine months younger than William, and was born on Christmas Day, 1771.
Circumstances sad in themselves not unfrequently tend to the development of latent character in a child; and to the surroundings of their earliest years and the influences then beginning to work we must look for the first germs from which was to spring the future harvest.
The loss of their mother when Dorothy was about six years old was the first of a succession of troubles which struck the lives of this brother and sister. This mother had been the centre of their home, the pivot round which their young lives turned. As Wordsworth afterwards said:—
She was the heartAnd hinge of all our learning and our loves.
She was the heartAnd hinge of all our learning and our loves.
She was the heartAnd hinge of all our learning and our loves.
She was the heart
And hinge of all our learning and our loves.
The little Dorothy was an impetuous, warm-hearted child, tender and loving, with the need of a home for the affections of her deep nature. With the loss of her mother she seems to have turned with an abandon of love to the brother next in age to herself. He was her playmate. The old garden with the terrace walk on the banks of the Derwent was the scene of many childish rambles and confidences. In later years, the poet in a few exquisite lines recalls the ministry of those early years. The flit of the butterfly brings to mind the time of many a childish gambol, the chief remembrance of which was the thought how she
Feared to brushThe dust from off its wings.
Feared to brushThe dust from off its wings.
Feared to brushThe dust from off its wings.
Feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.
There, also, was the Sparrow's Dwelling:
She looked at it, and seemed to fear it,Dreading, though wishing to be near it;Such heart was in her, being thenA little Prattler among men.The Blessing of my later yearsWas with me when a boy:She gave me eyes, she gave me ears,And humble cares, and delicate fears,A heart, the fountain of sweet tears,And love, and thought, and joy.
She looked at it, and seemed to fear it,Dreading, though wishing to be near it;Such heart was in her, being thenA little Prattler among men.The Blessing of my later yearsWas with me when a boy:She gave me eyes, she gave me ears,And humble cares, and delicate fears,A heart, the fountain of sweet tears,And love, and thought, and joy.
She looked at it, and seemed to fear it,Dreading, though wishing to be near it;Such heart was in her, being thenA little Prattler among men.The Blessing of my later yearsWas with me when a boy:She gave me eyes, she gave me ears,And humble cares, and delicate fears,A heart, the fountain of sweet tears,And love, and thought, and joy.
She looked at it, and seemed to fear it,
Dreading, though wishing to be near it;
Such heart was in her, being then
A little Prattler among men.
The Blessing of my later years
Was with me when a boy:
She gave me eyes, she gave me ears,
And humble cares, and delicate fears,
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears,
And love, and thought, and joy.
Not long, however, after the death of their mother, William was sent to school at Hawkshead, and Dorothy for a time lived with the father of her late mother at Penrith.
The death of their father, when Dorothy was about twelve years old, caused the entire break up of their early home, and from thence for some years their personal intercourse was only renewed at intervals. The father had not died in circumstances by any means affluent; but, through the kindness of prudent guardians, Wordsworth was enabled to finish his education at Cambridge. Dorothy meanwhile was passing her teens amid circumstances and scenes not the most congenial. Their absence from each other only stimulated their growing love. A visit to her during a vacation was to the brother blest
With a joyAbove all joys, that seemed another mornRisen at mid noon; blessed with the presenceOf that sole sisterNow, after separation desolate,Restored to me—such absence that she seemedA gift then first bestowed.
With a joyAbove all joys, that seemed another mornRisen at mid noon; blessed with the presenceOf that sole sisterNow, after separation desolate,Restored to me—such absence that she seemedA gift then first bestowed.
With a joyAbove all joys, that seemed another mornRisen at mid noon; blessed with the presenceOf that sole sisterNow, after separation desolate,Restored to me—such absence that she seemedA gift then first bestowed.
With a joy
Above all joys, that seemed another morn
Risen at mid noon; blessed with the presence
Of that sole sister
Now, after separation desolate,
Restored to me—such absence that she seemed
A gift then first bestowed.
Even now Dorothy was cherishing the design that she might become her brother's life companion. She looked forward to a time when they might be restored to each other—living loving life in a cottage, her brother great, she his servant and helper. This was the great hope that sustained her amidst present heart-yearning.
The history of Wordsworth about this time is now well known. College days over, an uncertainty of aim and purpose was the reason of his not fixing upon some occupation. His twelve months' residence in France during the period of the great Revolution did not assist in the solution of the problem of the young man's life, but only further entangled it. The outcome of the national struggle was bitterly disappointing to the enthusiastic English youth who had watched its progress with such keen interest. A change of rule was to be the dawn of hope to the nations. But when, instead of peace came strife and outrage, instead of prosperity misery, instead of freedom tyranny, instead of the fruition of hope the gloom of despair—then Wordsworth bowed his head in bitterness, ready almost to doubt the Almighty government of the world.
But the angel of his life came to his aid. Although their happiness was delayed, and Wordsworth's purposes remained unformed a year or two longer, the watchful love of his sister came as a soothing balm, and her dominant influence as a healing virtue. Friends blamed, but the sister confided, and encouraged her brother's desire to become a poet. Writing to a friend she says:
"William … has a sort of violence of affection—if I may so term it—which demonstrates itself every moment of the day, when the objects of his affection are present with him, in a thousand almost imperceptible attentions to their wishes, in a sort of restless watchfulness which I know not how to describe, a tenderness that never sleeps, and, at the same time, such a delicacy of manner as I have observed in few men." And again, "I am willing to allow that half the virtues with which I fancy him endowed are the creation of my love; but surely I may be excused! He was never afraid of comforting his sister; he never left her in anger; he always met her with joy; he preferred her society to every other pleasure—or, rather, when we were so happy as to be within each other's reach, he had no other pleasure when we were compelled to be divided."
What prevented now the carrying out of their long-formed project of living together was, unfortunately, their want of means. Without a profession for the brother, they appear to have been almost without income. But Providence gave what fortune withheld. The legacy of £900 bequeathed to Wordsworth by a friend whom he had nursed, and who recognised his genius, at length removed the cause which had kept the brother and sister apart. With scanty means, but overflowing love, they faced the world and conquered fate. The late Bishop of Lincoln, alluding to this period, says of Dorothy: "She was endowed with tender sensibility, with an exquisite perception of beauty, with a retentive recollection of what she saw, with a felicitous tact in discerning, and admirable skill in delineating natural objects with graphic accuracy and vivid gracefulness. She weaned him from contemporary politics, and won him to beauty and truth."
Wordsworth himself, the most reliable informant as to what his sister did for him and was to him, says:
Depressed, bewildered thus, I did not walkWith scoffers, seeking light and gay revengeFrom indiscriminate laughter, nor sit downIn reconcilement with an utter wasteOf intellect….Then it was—Thanks to the bounteous Giver of all good—That the beloved sister in whose sightThose days were passed, now speaking in a voiceOf sudden admonition—like a brookThat did but cross a lonely road, nowIs seen, heard, felt, and caught at every turn,Companion never lost through many a league—Maintained for me a saving intercourseWith my true self; for, though bedimmed and changedMuch, as it seemed, I was no further changedThan as a clouded, and a waning moon;She whispered still that brightness would return.She, in the midst of all, preserved me stillA poet; made me seek beneath that name,And that alone, my office upon earth.
Depressed, bewildered thus, I did not walkWith scoffers, seeking light and gay revengeFrom indiscriminate laughter, nor sit downIn reconcilement with an utter wasteOf intellect….Then it was—Thanks to the bounteous Giver of all good—That the beloved sister in whose sightThose days were passed, now speaking in a voiceOf sudden admonition—like a brookThat did but cross a lonely road, nowIs seen, heard, felt, and caught at every turn,Companion never lost through many a league—Maintained for me a saving intercourseWith my true self; for, though bedimmed and changedMuch, as it seemed, I was no further changedThan as a clouded, and a waning moon;She whispered still that brightness would return.She, in the midst of all, preserved me stillA poet; made me seek beneath that name,And that alone, my office upon earth.
Depressed, bewildered thus, I did not walkWith scoffers, seeking light and gay revengeFrom indiscriminate laughter, nor sit downIn reconcilement with an utter wasteOf intellect….
Depressed, bewildered thus, I did not walk
With scoffers, seeking light and gay revenge
From indiscriminate laughter, nor sit down
In reconcilement with an utter waste
Of intellect….
Then it was—Thanks to the bounteous Giver of all good—That the beloved sister in whose sightThose days were passed, now speaking in a voiceOf sudden admonition—like a brookThat did but cross a lonely road, nowIs seen, heard, felt, and caught at every turn,Companion never lost through many a league—Maintained for me a saving intercourseWith my true self; for, though bedimmed and changedMuch, as it seemed, I was no further changedThan as a clouded, and a waning moon;She whispered still that brightness would return.She, in the midst of all, preserved me stillA poet; made me seek beneath that name,And that alone, my office upon earth.
Then it was—
Thanks to the bounteous Giver of all good—
That the beloved sister in whose sight
Those days were passed, now speaking in a voice
Of sudden admonition—like a brook
That did but cross a lonely road, now
Is seen, heard, felt, and caught at every turn,
Companion never lost through many a league—
Maintained for me a saving intercourse
With my true self; for, though bedimmed and changed
Much, as it seemed, I was no further changed
Than as a clouded, and a waning moon;
She whispered still that brightness would return.
She, in the midst of all, preserved me still
A poet; made me seek beneath that name,
And that alone, my office upon earth.
The first home of William and Dorothy Wordsworth was at Racedown. Here their real life began for which their previous course had been a fitting preparation. Since the "home extinct" of their childhood they had both been more or less lonely; and now their dream was realised and their heart-yearning satisfied. It was not a life of idleness or self-indulgence. A singular similarity of taste and aim, added to the unusually strong natural affections, made existence for them a charm. Dorothy's strength of character is shown in the potent influence for good upon a nature like that of her brother. And she was as constant as faithful, as humble as powerful. Through a long life she never wavered; as year by year passed, her skill and judgment gaining maturity, her devotion appears in greater beauty.
It was while at Racedown that the friendship of Coleridge was made, a friendship close and lasting. For the sake of his companionship the Wordsworths soon went to reside at Alfoxden, in the neighbourhood of Nether Stowey. This proved to be a happy and fruitful period. The three poets (for Dorothy was essentially a poet) were almost inseparable, their rambles together by hill and combe and stream being followed by high discourse and mutual work in the dim lamp-light. Here the Lyrical ballads were written.
Alfoxden did not, however, prove to be the poet's permanent home. After a residence there of about a little over a year, and a short period abroad, Wordsworth and his sister fixed upon the centre of England's lakeland as the scene of their future life. In the loved vale of Grasmere, on December 21, 1799, they took up their abode in the now famous Dove Cottage, a home of memories without peer.5
How the poet and his sister came to love their retreat among the mountains is well known. The few following years were among the most fruitful of his life. His best and most important work was there done. The humble cottage and "garden orchard" are not only immortalised in his verse, but were the scene of his loftiest labours. And Dorothy, meanwhile, not only inspired his ardour, fed both thought and pen, but laboured with her hands in the kitchen and at the desk. The following extract from the recently publishedRecluse(written at this time) not only shows Wordsworth's satisfaction with his choice of residence, but his sustained feeling of his exceeding indebtedness to his sister:—
Can the choice mislead,That made the calmest, fairest spot of earth.With all its unappropriated good,My own; and not mine only, for with meEntrenched, say rather peacefully embowered,Under yon orchard, in yon humble cot,A younger orphan of a home extinct,The only daughter of my parents dwells.Aye, think on that, my heart, and cease to stir;Pause upon that, and let the breathing frameNo longer breathe, but all be satisfied.Oh, if such a silence be not thanks to GodFor what hath been bestowed, then where, where thenShall gratitude find rest? Mine eyes did ne'erFix on a lovely object, nor my mindTake pleasure in the midst of happy thoughts,But either she whom now I have, who nowDivides with me this loved abode, was there,Or not far off. Where'er my footsteps turned,Her voice was like a hidden bird that sang;The thought of her was like a flash of light,Or an unseen companionship—a breathOf fragrance independent of the wind.In all my goings, in the new and old,Of all my meditations, and in thisFavourite of all, in this the most of all.
Can the choice mislead,That made the calmest, fairest spot of earth.With all its unappropriated good,My own; and not mine only, for with meEntrenched, say rather peacefully embowered,Under yon orchard, in yon humble cot,A younger orphan of a home extinct,The only daughter of my parents dwells.Aye, think on that, my heart, and cease to stir;Pause upon that, and let the breathing frameNo longer breathe, but all be satisfied.Oh, if such a silence be not thanks to GodFor what hath been bestowed, then where, where thenShall gratitude find rest? Mine eyes did ne'erFix on a lovely object, nor my mindTake pleasure in the midst of happy thoughts,But either she whom now I have, who nowDivides with me this loved abode, was there,Or not far off. Where'er my footsteps turned,Her voice was like a hidden bird that sang;The thought of her was like a flash of light,Or an unseen companionship—a breathOf fragrance independent of the wind.In all my goings, in the new and old,Of all my meditations, and in thisFavourite of all, in this the most of all.
Can the choice mislead,That made the calmest, fairest spot of earth.With all its unappropriated good,My own; and not mine only, for with meEntrenched, say rather peacefully embowered,Under yon orchard, in yon humble cot,A younger orphan of a home extinct,The only daughter of my parents dwells.Aye, think on that, my heart, and cease to stir;Pause upon that, and let the breathing frameNo longer breathe, but all be satisfied.Oh, if such a silence be not thanks to GodFor what hath been bestowed, then where, where thenShall gratitude find rest? Mine eyes did ne'erFix on a lovely object, nor my mindTake pleasure in the midst of happy thoughts,But either she whom now I have, who nowDivides with me this loved abode, was there,Or not far off. Where'er my footsteps turned,Her voice was like a hidden bird that sang;The thought of her was like a flash of light,Or an unseen companionship—a breathOf fragrance independent of the wind.In all my goings, in the new and old,Of all my meditations, and in thisFavourite of all, in this the most of all.
Can the choice mislead,
That made the calmest, fairest spot of earth.
With all its unappropriated good,
My own; and not mine only, for with me
Entrenched, say rather peacefully embowered,
Under yon orchard, in yon humble cot,
A younger orphan of a home extinct,
The only daughter of my parents dwells.
Aye, think on that, my heart, and cease to stir;
Pause upon that, and let the breathing frame
No longer breathe, but all be satisfied.
Oh, if such a silence be not thanks to God
For what hath been bestowed, then where, where then
Shall gratitude find rest? Mine eyes did ne'er
Fix on a lovely object, nor my mind
Take pleasure in the midst of happy thoughts,
But either she whom now I have, who now
Divides with me this loved abode, was there,
Or not far off. Where'er my footsteps turned,
Her voice was like a hidden bird that sang;
The thought of her was like a flash of light,
Or an unseen companionship—a breath
Of fragrance independent of the wind.
In all my goings, in the new and old,
Of all my meditations, and in this
Favourite of all, in this the most of all.
Probably warmer and more loving praise was never bestowed or more happily expressed than is contained in these lines, unless, indeed, it be in the following, in which the poet, again alluding to his sister, speaks of the beneficent character of their intercourse:—
She who dwells with me, whom I have lovedWith such communion, that no place on earthCan ever be a solitude to me….
She who dwells with me, whom I have lovedWith such communion, that no place on earthCan ever be a solitude to me….
She who dwells with me, whom I have lovedWith such communion, that no place on earthCan ever be a solitude to me….
She who dwells with me, whom I have loved
With such communion, that no place on earth
Can ever be a solitude to me….
Once more, recounting in the "Prelude" the master influences which had entered into his life, prominent place is given to that exerted by his sister:—
Child of my parents! Sister of my soul!Thanks in sincerest verse have been elsewherePoured out for all the early tendernessWhich I from thee imbibed; and 'tis most trueThat later seasons owed to thee no less;For, spite of thy sweet influence, and the touchOf kindred hands that opened out the springsOf genial thought in childhood, and in spiteOf all that, unassisted, I had markedIn life, or nature, of those charms minute,That win their way into the heart by stealth,Still, to the very going out of youth,I, too, exclusively esteemedthatlove,And soughtthatbeauty, which, as Milton sings,Hath terror in it; but thou didst soften downThis over sternness; but for thee, dear friend!My soul, too reckless of mild grace, had stoodIn her original self too confident,Retained too long a countenance severe;A rock with torrents roaring, with the cloudsFamiliar, and a favourite of the stars:But thou didst plant its crevices with flowers,Hang it with shrubs that twinkle in the breeze,And teach the little birds to build their nestsAnd warble in its chambers. At a timeWhen Nature, destined to remain so longForemost in my affections, had fallen backInto a second place, pleased to becomeA handmaid to a nobler than herself,When every day brought with it some new senseOf exquisite regard for common things,And all the earth was budding with these giftsOf more refined humanity, thy breath,Dear sister, was a kind of gentler springThat went before my steps.
Child of my parents! Sister of my soul!Thanks in sincerest verse have been elsewherePoured out for all the early tendernessWhich I from thee imbibed; and 'tis most trueThat later seasons owed to thee no less;For, spite of thy sweet influence, and the touchOf kindred hands that opened out the springsOf genial thought in childhood, and in spiteOf all that, unassisted, I had markedIn life, or nature, of those charms minute,That win their way into the heart by stealth,Still, to the very going out of youth,I, too, exclusively esteemedthatlove,And soughtthatbeauty, which, as Milton sings,Hath terror in it; but thou didst soften downThis over sternness; but for thee, dear friend!My soul, too reckless of mild grace, had stoodIn her original self too confident,Retained too long a countenance severe;A rock with torrents roaring, with the cloudsFamiliar, and a favourite of the stars:But thou didst plant its crevices with flowers,Hang it with shrubs that twinkle in the breeze,And teach the little birds to build their nestsAnd warble in its chambers. At a timeWhen Nature, destined to remain so longForemost in my affections, had fallen backInto a second place, pleased to becomeA handmaid to a nobler than herself,When every day brought with it some new senseOf exquisite regard for common things,And all the earth was budding with these giftsOf more refined humanity, thy breath,Dear sister, was a kind of gentler springThat went before my steps.
Child of my parents! Sister of my soul!Thanks in sincerest verse have been elsewherePoured out for all the early tendernessWhich I from thee imbibed; and 'tis most trueThat later seasons owed to thee no less;For, spite of thy sweet influence, and the touchOf kindred hands that opened out the springsOf genial thought in childhood, and in spiteOf all that, unassisted, I had markedIn life, or nature, of those charms minute,That win their way into the heart by stealth,Still, to the very going out of youth,I, too, exclusively esteemedthatlove,And soughtthatbeauty, which, as Milton sings,Hath terror in it; but thou didst soften downThis over sternness; but for thee, dear friend!My soul, too reckless of mild grace, had stoodIn her original self too confident,Retained too long a countenance severe;A rock with torrents roaring, with the cloudsFamiliar, and a favourite of the stars:But thou didst plant its crevices with flowers,Hang it with shrubs that twinkle in the breeze,And teach the little birds to build their nestsAnd warble in its chambers. At a timeWhen Nature, destined to remain so longForemost in my affections, had fallen backInto a second place, pleased to becomeA handmaid to a nobler than herself,When every day brought with it some new senseOf exquisite regard for common things,And all the earth was budding with these giftsOf more refined humanity, thy breath,Dear sister, was a kind of gentler springThat went before my steps.
Child of my parents! Sister of my soul!
Thanks in sincerest verse have been elsewhere
Poured out for all the early tenderness
Which I from thee imbibed; and 'tis most true
That later seasons owed to thee no less;
For, spite of thy sweet influence, and the touch
Of kindred hands that opened out the springs
Of genial thought in childhood, and in spite
Of all that, unassisted, I had marked
In life, or nature, of those charms minute,
That win their way into the heart by stealth,
Still, to the very going out of youth,
I, too, exclusively esteemedthatlove,
And soughtthatbeauty, which, as Milton sings,
Hath terror in it; but thou didst soften down
This over sternness; but for thee, dear friend!
My soul, too reckless of mild grace, had stood
In her original self too confident,
Retained too long a countenance severe;
A rock with torrents roaring, with the clouds
Familiar, and a favourite of the stars:
But thou didst plant its crevices with flowers,
Hang it with shrubs that twinkle in the breeze,
And teach the little birds to build their nests
And warble in its chambers. At a time
When Nature, destined to remain so long
Foremost in my affections, had fallen back
Into a second place, pleased to become
A handmaid to a nobler than herself,
When every day brought with it some new sense
Of exquisite regard for common things,
And all the earth was budding with these gifts
Of more refined humanity, thy breath,
Dear sister, was a kind of gentler spring
That went before my steps.
The marriage of Wordsworth, in 1802, did not occasion any waning of sympathy or cessation of intercourse between him and his sister. The circle was then only widened, not broken. Dorothy continued to be an honoured inmate of her brother's home, the sharer of his labours, and companion of his walks and excursions; in speech as well as in silence together garnering scenes of beauty and flowers of thought both for their own future lives and the world's weal. Thus the years passed with them calmly; each in its varying experiences of intense life—life haloed by the inward eye which glorifies the daily task, and finds in all Nature a fitting shrine—worth a decade of common days. It was a time of rare friendships also. It was by no means true of the Wordsworths that they withdrew themselves from the world in a selfish seclusion. Necessarily they were sensitive, and shunned the world's loud ways. If this had not been so we should never have had some of the finest poems in the language. To the humble cottage at Grasmere came, however, for treasured intercourse with the great master, many of the most gifted and cultured men of the time. But not for these only did Wordsworth live and write. He loved, and moved in and out among the sturdy and independent dalesmen among whom he had chosen to pass his life. There he found food for thought and pen, and perhaps never became grander in song or higher as a teacher than in delineating human life and nature as found in lowly homes.
As has been suggested, Miss Wordsworth might have earned for herself a place in literature had she not so entirely lived only for and in her brother. She was one of the most graceful and accomplished of letter writers; and the fragments from her journals, from time to time given to the world, written chiefly in the Alfoxden days and the early years at Grasmere, contain passages of rare beauty. To instance a few lines only. Alluding to a favourite birch tree, she says: "It was yielding to a gust of wind with all its tender twigs; the sun shone upon it, and it glanced in the wind like a flying sunshiny shower. It was a tree in shape, with stem and branches; but it was like a spirit of water." Recording one of her early visits with her brother to the Continent, she says: "Left London between five and six o'clock of the morning, outside the Dover coach. A beautiful morning. The city, St. Paul's, with the river—multitude of boats—made a beautiful sight as we crossed Westminster Bridge; the houses not overhung by their clouds of smoke, and were spread out endlessly, yet the sun shone so brightly, with such a pure light, that there was something like the purity of one of Nature's own grand spectacles…. Arrived at Calais at four in the morning. Delightful walks in the evening; seeing far off in the west the coast of England, like a cloud, crested with Dover Castle, the evening star and the glory of the sky; the reflections in the water were more beautiful than the sky itself; purple waves brighter than precious stones for ever melting away upon the sands." Deeply interesting as Miss Wordsworth's journals are, passages like these make us wish she had written more.
After between eight and nine years' residence in Grasmere, Miss Wordsworth accompanied her brother and his family on their removal to Rydal Mount. Here they lived for the remainder of their lives, and grew old together.
During many of their later years the life of the household was saddened and that of Miss Wordsworth darkened by the heavy affliction that came upon her. The exact date or occasion is somewhat doubtful, as well as to the extent to which Miss Wordsworth was afflicted. It was probably owing to her indefatigable exertions as a pedestrian in her intense love of Nature, and to want of sufficient care, that her splendid physical powers gave way. In 1832 she had an illness which resulted in brain fever, from the effects of which she never recovered. A few years later she became permanently invalided, and a long evening of life was passed more or less under a cloud. The present writer has the best of reasons for believing that the gravity of her mental condition during this period has been somewhat exaggerated. That the physical prostration became complete, and her keen mental powers sadly impaired, there is, unhappily, no doubt. But her affection of mind was chiefly shown by loss of memory; and her condition, even at the worst, was alleviated by many bright and lucid intervals. Her poem on "The Floating Island," written so late as 1842, is an abundant evidence of this.
In her suffering Miss Wordsworth was exemplary. To Wordsworth himself his sister's illness was a source of great sorrow. Remembering what she had been to him, we cannot wonder that, as Lady Richardson said of him: "There is always something touching in his way of speaking of his sister. The tones of his voice become very gentle and soothing."
Notwithstanding her long and sad affliction, Miss Wordsworth survived her brother five years. On account of her own condition, she was unable to be with him during his illness, and on being informed of his death, which took place on April 23, 1850, when she fully realised that "William" was no more, she exclaimed that life had nothing left worth living for. A friend who was present said, in reference to her: "She is drawn about as usual in her chair. She was heard to say, as she passed the door where the body lay, "O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?""
Miss Wordsworth's last years were tenderly cared for by those who had so long loved both her and her more famous brother. She died on January 25, 1855, in her eighty-third year. She is buried by her brother's side in Grasmere Churchyard.
In the annals of domestic history it would be difficult to meet with a story more deeply interesting and pathetic than that of Charles and Mary Lamb. If Dorothy Wordsworth bears the palm for sisterly devotion and help, thereby crowning her brother's life with blessing, Charles Lamb stands before us the most signal example as the sharer and sustainer of a sister's lot of suffering. Darkest lives may be illumined by hope and brightened by love; and among lives of noble self-denial, those of Charles Lamb and his sister must always take a prominent place. Although they came into being heavily weighted for the race, their struggle with an adverse fate was noble, and the secret of their strength was their mutual love.
Probably no greater calamity can affect a family than an hereditary taint of insanity, entailing, as it does, such constant and tender care and infinite patience.
The father of Charles and Mary Lamb had been for many years a clerk to a barrister of the Inner Temple, in whose chambers, in Crown Office Row, he resided when Mary was born on December 3, 1764. There were other children of the family, none of whom, however, seem to have survived infancy with the exception of Mary, John, two years older, and Charles, ten years younger.
It would, perhaps, be difficult to imagine a more uncongenial home for a child constituted as was Mary Lamb than the one into which it was her lot to enter. We seek in vain in the immediate parentage of the Lambs for the many excellencies of character and the genius developed in both Mary and Charles. But one thing they both inherited from or through their father—the peculiarity of brain formation which renders its possessor liable to fits of madness. Little Mary was too loving for her early surroundings. Her parents seem to have lived to themselves, and not to have shown much love for the sensitive little one who, above all things, needed a heart-warm atmosphere. Charles, writing of his mother, says that she "in feeling and sentiment and disposition bore so distant a resemblance to her daughter that she never understood her right—never could believe how much she loved her—but met her caresses, her protestations of filial affection, too frequently with coldness and repulse."
In her childhood Mary attended a day-school in Fetter Lane, where she received all the scholastic education she ever had. Her time was chiefly spent in the solitude of her own thoughts. A lonely childhood, however sad, is not infrequently beneficial in its results, in stimulating thought and bringing out the distinctive characteristics of a child. But to a child like Mary Lamb the very loneliness of her life would only tend to make more pronounced the liability to mental trouble. And although a taste for reading is one of the best that can be acquired, it would in the case of Mary Lamb have been all the better to have been carefully guarded and directed. It, however, afforded her no small delight to have the privilege of access to the library of her father's employer, "a spacious closet of good old English reading, where without much selection or prohibition she browsed at will upon that fair and wholesome pasturage."
A new element entered into the life of Mary when a little more than ten years of age. In the month of February, 1775, her brother Charles was born to feed the hunger of her loving heart. From the first he was her charge. She nursed the weakly child with tender care, fostered his loving disposition, and as she could, trained his infant mind. Their childhood thus passed hand in hand, in accord with their future lives.
When Charles was about seven years old he entered Christ's Hospital. It was here he first formed the friendship of Coleridge, which proved so fruitful in after years. As time passed over the household the circumstances of the Lambs, never affluent, became more straitened. The elder son, John, seems to have cared chiefly for himself, and not to have been very reliable for contribution to the family support. In his fifteenth year Charles left the Blue Coat School to bear his share (which proved to be a large one) of the burden of the family life. He obtained a clerkship in the South Sea House, which in two years was exchanged for a better one in the East India House, Mary at the same time also adding to the slender means by dressmaking.
A few years passed, not altogether without brightness, though much dimmed by the growing imbecility of the father, and the sickness and helplessness of the mother. In 1795 her father was pensioned by his kind old master, and the family removed into lodgings in Little Queen Street. The following year proved to the Lambs a disastrous one indeed. First Charles himself, from some immediate cause not very clear, became the victim of the fatal heritage. Mrs. Gilchrist suggests that it was the first and only love of which he was able to dream that "took deep hold of him, conspiring with the cares and trials of home life." Charles was, from whatever cause, for six weeks confined in an asylum. Writing to Coleridge, with whom he had kept up a constant intercourse, he says: "In your absence the tide of melancholy rushed in, and did its worst mischief by overwhelming my reason." It was during his confinement that, in one of his lucid intervals, he wrote the following sonnet to his sister:—