If from my lips some angry accents fell,Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind,'Twas the error of a sickly mindAnd troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well,And waters clear of reason; and for meLet this my verse the poor atonement be—My verse, which thou to praise wert ere inclinedToo highly, and with a partial eye to seeNo blemish. Thou to me didst ever showKindest affection; and would ofttimes lendAn ear to the desponding love-sick lay,Weeping my sorrows with me, and repayBut ill the mighty debt of love I owe,Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend.
If from my lips some angry accents fell,Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind,'Twas the error of a sickly mindAnd troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well,And waters clear of reason; and for meLet this my verse the poor atonement be—My verse, which thou to praise wert ere inclinedToo highly, and with a partial eye to seeNo blemish. Thou to me didst ever showKindest affection; and would ofttimes lendAn ear to the desponding love-sick lay,Weeping my sorrows with me, and repayBut ill the mighty debt of love I owe,Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend.
If from my lips some angry accents fell,Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind,'Twas the error of a sickly mindAnd troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well,And waters clear of reason; and for meLet this my verse the poor atonement be—My verse, which thou to praise wert ere inclinedToo highly, and with a partial eye to seeNo blemish. Thou to me didst ever showKindest affection; and would ofttimes lendAn ear to the desponding love-sick lay,Weeping my sorrows with me, and repayBut ill the mighty debt of love I owe,Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend.
If from my lips some angry accents fell,
Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind,
'Twas the error of a sickly mind
And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well,
And waters clear of reason; and for me
Let this my verse the poor atonement be—
My verse, which thou to praise wert ere inclined
Too highly, and with a partial eye to see
No blemish. Thou to me didst ever show
Kindest affection; and would ofttimes lend
An ear to the desponding love-sick lay,
Weeping my sorrows with me, and repay
But ill the mighty debt of love I owe,
Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend.
It was in the month of September in that year, a little while after the return of Charles to his home, that there occurred therein the saddest of domestic tragedies. The constant and increasing helplessness of the father and mother had necessitated no small amount of care and nursing on the part of Mary; following which had come the temporary madness of her brother, who had been to her a tower of strength and consolation. Finally selfish John, who generally lived from home at his ease, having met with an accident, had come home to be nursed, to be a further burden upon his much suffering sister—the last straw to the patient back. The unevenly balanced brain at last gave way, reason tottered, and in a fit of frenzy, Mary Lamb, the kind-hearted young woman, the loving daughter, the devoted sister, became the instrument of her mother's death. TheWeekly Registercontains the following account of the event:—
"This afternoon, the coroner's jury sat on the body of a lady in the neighbourhood of Holborn, who died in consequence of a wound from her daughter, the preceding day. While the family were preparing dinner, the young lady, in a fit of insanity, seized a case-knife lying on the table, and in a menacing manner pursued a little girl, her apprentice, round the room. On the eager calls of her helpless, infirm mother to forbear, she renounced her first object, and, with loud shrieks, approached her parent. The child, by her cries, quickly brought up the landlord6of the house—but too late. The dreadful scene presented to him the mother lifeless on a chair; her daughter yet wildly standing over her with the fatal knife; and the venerable old man—her father—weeping by her side, himself bleeding at the forehead from the effects of a blow he received from one of the forks she had been madly hurling about the room. But a few days prior to this, the family had discovered some symptoms of lunacy in her, which had so much increased on the Wednesday evening that her brother early the next morning went in quest of Dr. Pitcairn; had that gentleman been providentially met with, the fatal catastrophe had, probably, been prevented. She had once before, in the earlier part of her life, been deranged from the harassing fatigues of too much business. As her carriage towards her mother had been ever affectionate in the extreme, it is believed that to her increased attentiveness to her is to be ascribed the loss of her reason at this time. The jury, without hesitation, brought in their verdict—Lunacy."
"This afternoon, the coroner's jury sat on the body of a lady in the neighbourhood of Holborn, who died in consequence of a wound from her daughter, the preceding day. While the family were preparing dinner, the young lady, in a fit of insanity, seized a case-knife lying on the table, and in a menacing manner pursued a little girl, her apprentice, round the room. On the eager calls of her helpless, infirm mother to forbear, she renounced her first object, and, with loud shrieks, approached her parent. The child, by her cries, quickly brought up the landlord6of the house—but too late. The dreadful scene presented to him the mother lifeless on a chair; her daughter yet wildly standing over her with the fatal knife; and the venerable old man—her father—weeping by her side, himself bleeding at the forehead from the effects of a blow he received from one of the forks she had been madly hurling about the room. But a few days prior to this, the family had discovered some symptoms of lunacy in her, which had so much increased on the Wednesday evening that her brother early the next morning went in quest of Dr. Pitcairn; had that gentleman been providentially met with, the fatal catastrophe had, probably, been prevented. She had once before, in the earlier part of her life, been deranged from the harassing fatigues of too much business. As her carriage towards her mother had been ever affectionate in the extreme, it is believed that to her increased attentiveness to her is to be ascribed the loss of her reason at this time. The jury, without hesitation, brought in their verdict—Lunacy."
From the fatal hour when Mary lifted her hand against her mother, to the last of his life, Charles Lamb was heroic in his self-denying devotion to her. As a matter of course, she had to be, for the time being, placed under restraint. But Charles then and there, in his noble love and sense of duty, determined that, abandoning all other loves and hopes which might interfere with his one great, self-imposed purpose, his life should be devoted to the welfare and care of his sister. A few days after the occurrence, he wrote to his friend Coleridge:—
"My poor dear, dearest sister, in a fit of insanity has been the death of her own mother. I was at hand only in time enough to snatch the knife out of her grasp. She is at present in a madhouse, from whence I fear she must be moved to a hospital. God has preserved to me my senses; I eat and drink, and sleep, and have my judgment, I believe, very sound. My poor father was slightly wounded, and I am left to take care of him and my aunt. Mr. Norris, of the Blue Coat School, has been very kind to us, and we have no other friend; but, thank God, I am very calm and composed, and able to do the best that remains to do. Write as religious a letter as possible, but no mention of what is gone and done with. With me "the former things are passed away," and I have something more to do than to feel. God Almighty have us all in His keeping! Mention nothing of poetry. I have destroyed every vestige of past vanities of that kind…. Your judgment will convince you not to take any notice of this yet to your dear wife. You look after your family; I have my reason and strength left to take care of mine. I charge you do not think of coming to see me. Write. I will not see you if you come. God Almighty love you and all of us!"
"My poor dear, dearest sister, in a fit of insanity has been the death of her own mother. I was at hand only in time enough to snatch the knife out of her grasp. She is at present in a madhouse, from whence I fear she must be moved to a hospital. God has preserved to me my senses; I eat and drink, and sleep, and have my judgment, I believe, very sound. My poor father was slightly wounded, and I am left to take care of him and my aunt. Mr. Norris, of the Blue Coat School, has been very kind to us, and we have no other friend; but, thank God, I am very calm and composed, and able to do the best that remains to do. Write as religious a letter as possible, but no mention of what is gone and done with. With me "the former things are passed away," and I have something more to do than to feel. God Almighty have us all in His keeping! Mention nothing of poetry. I have destroyed every vestige of past vanities of that kind…. Your judgment will convince you not to take any notice of this yet to your dear wife. You look after your family; I have my reason and strength left to take care of mine. I charge you do not think of coming to see me. Write. I will not see you if you come. God Almighty love you and all of us!"
Coleridge's reply was full of comfort to his afflicted friend, and upon its receipt Charles writes again:—
"Your letter was an inestimable treasure to me. It will be a comfort to you, I know, to know that our prospects are somewhat better. My poor dear, dearest sister, the unhappy and unconscious instrument of the Almighty's judgment on our house is restored to her senses, to a dreadful sense and recollection of what has passed, awful to her mind, and impressive (as it must be to the end of life), but tempered with religious resignation and the reasonings of a sound judgment, which in this early stage knows how to distinguish between the deed committed in a transient fit of frenzy and the terrible guilt of a mother's murder. I have seen her. I found her this morning calm and serene: far, very far, from an indecent, forgetful serenity. She has a most affectionate and tender concern for what has happened. Indeed, from the beginning, frightful and hopeless as her disorder seemed, I had confidence enough in her strength of mind and religious principle, to look forward to a time when even she might recover tranquility. God be praised, Coleridge, wonderful as it is to tell, I have never been otherwise than collected and calm; even on the dreadful day and in the midst of the terrible scene, I preserved a tranquility which bystanders may have construed into indifference—a tranquility not of despair. Is it folly or sin in me to say that it was a religious principle that most supported me? I allow much to other favourable circumstances. I felt that I had something else to do than to regret. On that first evening my aunt was lying insensible—to all appearance like one dying; my father, with his poor forehead plastered over from the wound he had received from a daughter, dearly loved by him, and who loved him no less dearly; my mother a dead and murdered corpse in the next room; yet was I wonderfully supported. I closed not my eyes in sleep that night, but lay without terrors and without despair. I have lost no sleep since. I had been long used not to rest in things of sense; had endeavoured after a comprehension of mind unsatisfied with the "ignorant present time," and this kept me up. I had the whole weight of the family thrown on me; for my brother, little disposed (I speak not without tenderness for him) at any time to take care of old age and infirmities, had now, with his bad leg, an exemption from such duties, and I was left alone. One little incident may serve to make you understand my way of managing my mind. Within a day or two after the fatal one, we dressed for dinner a tongue, which we had had salted for some weeks in the house. As I sat down, a feeling like remorse struck me; this tongue poor Mary got for me, and can I partake of it now when she is far away? A thought occurred and relieved me: if I give in to this way of feeling there is not a chair, a room, an object in our rooms, that will not awaken our keenest griefs. I must rise above such weaknesses. I hope this was not want of true feeling. I do not let this carry me, though, too far. On the very second day (I date from the day of horrors) as is usual in such cases, there was a matter of twenty people, I do think, supping in our room; they prevailed on me to eat with them (for to eat I never refused). They were all making merry in the room! Some had come from friendship, some from busy curiosity, and some from interest. I was going to partake with them, when my recollection came that my poor dead mother was lying in the next room—a mother who, through life, wished nothing but her children's welfare. Indignation, the rage of grief, something like remorse, rushed upon my mind. In any agony of emotion, I found my way mechanically into an adjoining room, and fell on my knees by the side of her coffin, asking forgiveness of heaven, and sometimes of her, for forgetting her so soon. Tranquility returned, and it was the only violent emotion that mastered me. I think it did me good…."She will [referring to Mary], I fancy, if she stays, make one of the family rather than of the patients; and the old and young ladies I like exceedingly, and she loves them dearly; and they, as the saying is, take to her very extraordinarily—if it is extraordinary that people who see my sister should love her. Of all the people I ever saw in the world, my poor sister was most and thoroughly devoid of the least tincture of selfishness … and if I mistake not, in the most trying situation that a human being can be found in, she will be found (I speak not with sufficient humility, I fear) but humanly and foolishly speaking, she will be found, I trust, uniformly great and amiable…."
"Your letter was an inestimable treasure to me. It will be a comfort to you, I know, to know that our prospects are somewhat better. My poor dear, dearest sister, the unhappy and unconscious instrument of the Almighty's judgment on our house is restored to her senses, to a dreadful sense and recollection of what has passed, awful to her mind, and impressive (as it must be to the end of life), but tempered with religious resignation and the reasonings of a sound judgment, which in this early stage knows how to distinguish between the deed committed in a transient fit of frenzy and the terrible guilt of a mother's murder. I have seen her. I found her this morning calm and serene: far, very far, from an indecent, forgetful serenity. She has a most affectionate and tender concern for what has happened. Indeed, from the beginning, frightful and hopeless as her disorder seemed, I had confidence enough in her strength of mind and religious principle, to look forward to a time when even she might recover tranquility. God be praised, Coleridge, wonderful as it is to tell, I have never been otherwise than collected and calm; even on the dreadful day and in the midst of the terrible scene, I preserved a tranquility which bystanders may have construed into indifference—a tranquility not of despair. Is it folly or sin in me to say that it was a religious principle that most supported me? I allow much to other favourable circumstances. I felt that I had something else to do than to regret. On that first evening my aunt was lying insensible—to all appearance like one dying; my father, with his poor forehead plastered over from the wound he had received from a daughter, dearly loved by him, and who loved him no less dearly; my mother a dead and murdered corpse in the next room; yet was I wonderfully supported. I closed not my eyes in sleep that night, but lay without terrors and without despair. I have lost no sleep since. I had been long used not to rest in things of sense; had endeavoured after a comprehension of mind unsatisfied with the "ignorant present time," and this kept me up. I had the whole weight of the family thrown on me; for my brother, little disposed (I speak not without tenderness for him) at any time to take care of old age and infirmities, had now, with his bad leg, an exemption from such duties, and I was left alone. One little incident may serve to make you understand my way of managing my mind. Within a day or two after the fatal one, we dressed for dinner a tongue, which we had had salted for some weeks in the house. As I sat down, a feeling like remorse struck me; this tongue poor Mary got for me, and can I partake of it now when she is far away? A thought occurred and relieved me: if I give in to this way of feeling there is not a chair, a room, an object in our rooms, that will not awaken our keenest griefs. I must rise above such weaknesses. I hope this was not want of true feeling. I do not let this carry me, though, too far. On the very second day (I date from the day of horrors) as is usual in such cases, there was a matter of twenty people, I do think, supping in our room; they prevailed on me to eat with them (for to eat I never refused). They were all making merry in the room! Some had come from friendship, some from busy curiosity, and some from interest. I was going to partake with them, when my recollection came that my poor dead mother was lying in the next room—a mother who, through life, wished nothing but her children's welfare. Indignation, the rage of grief, something like remorse, rushed upon my mind. In any agony of emotion, I found my way mechanically into an adjoining room, and fell on my knees by the side of her coffin, asking forgiveness of heaven, and sometimes of her, for forgetting her so soon. Tranquility returned, and it was the only violent emotion that mastered me. I think it did me good….
"She will [referring to Mary], I fancy, if she stays, make one of the family rather than of the patients; and the old and young ladies I like exceedingly, and she loves them dearly; and they, as the saying is, take to her very extraordinarily—if it is extraordinary that people who see my sister should love her. Of all the people I ever saw in the world, my poor sister was most and thoroughly devoid of the least tincture of selfishness … and if I mistake not, in the most trying situation that a human being can be found in, she will be found (I speak not with sufficient humility, I fear) but humanly and foolishly speaking, she will be found, I trust, uniformly great and amiable…."
His next letter reveals something of the sister's state of feeling under the distressing circumstances.
"Mary continues serene and cheerful. I find by me a little letter she wrote to me; for though I see her almost every day, yet we delight to write to one another, for we can scarce see each other but in company with some of the people of the house. I have not the letter by me, but will quote from memory what she wrote in it: 'I have no bad, terrifying dreams. At midnight, when I happen to awake, the nurse sleeping by the side of me, with the noise of the poor mad people around me, I have no fear. The spirit of my mother seems to descend and smile upon me, and bid me live to enjoy the life and reason which the Almighty has given me. I shall see her again in heaven; she will then understand me better. My grandmother, too, will understand me better, and will then say no more, as she used to do, 'Polly, what are those poor, crazy, moythered brains of yours thinking of always?'"
"Mary continues serene and cheerful. I find by me a little letter she wrote to me; for though I see her almost every day, yet we delight to write to one another, for we can scarce see each other but in company with some of the people of the house. I have not the letter by me, but will quote from memory what she wrote in it: 'I have no bad, terrifying dreams. At midnight, when I happen to awake, the nurse sleeping by the side of me, with the noise of the poor mad people around me, I have no fear. The spirit of my mother seems to descend and smile upon me, and bid me live to enjoy the life and reason which the Almighty has given me. I shall see her again in heaven; she will then understand me better. My grandmother, too, will understand me better, and will then say no more, as she used to do, 'Polly, what are those poor, crazy, moythered brains of yours thinking of always?'"
In another letter he says: "I am wedded, Coleridge, to the fortunes of my sister and my poor old father…. What would I give to call her back to earth for one day? on my knees to ask her pardon for all those little asperities of temper, which from time to time have given her gentle spirit pain? and the day, my friend, I trust, will come. There will be time enough for kind offices of love, if heaven's eternal year be ours. Hereafter her meek spirit shall not reproach me."
Mary, on this first occasion, remained in the asylum at Islington for some months. Eventually, upon the solemn promise of her brother that for his life she should be under his especial care, he was permitted to take her under his own protection. He did not, however, remove her at once to his own home, but provided for her in lodgings at Hackney. Alluding to her at this time, he writes: "To get her out into the world again, with a prospect of her never being so ill again, this is to be ranked not upon the common blessings of Providence. May that merciful God make tender my heart and make me as thankful as, in my distress, I was earnest in my prayers!"
The fond hope of Lamb, that his sister would never be so ill again, was not destined to be fulfilled. By the end of the year she was again in the asylum, but always in her brother's thought. During her absence he thus gave utterance to his thoughts:—
I am a widowed thing now thou art gone!Now thou art gone, my own familiar friend,Companion, sister, helpmate, counsellor!Alas! that honoured mind, whose sweet reproofAnd meekest wisdom in times past have smoothedThe unfilial harshness of my foolish speech,And made me loving to my parents old(Why is this so; ah, God! why is this so?)That honoured mind become a fearful blank,Her sense locked up, and herself kept outFrom human sight or converse, while so manyOf the foolish sort are left to roam at large,Do all acts of folly and sin and shame!Thy paths are mystery!Yet I will not thinkSweet friend, but we shall one day meet and liveIn quietness, and die so, fearing God;Or if not—and these false suggestions beA fit of the weak nature, loath to partWith what it loved so long and held so dear,—If thou art to be taken and I left(More sinning, yet unpunished save in thee),It is the will of God, and we are clayIn the Potter's hand, and at the worst are madeFrom absolute nothing, vessels of disgrace,Till His most righteous purpose wrought in us,Our purified spirits find their perfect rest.
I am a widowed thing now thou art gone!Now thou art gone, my own familiar friend,Companion, sister, helpmate, counsellor!Alas! that honoured mind, whose sweet reproofAnd meekest wisdom in times past have smoothedThe unfilial harshness of my foolish speech,And made me loving to my parents old(Why is this so; ah, God! why is this so?)That honoured mind become a fearful blank,Her sense locked up, and herself kept outFrom human sight or converse, while so manyOf the foolish sort are left to roam at large,Do all acts of folly and sin and shame!Thy paths are mystery!Yet I will not thinkSweet friend, but we shall one day meet and liveIn quietness, and die so, fearing God;Or if not—and these false suggestions beA fit of the weak nature, loath to partWith what it loved so long and held so dear,—If thou art to be taken and I left(More sinning, yet unpunished save in thee),It is the will of God, and we are clayIn the Potter's hand, and at the worst are madeFrom absolute nothing, vessels of disgrace,Till His most righteous purpose wrought in us,Our purified spirits find their perfect rest.
I am a widowed thing now thou art gone!Now thou art gone, my own familiar friend,Companion, sister, helpmate, counsellor!Alas! that honoured mind, whose sweet reproofAnd meekest wisdom in times past have smoothedThe unfilial harshness of my foolish speech,And made me loving to my parents old(Why is this so; ah, God! why is this so?)That honoured mind become a fearful blank,Her sense locked up, and herself kept outFrom human sight or converse, while so manyOf the foolish sort are left to roam at large,Do all acts of folly and sin and shame!Thy paths are mystery!Yet I will not thinkSweet friend, but we shall one day meet and liveIn quietness, and die so, fearing God;Or if not—and these false suggestions beA fit of the weak nature, loath to partWith what it loved so long and held so dear,—If thou art to be taken and I left(More sinning, yet unpunished save in thee),It is the will of God, and we are clayIn the Potter's hand, and at the worst are madeFrom absolute nothing, vessels of disgrace,Till His most righteous purpose wrought in us,Our purified spirits find their perfect rest.
I am a widowed thing now thou art gone!
Now thou art gone, my own familiar friend,
Companion, sister, helpmate, counsellor!
Alas! that honoured mind, whose sweet reproof
And meekest wisdom in times past have smoothed
The unfilial harshness of my foolish speech,
And made me loving to my parents old
(Why is this so; ah, God! why is this so?)
That honoured mind become a fearful blank,
Her sense locked up, and herself kept out
From human sight or converse, while so many
Of the foolish sort are left to roam at large,
Do all acts of folly and sin and shame!
Thy paths are mystery!
Yet I will not think
Sweet friend, but we shall one day meet and live
In quietness, and die so, fearing God;
Or if not—and these false suggestions be
A fit of the weak nature, loath to part
With what it loved so long and held so dear,—
If thou art to be taken and I left
(More sinning, yet unpunished save in thee),
It is the will of God, and we are clay
In the Potter's hand, and at the worst are made
From absolute nothing, vessels of disgrace,
Till His most righteous purpose wrought in us,
Our purified spirits find their perfect rest.
It was not until the death of his father, in the early part of 1799, that Charles felt it desirable to take his sister to his own home. At this time Mary was thirty-five and Charles twenty-five. From this time forward they were, indeed, one. They lived and worked together, thought together, and side by side grew old. They had several changes of residence—always in London or the suburbs. Mary had also many relapses. Both knew she was liable to them, and they lived always on the brink of this great trouble. As for Lamb himself, he was never again subject to the terrible malady. He had no time for brooding. The constant thought required for his sister made him strong—forced him to brace himself to face the stern duty whenever required. And Mary herself fronted the sadness of her lot with fortitude. In preparation for any short holiday together, which they occasionally made, she would with her own hands pack as a necessary article of luggage the strait jacket, which might at any moment be required for use upon herself. There is no picture more pathetic than that presented of this loving brother and sister, how that, after a premonition of the on-coming affliction, they would set out, hand in hand, for her temporary asylum, together weeping over the sadness of their lot. And this continued throughout their lives.
And yet it would be wrong to suppose their path to have been altogether sad. It was illumined by love, the heavy load was lightened by mutual help. Their devotion to each other, and joint pursuit of literature, was an immense compensation in their hard fate, bringing, as it ever does, the ideal into the actual, and casting a glamour of romance over the most heart-breaking realities of existence.
They had also many friends—friends after their own heart—who loved the intellectual converse of their humble home, and who knew well the circumstances of their saddened lives. These would include from time to time many of the choicest spirits of the age, whom the genius and gentleness of Lamb brought to his side. Barry Cornwall, in his memoir, says:—
"Lamb and his sister had an open party once a week, every Wednesday evening, where his friends generally went to visit him, without any special invitation. He invited you suddenly, not pressingly; but with such heartiness that you at once agreed to come. There was usually a game at whist on these evenings, in which the stakes were very moderate, indeed, almost nominal. When my thoughts turn backward, as they sometimes do, to those past days, I see my dear old friend again—'in my mind's eye, Horatio'—with his outstretched hand, and his grave, sweet smile of welcome. It was always in a room of moderate size, comfortably, but plainly furnished, that he lived. An old mahogany table was opened out in the middle of the room, round which, and near the walls, were old high-backed chairs (such as our grandfathers used), and a long plain bookcase completely filled with old books. These were his 'ragged veterans.' Here Charles Lamb sat, when at home, always near the table. At the opposite side was his sister, engaged in some domestic work, knitting or sewing, or poring over a modern novel. 'Bridget in some things is behind her years.' In fact, although she was ten years older than her brother, she had more sympathy with modern books and with youthful fancies than he had. She wore a neat cap of the fashion of her youth, and an old-fashioned dress. Her face was pale and somewhat square, but very placid, with grey, intelligent eyes. She was very mild in her manner to strangers, and to her brother gentle and tender always. She had often an upward look of peculiar meaning when directed towards him, as though to give him assurance that all was then well with her. His affection for her was somewhat less on the surface, but always present. There was great gratitude intermingled with it. 'In the days of weakling infancy,' he writes, 'I was her tender charge, as I have been her care in foolish manhood since.' Then he adds pathetically, 'I wish I could throw into a heap the remainder of our joint existences, that we might share them in equal division.'"
"Lamb and his sister had an open party once a week, every Wednesday evening, where his friends generally went to visit him, without any special invitation. He invited you suddenly, not pressingly; but with such heartiness that you at once agreed to come. There was usually a game at whist on these evenings, in which the stakes were very moderate, indeed, almost nominal. When my thoughts turn backward, as they sometimes do, to those past days, I see my dear old friend again—'in my mind's eye, Horatio'—with his outstretched hand, and his grave, sweet smile of welcome. It was always in a room of moderate size, comfortably, but plainly furnished, that he lived. An old mahogany table was opened out in the middle of the room, round which, and near the walls, were old high-backed chairs (such as our grandfathers used), and a long plain bookcase completely filled with old books. These were his 'ragged veterans.' Here Charles Lamb sat, when at home, always near the table. At the opposite side was his sister, engaged in some domestic work, knitting or sewing, or poring over a modern novel. 'Bridget in some things is behind her years.' In fact, although she was ten years older than her brother, she had more sympathy with modern books and with youthful fancies than he had. She wore a neat cap of the fashion of her youth, and an old-fashioned dress. Her face was pale and somewhat square, but very placid, with grey, intelligent eyes. She was very mild in her manner to strangers, and to her brother gentle and tender always. She had often an upward look of peculiar meaning when directed towards him, as though to give him assurance that all was then well with her. His affection for her was somewhat less on the surface, but always present. There was great gratitude intermingled with it. 'In the days of weakling infancy,' he writes, 'I was her tender charge, as I have been her care in foolish manhood since.' Then he adds pathetically, 'I wish I could throw into a heap the remainder of our joint existences, that we might share them in equal division.'"
Mrs. Cowden Clarke has also left some very interesting reminiscences of this period. She says:—
"Miss Lamb bore a strong personal resemblance to her brother, being in stature under middle height, possessing well-cut features, and a countenance of singular sweetness, with intelligence. Her brown eyes were soft, yet penetrating, her nose and mouth very shapely; while the general expression was mildness itself. She had a speaking voice, gentle and persuasive; and her smile was her brother's own—winning in the extreme. There was a certain catch, or emotional breathingness, in her utterance, which gave an inexpressible charm to her reading of poetry, and which lent a captivating earnestness to her mode of speech when addressing those she liked. This slight check, with its yearning, eager effect in her voice, had something softendly akin to her brother Charles's impediment of articulation; in him it scarcely amounted to a stammer; in her it merely imparted additional stress to the fine-sensed suggestions she made to those whom she counselled or consoled. She had a mind at once nobly toned and practical, making her ever a chosen source of confidence among her friends, who turned to her for consultation, confirmation, and advice in matters of nicest moment—always secure of deriving from her both aid and solace. Her manner was easy, almost homely, so quiet, unaffected, and perfectly unpretending was it. Beneath the sparing talk and retiring carriage few casual observers would have suspected the ample information and large intelligence that lay comprised there. She was oftener a listener than a speaker. In the modest-'havioured woman simply sitting there, taking small share in general conversation, few, who did not know her, would have imagined the accomplished classical scholar, the excellent understanding, the altogether rarely-gifted being, moral and mental, that Mary Lamb was. Her apparel was always of the plainest kind—a black stuff or silk gown, made and worn in the simplest fashion conceivable. She took snuff liberally—a habit that had evidently grown out of her propensity to sympathise with and share her brother's tastes; and it certainly had the effect of enhancing her likeness to him. She had a small, white, and delicately-formed hand; and as it hovered above the tortoiseshell box containing the powder so strongly approved by them both, in search of a stimulating pinch, the act seemed yet another link of association between the brother and sister when hanging together over their favourite books and studies."
"Miss Lamb bore a strong personal resemblance to her brother, being in stature under middle height, possessing well-cut features, and a countenance of singular sweetness, with intelligence. Her brown eyes were soft, yet penetrating, her nose and mouth very shapely; while the general expression was mildness itself. She had a speaking voice, gentle and persuasive; and her smile was her brother's own—winning in the extreme. There was a certain catch, or emotional breathingness, in her utterance, which gave an inexpressible charm to her reading of poetry, and which lent a captivating earnestness to her mode of speech when addressing those she liked. This slight check, with its yearning, eager effect in her voice, had something softendly akin to her brother Charles's impediment of articulation; in him it scarcely amounted to a stammer; in her it merely imparted additional stress to the fine-sensed suggestions she made to those whom she counselled or consoled. She had a mind at once nobly toned and practical, making her ever a chosen source of confidence among her friends, who turned to her for consultation, confirmation, and advice in matters of nicest moment—always secure of deriving from her both aid and solace. Her manner was easy, almost homely, so quiet, unaffected, and perfectly unpretending was it. Beneath the sparing talk and retiring carriage few casual observers would have suspected the ample information and large intelligence that lay comprised there. She was oftener a listener than a speaker. In the modest-'havioured woman simply sitting there, taking small share in general conversation, few, who did not know her, would have imagined the accomplished classical scholar, the excellent understanding, the altogether rarely-gifted being, moral and mental, that Mary Lamb was. Her apparel was always of the plainest kind—a black stuff or silk gown, made and worn in the simplest fashion conceivable. She took snuff liberally—a habit that had evidently grown out of her propensity to sympathise with and share her brother's tastes; and it certainly had the effect of enhancing her likeness to him. She had a small, white, and delicately-formed hand; and as it hovered above the tortoiseshell box containing the powder so strongly approved by them both, in search of a stimulating pinch, the act seemed yet another link of association between the brother and sister when hanging together over their favourite books and studies."
During all the time of periodic distress both Charles and Mary Lamb were, from time to time, engaged in literary work. In the quiet home, the most liable among tens of thousands to be at any moment the scene of heartrending upheaval, we should not have looked for some of the best work of the age. But such was the case. In the most devoted brother of the century we have, at the same time, the quaintest humourist and one of the most subtle critics. And in Mary herself we have a striking instance of scholastic training being supplemented by home study and wide reading, until she became an accomplished scholar and a fit companion to her greater brother. Probably, her love for him was the great moving cause of Mary's culture. Her own contributions to literature were of no slight value and interest. Of the twenty ever-favourite "Tales from Shakespeare," fourteen were written by Mary, the six tragedies being the production of Charles. The tales are written with the felicity of style peculiar to the Lambs, and form a suitable introduction, especially for young people, to the works of the great dramatist. In a letter by Mary, referring to this joint production, she says: "Charles has written 'Macbeth,' 'Othello,' 'King Lear,' and has begun 'Hamlet.' You would like to see us, as we often sit writing on one table (but not on one cushion, sitting like Hermia and Helena in theMidsummer Night's Dream), or, rather, like an old literary Darby and Joan—I taking snuff, and he groaning all the while, and saying he can make nothing of it, which he always says till he has finished, and then he finds out that he has made something of it." Mary also wrote a series of entertaining stories for children under the title of "Mrs. Leicester's School." Nor did she confine herself to prose. She was the author of several of the pieces in "Poetry for Children," published in the names of her brother and herself. It is not certain which of the poems are hers. Apart from authentic information, of which there is none, opinion is speculative. Charles stated that his own was about one-third of the whole.
Mary was to her friends a generous correspondent. Her letters show the same ease and gracefulness of style as the "Tales," and are very pleasant reading. As a sample one may be given, written to Dorothy Wordsworth, shortly after the loss of her brother, Captain Wordsworth, in theAbergavenny. This gives us a glimpse of the writer's sympathetic heart and rare sensibility—
"I thank you, my kind friend, for your most comfortable letter; till I saw your own handwriting I could not persuade myself that I should do well to write to you, though I have often attempted it; but I always left off dissatisfied with what I had written, and feeling that I was doing an improper thing to intrude upon your sorrow. I wished to tell you that you would one day feel the kind of peaceful state of mind and sweet memory of the dead which you so happily describe as now almost beginning; but I felt that it was improper and most grating to the feelings of the afflicted to say to them that the memory of their affliction would in time become a constant part, not only of their dream, but of their most wakeful sense of happiness. That you would see every object with and through your lost brother, and that that would at last become a real and everlasting source of comfort to you, I felt and well knew, from my own experience in sorrow; but till you yourself began to feel this I did not dare tell you so; but I send you some poor lines which I wrote under this conviction of mind, and before I heard Coleridge was returning home. I will transcribe them now, before I finish my letter, lest a false shame prevent me then, for I know they are much worse than they ought to be, written as they were with strong feeling, and on such a subject; every line seems to me to be borrowed; but I had no better way of expressing my thoughts, and I never have the power of altering or amending anything I have once laid aside with dissatisfaction:—"Why is he wandering on the sea?Coleridge should now with Wordsworth be.By slow degrees he'd steal awayTheir woe, and gently bring a ray(So happily he'd time relief)Of comfort from their very grief.He'd tell them that their brother, dead,When years have passèd o'er their head,Will be remembered with such holy,True, and perfect melancholy,That ever this lost brother JohnWill be their heart's companion.His voice they'll always hear,His face they'll always see,There's naught in life so sweetAs such a memory."
"I thank you, my kind friend, for your most comfortable letter; till I saw your own handwriting I could not persuade myself that I should do well to write to you, though I have often attempted it; but I always left off dissatisfied with what I had written, and feeling that I was doing an improper thing to intrude upon your sorrow. I wished to tell you that you would one day feel the kind of peaceful state of mind and sweet memory of the dead which you so happily describe as now almost beginning; but I felt that it was improper and most grating to the feelings of the afflicted to say to them that the memory of their affliction would in time become a constant part, not only of their dream, but of their most wakeful sense of happiness. That you would see every object with and through your lost brother, and that that would at last become a real and everlasting source of comfort to you, I felt and well knew, from my own experience in sorrow; but till you yourself began to feel this I did not dare tell you so; but I send you some poor lines which I wrote under this conviction of mind, and before I heard Coleridge was returning home. I will transcribe them now, before I finish my letter, lest a false shame prevent me then, for I know they are much worse than they ought to be, written as they were with strong feeling, and on such a subject; every line seems to me to be borrowed; but I had no better way of expressing my thoughts, and I never have the power of altering or amending anything I have once laid aside with dissatisfaction:—
"Why is he wandering on the sea?Coleridge should now with Wordsworth be.By slow degrees he'd steal awayTheir woe, and gently bring a ray(So happily he'd time relief)Of comfort from their very grief.He'd tell them that their brother, dead,When years have passèd o'er their head,Will be remembered with such holy,True, and perfect melancholy,That ever this lost brother JohnWill be their heart's companion.His voice they'll always hear,His face they'll always see,There's naught in life so sweetAs such a memory."
"Why is he wandering on the sea?Coleridge should now with Wordsworth be.By slow degrees he'd steal awayTheir woe, and gently bring a ray(So happily he'd time relief)Of comfort from their very grief.He'd tell them that their brother, dead,When years have passèd o'er their head,Will be remembered with such holy,True, and perfect melancholy,That ever this lost brother JohnWill be their heart's companion.His voice they'll always hear,His face they'll always see,There's naught in life so sweetAs such a memory."
"Why is he wandering on the sea?Coleridge should now with Wordsworth be.By slow degrees he'd steal awayTheir woe, and gently bring a ray(So happily he'd time relief)Of comfort from their very grief.He'd tell them that their brother, dead,When years have passèd o'er their head,Will be remembered with such holy,True, and perfect melancholy,That ever this lost brother JohnWill be their heart's companion.His voice they'll always hear,His face they'll always see,There's naught in life so sweetAs such a memory."
"Why is he wandering on the sea?
Coleridge should now with Wordsworth be.
By slow degrees he'd steal away
Their woe, and gently bring a ray
(So happily he'd time relief)
Of comfort from their very grief.
He'd tell them that their brother, dead,
When years have passèd o'er their head,
Will be remembered with such holy,
True, and perfect melancholy,
That ever this lost brother John
Will be their heart's companion.
His voice they'll always hear,
His face they'll always see,
There's naught in life so sweet
As such a memory."
When Miss Wordsworth's reply to this consoling letter arrived, it devolved upon Charles to answer it for the sad reason stated. He writes (June 14, 1805):—"Your long, kind letter has not been thrown away, for it has given me great pleasure to find you are all resuming your old occupations and are better; but poor Mary, to whom it is addressed, cannot yet relish it. She has been attacked with one of her severe illnesses and is at present from home. Last Monday week was the day she left me, and I hope I may calculate upon having her again in a month or little more. I am rather afraid late hours have, in this case, contributed to her indisposition…. I have every reason to suppose that this illness, like all the former ones, will be but temporary; but I cannot always feel so. In the meantime she is dead to me, and I miss a prop. All my strength is gone, and I am like a fool bereft of her co-operation. I dare not think, lest I should think wrong, so used am I to look up to her in the least as in the biggest perplexity. To say all I know of her would be more than I think anybody could believe or even understand; and when I hope to have her well again with me, it would be sinning against her feelings to go about to praise her, for I can conceal nothing that I do from her. She is older and wiser and better than I, and all my wretched imperfections I cover to myself by resolutely thinking of her goodness. She would share life and death, heaven and hell with me. She lives but for me, and I know I have been wasting and teasing her life for five years past incessantly with my cursed drinking and ways of going on. But even in this upbraiding of myself I am offending against her, for I know that she has clung to me for better for worse; and if the balance has been against her hitherto it was a noble trade…."
The death of Coleridge, in 1834, was a great bereavement to the Lambs. Charles seems to have lived under a constant sense of personal loss. In six months he followed his friend to the unseen world. The fond desire of the brother and sister that she should die first was thus unfulfilled; but she was becoming more and more cut off from the realities of life, and probably hardly ever realised the bitterness of the separation. Wordsworth wrote a poem to the memory of Lamb containing feeling allusions to Mary. In reference to it he said: "Were I to give way to my own feelings, I should dwell not only on her genius and intellectual powers, but upon the delicacy and refinement of manner which she maintained inviolable under most trying circumstances. She was loved and honoured by all her brother's friends; and others, some of them strange characters, whom his philanthropic peculiarities induced him to countenance."
Thou wert a scorner of the fields, my friend,But more in show than truth; and from the fields,And from the mountains, to thy rural graveTransported, my soothed spirit hovers o'erIts green, untrodden turf, and blowing flowers;And taking up a voice shall speak (though stillAwed by the theme's peculiar sanctityWhich words less free presumed not even to touch)Of that fraternal love, whose heaven-lit lampFrom infancy, through manhood, to the lastOf threescore years, and to thy latest hour,Burnt on with ever-strengthening light, enshrinedWithin thy bosom."Wonderful" hath beenThe love established between man and man,"Passing the love of women;" and betweenMan and his helpmate in fast wedlock joinedThrough God, is raised a spirit and soul of loveWithout whose blissful influence ParadiseHad been no Paradise; and earth were nowA waste where creatures bearing human form,Direst of savage beasts would roam in fear,Joyless and comfortless. Our days glide on;And let him grieve who cannot choose but grieveThat he hath been an elm without his vine,And her bright dower of clustering charities,That, round his trunk and branches, might have clungEnriching and adorning. Unto thee,Not so enriched, not so adorned, to theeWas given (say rather, thou of later birth,Wert given to her) a sister—'tis a wordTimidly uttered, for she lives, the meek,The self-restraining, and the ever kind;In whom thy reason and intelligent heartFound, for all interests, hopes, and tender cares,All softening, humanising, hallowing powers,Whether withheld, or for her sake unsought—More than sufficient recompense!Her love(What weakness prompts the voice to tell it here?)Was as the love of mothers; and when years,Lifting the boy to man's estate, had calledThe long-protected to assume the partOf a protector, the first filial tieWas undissolved; and, in or out of sight,Remained imperishably interwovenWith life itself.
Thou wert a scorner of the fields, my friend,But more in show than truth; and from the fields,And from the mountains, to thy rural graveTransported, my soothed spirit hovers o'erIts green, untrodden turf, and blowing flowers;And taking up a voice shall speak (though stillAwed by the theme's peculiar sanctityWhich words less free presumed not even to touch)Of that fraternal love, whose heaven-lit lampFrom infancy, through manhood, to the lastOf threescore years, and to thy latest hour,Burnt on with ever-strengthening light, enshrinedWithin thy bosom."Wonderful" hath beenThe love established between man and man,"Passing the love of women;" and betweenMan and his helpmate in fast wedlock joinedThrough God, is raised a spirit and soul of loveWithout whose blissful influence ParadiseHad been no Paradise; and earth were nowA waste where creatures bearing human form,Direst of savage beasts would roam in fear,Joyless and comfortless. Our days glide on;And let him grieve who cannot choose but grieveThat he hath been an elm without his vine,And her bright dower of clustering charities,That, round his trunk and branches, might have clungEnriching and adorning. Unto thee,Not so enriched, not so adorned, to theeWas given (say rather, thou of later birth,Wert given to her) a sister—'tis a wordTimidly uttered, for she lives, the meek,The self-restraining, and the ever kind;In whom thy reason and intelligent heartFound, for all interests, hopes, and tender cares,All softening, humanising, hallowing powers,Whether withheld, or for her sake unsought—More than sufficient recompense!Her love(What weakness prompts the voice to tell it here?)Was as the love of mothers; and when years,Lifting the boy to man's estate, had calledThe long-protected to assume the partOf a protector, the first filial tieWas undissolved; and, in or out of sight,Remained imperishably interwovenWith life itself.
Thou wert a scorner of the fields, my friend,But more in show than truth; and from the fields,And from the mountains, to thy rural graveTransported, my soothed spirit hovers o'erIts green, untrodden turf, and blowing flowers;And taking up a voice shall speak (though stillAwed by the theme's peculiar sanctityWhich words less free presumed not even to touch)Of that fraternal love, whose heaven-lit lampFrom infancy, through manhood, to the lastOf threescore years, and to thy latest hour,Burnt on with ever-strengthening light, enshrinedWithin thy bosom.
Thou wert a scorner of the fields, my friend,
But more in show than truth; and from the fields,
And from the mountains, to thy rural grave
Transported, my soothed spirit hovers o'er
Its green, untrodden turf, and blowing flowers;
And taking up a voice shall speak (though still
Awed by the theme's peculiar sanctity
Which words less free presumed not even to touch)
Of that fraternal love, whose heaven-lit lamp
From infancy, through manhood, to the last
Of threescore years, and to thy latest hour,
Burnt on with ever-strengthening light, enshrined
Within thy bosom.
"Wonderful" hath beenThe love established between man and man,"Passing the love of women;" and betweenMan and his helpmate in fast wedlock joinedThrough God, is raised a spirit and soul of loveWithout whose blissful influence ParadiseHad been no Paradise; and earth were nowA waste where creatures bearing human form,Direst of savage beasts would roam in fear,Joyless and comfortless. Our days glide on;And let him grieve who cannot choose but grieveThat he hath been an elm without his vine,And her bright dower of clustering charities,That, round his trunk and branches, might have clungEnriching and adorning. Unto thee,Not so enriched, not so adorned, to theeWas given (say rather, thou of later birth,Wert given to her) a sister—'tis a wordTimidly uttered, for she lives, the meek,The self-restraining, and the ever kind;In whom thy reason and intelligent heartFound, for all interests, hopes, and tender cares,All softening, humanising, hallowing powers,Whether withheld, or for her sake unsought—More than sufficient recompense!
"Wonderful" hath been
The love established between man and man,
"Passing the love of women;" and between
Man and his helpmate in fast wedlock joined
Through God, is raised a spirit and soul of love
Without whose blissful influence Paradise
Had been no Paradise; and earth were now
A waste where creatures bearing human form,
Direst of savage beasts would roam in fear,
Joyless and comfortless. Our days glide on;
And let him grieve who cannot choose but grieve
That he hath been an elm without his vine,
And her bright dower of clustering charities,
That, round his trunk and branches, might have clung
Enriching and adorning. Unto thee,
Not so enriched, not so adorned, to thee
Was given (say rather, thou of later birth,
Wert given to her) a sister—'tis a word
Timidly uttered, for she lives, the meek,
The self-restraining, and the ever kind;
In whom thy reason and intelligent heart
Found, for all interests, hopes, and tender cares,
All softening, humanising, hallowing powers,
Whether withheld, or for her sake unsought—
More than sufficient recompense!
Her love(What weakness prompts the voice to tell it here?)Was as the love of mothers; and when years,Lifting the boy to man's estate, had calledThe long-protected to assume the partOf a protector, the first filial tieWas undissolved; and, in or out of sight,Remained imperishably interwovenWith life itself.
Her love
(What weakness prompts the voice to tell it here?)
Was as the love of mothers; and when years,
Lifting the boy to man's estate, had called
The long-protected to assume the part
Of a protector, the first filial tie
Was undissolved; and, in or out of sight,
Remained imperishably interwoven
With life itself.
O gift divine of quiet sequestration!The hermit exercised in prayer and praise,And feeding daily on the hope of heaven,Is happy in his vow, and fondly cleavesTo life-long singleness; but happier farWas to your souls, and, to the thoughts of others,A thousand times more beautiful appeared,Your dual loneliness. The sacred tieIs broken; yet, why grieve? for Time but holdsHis moiety in trust, till Joy shall leadTo the blest world where parting is unknown.
O gift divine of quiet sequestration!The hermit exercised in prayer and praise,And feeding daily on the hope of heaven,Is happy in his vow, and fondly cleavesTo life-long singleness; but happier farWas to your souls, and, to the thoughts of others,A thousand times more beautiful appeared,Your dual loneliness. The sacred tieIs broken; yet, why grieve? for Time but holdsHis moiety in trust, till Joy shall leadTo the blest world where parting is unknown.
O gift divine of quiet sequestration!The hermit exercised in prayer and praise,And feeding daily on the hope of heaven,Is happy in his vow, and fondly cleavesTo life-long singleness; but happier farWas to your souls, and, to the thoughts of others,A thousand times more beautiful appeared,Your dual loneliness. The sacred tieIs broken; yet, why grieve? for Time but holdsHis moiety in trust, till Joy shall leadTo the blest world where parting is unknown.
O gift divine of quiet sequestration!
The hermit exercised in prayer and praise,
And feeding daily on the hope of heaven,
Is happy in his vow, and fondly cleaves
To life-long singleness; but happier far
Was to your souls, and, to the thoughts of others,
A thousand times more beautiful appeared,
Your dual loneliness. The sacred tie
Is broken; yet, why grieve? for Time but holds
His moiety in trust, till Joy shall lead
To the blest world where parting is unknown.
Mary survived her brother for thirteen years, being lovingly cared for in the twilight of her life by sympathising friends. She died in May, 1847; and they now rest in the same grave in Edmonton churchyard.
Readers of Whittier, the now venerable and famous American poet, will remember fond allusions to his favourite sister Elizabeth, who during her life was a bright and stimulating member of the poet's earlier and later home. The day has not yet come when we can learn much of her happy influence upon him. She was pre-eminently her brother's sister, and of her character as such we cannot now know much. She was also herself a poet, and several of her pieces have been published. A few particulars of her life cannot be uninteresting.
She was born on December 7, 1815, the younger sister of the poet, being the fourth and last child of their father, John Whittier. Elizabeth derived her second name from the family of her mother, whose maiden name was Abigail Hussey, and who was of English descent. The Whittiers had for some generations lived in a house built by one of the ancestors of the family at Haverill, and had been prominent members of the Society of Friends.
The young Whittiers were happy in their parenthood, as well as in their early surroundings. Their father was an honest, upright, sturdy yeoman, to whom a mean and cowardly action was unknown, while their mother was gifted with the natural refinement of thought and manner distinguishing the possession of a gentle heart.
Passages in Whittier's "Snowbound" are pleasantly descriptive of his early home and its members. Of his mother he writes:—
Our mother, while she turned her wheel,Or run the new-knit stocking heel,Told how the Indian hordes came downAt midnight on Cochico town.Then haply, with a look more grave,And soberer tone, some tale she gaveFrom painful Sewall's ancient tome,Beloved in every Quaker home,And faith fire-winged by martyrdom.
Our mother, while she turned her wheel,Or run the new-knit stocking heel,Told how the Indian hordes came downAt midnight on Cochico town.Then haply, with a look more grave,And soberer tone, some tale she gaveFrom painful Sewall's ancient tome,Beloved in every Quaker home,And faith fire-winged by martyrdom.
Our mother, while she turned her wheel,Or run the new-knit stocking heel,Told how the Indian hordes came downAt midnight on Cochico town.Then haply, with a look more grave,And soberer tone, some tale she gaveFrom painful Sewall's ancient tome,Beloved in every Quaker home,And faith fire-winged by martyrdom.
Our mother, while she turned her wheel,
Or run the new-knit stocking heel,
Told how the Indian hordes came down
At midnight on Cochico town.
Then haply, with a look more grave,
And soberer tone, some tale she gave
From painful Sewall's ancient tome,
Beloved in every Quaker home,
And faith fire-winged by martyrdom.
Of his sister Mary he says:—
There, too, our elder sister pliedHer evening task the stand beside;A full, rich, nature, free to trust,Truthful and almost sternly just,Impulsive, earnest, prompt to act,And make her generous thought a fact,Keeping with many a light disguise,The secret of self-sacrifice.
There, too, our elder sister pliedHer evening task the stand beside;A full, rich, nature, free to trust,Truthful and almost sternly just,Impulsive, earnest, prompt to act,And make her generous thought a fact,Keeping with many a light disguise,The secret of self-sacrifice.
There, too, our elder sister pliedHer evening task the stand beside;A full, rich, nature, free to trust,Truthful and almost sternly just,Impulsive, earnest, prompt to act,And make her generous thought a fact,Keeping with many a light disguise,The secret of self-sacrifice.
There, too, our elder sister plied
Her evening task the stand beside;
A full, rich, nature, free to trust,
Truthful and almost sternly just,
Impulsive, earnest, prompt to act,
And make her generous thought a fact,
Keeping with many a light disguise,
The secret of self-sacrifice.
And thus of Elizabeth:—
As one who held herself a partOf all she saw, and let her heartAgainst the household bosom lean,Upon the motley braided matOur youngest and our dearest sat,Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes.
As one who held herself a partOf all she saw, and let her heartAgainst the household bosom lean,Upon the motley braided matOur youngest and our dearest sat,Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes.
As one who held herself a partOf all she saw, and let her heartAgainst the household bosom lean,Upon the motley braided matOur youngest and our dearest sat,Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes.
As one who held herself a part
Of all she saw, and let her heart
Against the household bosom lean,
Upon the motley braided mat
Our youngest and our dearest sat,
Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes.
When Elizabeth was born, John, the future poet, was just eight years old, and attending his first school. Years wore on, and the boy's occupation alternated between school, household duties, and work on his father's farm. Meanwhile his little sister was, from the exemplary household gathered under her father's roof, and the sweet influences of a happy home, receiving the impressions and learning the precious lessons which can only be gathered during the earliest years, and through which the little human child becomes the sweetest thing in life.
Whilst Elizabeth was still a child a leading incident in the boy's life took place. His old schoolmaster, on paying a visit to his father's house, brought a copy of the poems of Burns, from which he recited certain pieces, greatly to the delight of John, who borrowed the book. He adds:—"This was about the first poetry I had ever read (with the exception of that of the Bible, of which I had been a close student), and it had a lasting influence upon me. I began to make rhymes myself, and to imagine stories and adventures." So we find the boy of fourteen beginning to write his first poems, which, under the encouragement of his elder sister Mary, he continued to do for some years, when he began to send anonymous contributions from his pen to the local newspaper. He was only a country youth, working in his father's fields; but by thoughtful sympathy Nature had become glorified for him, and life was soon to be sanctified. Notice was taken of his poetical productions, he was stimulated to greater exertion, and through his own industry obtained the means of attending the Haverhill Academy for a short period when in his twentieth year. The next few years of the future poet's life were spent between his own schooling, teaching others, helping on the farm, and editing and contributing to country newspapers.
But if it were the elder sister who encouraged Whittier in his earliest poetic efforts, it was Elizabeth who became more and more, with her growing years, his "heart's companion," his imitator, hisalter ego. We learn from one of his letters during a visit which he paid to his home in 1831, that Elizabeth, then a girl of fifteen summers, had herself begun to write verses. The following are the opening lines of a description by her of "Autumn Sunset":—
O, there is beauty in the sky—a widening of goldUpon each light and breezy cloud, and on each vapoury fold!The Autumn wind has died away, and the air has not a sound,Save the sighing of the withered leaves as they fall upon the ground.
O, there is beauty in the sky—a widening of goldUpon each light and breezy cloud, and on each vapoury fold!The Autumn wind has died away, and the air has not a sound,Save the sighing of the withered leaves as they fall upon the ground.
O, there is beauty in the sky—a widening of goldUpon each light and breezy cloud, and on each vapoury fold!The Autumn wind has died away, and the air has not a sound,Save the sighing of the withered leaves as they fall upon the ground.
O, there is beauty in the sky—a widening of gold
Upon each light and breezy cloud, and on each vapoury fold!
The Autumn wind has died away, and the air has not a sound,
Save the sighing of the withered leaves as they fall upon the ground.
During this visit to his home Whittier's father died. This circumstance probably influenced him in his decision to resign his position as editor ofThe New England Weekly Review, that he might return to his mother and sisters.
One pleasing glimpse we catch of Elizabeth in her twentieth year. Sharing her brother's anti-slavery sympathies, she was occasionally called to share the dangers which at that time beset those who had the courage to espouse the cause of the oppressed. In 1835, when Whittier was the corresponding secretary of the Anti-slavery Society of Haverhill, a lecture on slavery having been announced was interfered with by the mob, who terrified the audience by a disgraceful attack upon the building where the lecture was being delivered. The meeting was broken up in confusion, and it was in part owing to the bravery of Miss Whittier that the lecturer escaped in safety, she, along with another young lady, undertaking to escort the lecturer, pushing their way through the threatening mob. On another occasion, when attending a meeting of the Female Anti-slavery Society at Boston, Elizabeth was herself in considerable danger of rough usage at the hands of her infuriated opponents. She did not by any means lead a public life, but was, on the contrary, of a retiring and gentle nature, and it was only the cruel wrongs of the oppressed that roused her sympathies and led her to active endeavours on their behalf.
In the year 1840 the farm at Haverhill passed out of the family, and they removed to Amesbury. It then consisted of four members only—the poet and his mother, aunt, and sister Elizabeth.
Thenceforth, until her death, she was her brother's close companion. The playmate of his childhood became the adviser of his riper years, the sharer of his sympathies, hopes, and aims. Happy lives are generally uneventful, except, indeed, in what constitutes their best portion—the pleasant intercourse, the loving ministries which go to make life so truly worth living.
With such inmates we are sure that the poet's home at Amesbury was supremely blessed—that the years passed gently and time touched kindly. But the happy circle gradually thinned. A few years after settling at Amesbury the cherished aunt died; some years later—in 1857—the mother. From thenceforth until her own death in 1864, Elizabeth seems to have been her brother's sole companion.
When Whittier's sister died her memory lived. The empty home seems to have carried back his mind to his earlier home in the quiet valley where his sister shared his woodland rambles, and where the icy grasp of winter imprisoned the complete family round the glowing hearth. It was in the year following his sister's death Whittier wrote the poem before referred to, "Snowbound," which is at once fondly reminiscent of bygone days and touched with a tender memory of his latest loss. He says:—
As one who held herself a partOf what she saw, and let her heartAgainst the household bosom lean,Upon the motley-braided matOur youngest and our dearest sat,Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes,Now bathed within the fadeless greenAnd holy peace, of Paradise.Oh, looking from some heavenly hill,Or from the shade of saintly palms,Or silver reach of river calms,Do those large eyes behold me still?With me one little year ago—The chill weight of the winter snowFor months upon her grave has lain:And now, when summer south winds blowAnd brier and harebell bloom again,I tread the pleasant paths we trod,I see the violet-sprinkled sodWhereon she leaned, too frail and weakThe hillside flowers she loved to seek,Yet following me where'er I wentWith dark eyes full of love's content.The birds are glad; the brier-rose fillsThe air with sweetness; all the hillsStretch green to June's unclouded sky;But still I wait with ear and eyeFor something gone which should be nigh,A loss in all familiar things,In flower that blooms, and bird that sings.And yet, dear heart, remembering thee,Am I not richer than of old?Safe in thy immortality,What change can reach the wealth I hold?What chance can mar the pearl and goldThy love hath left in trust for me?And while in life's late afternoon,Where cool and long the shadows grow,I walk to meet the night that soonShall shape and shadow overflow,I cannot feel that thou art far,Since near at need the angels are;And when the sunset gates unbar,Shall I not see thee waiting stand,And, white against the evening star,The welcome of thy beckoning hand?
As one who held herself a partOf what she saw, and let her heartAgainst the household bosom lean,Upon the motley-braided matOur youngest and our dearest sat,Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes,Now bathed within the fadeless greenAnd holy peace, of Paradise.Oh, looking from some heavenly hill,Or from the shade of saintly palms,Or silver reach of river calms,Do those large eyes behold me still?With me one little year ago—The chill weight of the winter snowFor months upon her grave has lain:And now, when summer south winds blowAnd brier and harebell bloom again,I tread the pleasant paths we trod,I see the violet-sprinkled sodWhereon she leaned, too frail and weakThe hillside flowers she loved to seek,Yet following me where'er I wentWith dark eyes full of love's content.The birds are glad; the brier-rose fillsThe air with sweetness; all the hillsStretch green to June's unclouded sky;But still I wait with ear and eyeFor something gone which should be nigh,A loss in all familiar things,In flower that blooms, and bird that sings.And yet, dear heart, remembering thee,Am I not richer than of old?Safe in thy immortality,What change can reach the wealth I hold?What chance can mar the pearl and goldThy love hath left in trust for me?And while in life's late afternoon,Where cool and long the shadows grow,I walk to meet the night that soonShall shape and shadow overflow,I cannot feel that thou art far,Since near at need the angels are;And when the sunset gates unbar,Shall I not see thee waiting stand,And, white against the evening star,The welcome of thy beckoning hand?
As one who held herself a partOf what she saw, and let her heartAgainst the household bosom lean,Upon the motley-braided matOur youngest and our dearest sat,Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes,Now bathed within the fadeless greenAnd holy peace, of Paradise.Oh, looking from some heavenly hill,Or from the shade of saintly palms,Or silver reach of river calms,Do those large eyes behold me still?With me one little year ago—The chill weight of the winter snowFor months upon her grave has lain:And now, when summer south winds blowAnd brier and harebell bloom again,I tread the pleasant paths we trod,I see the violet-sprinkled sodWhereon she leaned, too frail and weakThe hillside flowers she loved to seek,Yet following me where'er I wentWith dark eyes full of love's content.The birds are glad; the brier-rose fillsThe air with sweetness; all the hillsStretch green to June's unclouded sky;But still I wait with ear and eyeFor something gone which should be nigh,A loss in all familiar things,In flower that blooms, and bird that sings.And yet, dear heart, remembering thee,Am I not richer than of old?Safe in thy immortality,What change can reach the wealth I hold?What chance can mar the pearl and goldThy love hath left in trust for me?And while in life's late afternoon,Where cool and long the shadows grow,I walk to meet the night that soonShall shape and shadow overflow,I cannot feel that thou art far,Since near at need the angels are;And when the sunset gates unbar,Shall I not see thee waiting stand,And, white against the evening star,The welcome of thy beckoning hand?
As one who held herself a part
Of what she saw, and let her heart
Against the household bosom lean,
Upon the motley-braided mat
Our youngest and our dearest sat,
Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes,
Now bathed within the fadeless green
And holy peace, of Paradise.
Oh, looking from some heavenly hill,
Or from the shade of saintly palms,
Or silver reach of river calms,
Do those large eyes behold me still?
With me one little year ago—
The chill weight of the winter snow
For months upon her grave has lain:
And now, when summer south winds blow
And brier and harebell bloom again,
I tread the pleasant paths we trod,
I see the violet-sprinkled sod
Whereon she leaned, too frail and weak
The hillside flowers she loved to seek,
Yet following me where'er I went
With dark eyes full of love's content.
The birds are glad; the brier-rose fills
The air with sweetness; all the hills
Stretch green to June's unclouded sky;
But still I wait with ear and eye
For something gone which should be nigh,
A loss in all familiar things,
In flower that blooms, and bird that sings.
And yet, dear heart, remembering thee,
Am I not richer than of old?
Safe in thy immortality,
What change can reach the wealth I hold?
What chance can mar the pearl and gold
Thy love hath left in trust for me?
And while in life's late afternoon,
Where cool and long the shadows grow,
I walk to meet the night that soon
Shall shape and shadow overflow,
I cannot feel that thou art far,
Since near at need the angels are;
And when the sunset gates unbar,
Shall I not see thee waiting stand,
And, white against the evening star,
The welcome of thy beckoning hand?
But Miss Whittier's influence did not cease with her death. How much her brother missed her no one will ever know. He had been accustomed to consult her, and to value her opinion. In his next published poem, "The Tent on the Beach," he refers regretfully to the
Memory of one who might have tuned my songTo sweeter music by her delicate ear.
Memory of one who might have tuned my songTo sweeter music by her delicate ear.
Memory of one who might have tuned my songTo sweeter music by her delicate ear.
Memory of one who might have tuned my song
To sweeter music by her delicate ear.
But the sister's influence was felt not only in the sweet sadness which such a memory casts over a life. As a poet Whittier was enabled to proceed to still greater heights. Her loss did not check his zeal or stay his pen, but only softened and toned his utterance by the mellowing and purifying influence of tender recollection.
In 1875, when Whittier published his "Hazel Blossoms," he was induced to include in the volume several of the poems of his sister. The poems are "The Dream of Argyle," "Dr. Kane in Cuba," "The Wedding Veil," "The Meeting Waters," "Charity," "Lines written on the Departure of Joseph Sturge after his Visit to the Abolitionists of the United States," and "Lady Franklin." In a note Whittier says: "I have ventured, in compliance with the desire of dear friends of my beloved sister Elizabeth H. Whittier, to add to this little volume the few poetical pieces which she left behind her. As she was very distrustful of her powers, and altogether without ambition for literary distinction, she shunned everything like publicity, and found far greater happiness in generous appreciation of the gifts of her friends than in the gratification of her own. Yet it has always seemed to me that had her health, sense of duty and fitness, and her extreme self-distrust permitted, she might have taken high place among lyrical singers. These poems, with perhaps two or three exceptions, afford but slight indications of the life of the writer, who had an almost morbid dread of spiritual and literary egotism, or of her tenderness of sympathy, chastened mirthfulness, and pleasant play of thought and fancy, when her shy, beautiful soul opened like the flower in the warmth of social communion. In the lines on Dr. Kane her friends will see something of her fine individuality—the rare mingling of delicacy and intensity of feeling which made her dear to them. This little poem reached Cuba while the great explorer lay on his death-bed, and we are told that he listened with grateful tears while it was read to him by his mother.
"I am tempted to say more, but I write as under the eye of her who, while with us, shrank with painful deprecation from the praise or mention of performances which seemed so far below her ideal of excellence."
"I am tempted to say more, but I write as under the eye of her who, while with us, shrank with painful deprecation from the praise or mention of performances which seemed so far below her ideal of excellence."
As this little poem, "Dr. Kane in Cuba," is rendered doubly interesting by the above-mentioned pathetic incident, it is given along with the one which follows in illustration of Miss Whittier's writing:—
Dr. Kane in Cuba.
A noble life is in thy care,A sacred trust to thee is given;Bright island! Let the healing airBe to him as the breath of heaven.The marvel of his daring life—The self-forgetting leader bold—Stirs, like the trumpet's call to strife,A million hearts of meaner mould.Eyes that shall never meet his ownLook dim with tears across the sea,Where from the dark and icy zone,Sweet isle of flowers! he comes to thee.Fold him in rest, O pitying clime!Give back his wasted strength again;Soothe with thy endless summer time,His winter-wearied heart and brain.Sing soft and low, thou tropic bird,From out the fragrant, flowery tree,The ear that hears thee now has heardThe ice-break of the winter sea.Through his long watch of awful night,He saw the Bear in Northern skies;Now to the Southern Cross of lightHe lifts in hope his weary eyes.Prayers from the hearts that watched in fear,When the dark North no answer gave,Rise, trembling, to the Father's ear,That still His love may help and save.
A noble life is in thy care,A sacred trust to thee is given;Bright island! Let the healing airBe to him as the breath of heaven.The marvel of his daring life—The self-forgetting leader bold—Stirs, like the trumpet's call to strife,A million hearts of meaner mould.Eyes that shall never meet his ownLook dim with tears across the sea,Where from the dark and icy zone,Sweet isle of flowers! he comes to thee.Fold him in rest, O pitying clime!Give back his wasted strength again;Soothe with thy endless summer time,His winter-wearied heart and brain.Sing soft and low, thou tropic bird,From out the fragrant, flowery tree,The ear that hears thee now has heardThe ice-break of the winter sea.Through his long watch of awful night,He saw the Bear in Northern skies;Now to the Southern Cross of lightHe lifts in hope his weary eyes.Prayers from the hearts that watched in fear,When the dark North no answer gave,Rise, trembling, to the Father's ear,That still His love may help and save.
A noble life is in thy care,A sacred trust to thee is given;Bright island! Let the healing airBe to him as the breath of heaven.
A noble life is in thy care,
A sacred trust to thee is given;
Bright island! Let the healing air
Be to him as the breath of heaven.
The marvel of his daring life—The self-forgetting leader bold—Stirs, like the trumpet's call to strife,A million hearts of meaner mould.
The marvel of his daring life—
The self-forgetting leader bold—
Stirs, like the trumpet's call to strife,
A million hearts of meaner mould.
Eyes that shall never meet his ownLook dim with tears across the sea,Where from the dark and icy zone,Sweet isle of flowers! he comes to thee.
Eyes that shall never meet his own
Look dim with tears across the sea,
Where from the dark and icy zone,
Sweet isle of flowers! he comes to thee.
Fold him in rest, O pitying clime!Give back his wasted strength again;Soothe with thy endless summer time,His winter-wearied heart and brain.
Fold him in rest, O pitying clime!
Give back his wasted strength again;
Soothe with thy endless summer time,
His winter-wearied heart and brain.
Sing soft and low, thou tropic bird,From out the fragrant, flowery tree,The ear that hears thee now has heardThe ice-break of the winter sea.
Sing soft and low, thou tropic bird,
From out the fragrant, flowery tree,
The ear that hears thee now has heard
The ice-break of the winter sea.
Through his long watch of awful night,He saw the Bear in Northern skies;Now to the Southern Cross of lightHe lifts in hope his weary eyes.
Through his long watch of awful night,
He saw the Bear in Northern skies;
Now to the Southern Cross of light
He lifts in hope his weary eyes.
Prayers from the hearts that watched in fear,When the dark North no answer gave,Rise, trembling, to the Father's ear,That still His love may help and save.
Prayers from the hearts that watched in fear,
When the dark North no answer gave,
Rise, trembling, to the Father's ear,
That still His love may help and save.
The following is of especial interest:—
The Wedding Veil.
Dear Anna, when I brought her veil—Her white veil on her wedding night—Threw o'er my thin brown hair its folds,And, laughing, turned me to the light."See, Bessie, see! you wear at lastThe bridal veil, foresworn for years!"She saw my face—her laugh was hushed,Her happy eyes were filled with tears.With kindly haste and trembling handShe drew away the gauzy mist:"Forgive, dear heart!" her sweet voice said,Her loving lips my forehead kissed.We passed from out the searching light—The summer night was calm and fair—I did not see her pitying eyes,I felt her soft hand smooth my hair.Her tender love unlocked my heart;'Mid falling tears at last I said:"Foresworn, indeed, to me that veil,Because I only love the dead!"She stood one moment statue-still,And, musing, spoke in undertone:"The living love may colder grow;The dead is safe with God alone!"
Dear Anna, when I brought her veil—Her white veil on her wedding night—Threw o'er my thin brown hair its folds,And, laughing, turned me to the light."See, Bessie, see! you wear at lastThe bridal veil, foresworn for years!"She saw my face—her laugh was hushed,Her happy eyes were filled with tears.With kindly haste and trembling handShe drew away the gauzy mist:"Forgive, dear heart!" her sweet voice said,Her loving lips my forehead kissed.We passed from out the searching light—The summer night was calm and fair—I did not see her pitying eyes,I felt her soft hand smooth my hair.Her tender love unlocked my heart;'Mid falling tears at last I said:"Foresworn, indeed, to me that veil,Because I only love the dead!"She stood one moment statue-still,And, musing, spoke in undertone:"The living love may colder grow;The dead is safe with God alone!"
Dear Anna, when I brought her veil—Her white veil on her wedding night—Threw o'er my thin brown hair its folds,And, laughing, turned me to the light.
Dear Anna, when I brought her veil—
Her white veil on her wedding night—
Threw o'er my thin brown hair its folds,
And, laughing, turned me to the light.
"See, Bessie, see! you wear at lastThe bridal veil, foresworn for years!"She saw my face—her laugh was hushed,Her happy eyes were filled with tears.
"See, Bessie, see! you wear at last
The bridal veil, foresworn for years!"
She saw my face—her laugh was hushed,
Her happy eyes were filled with tears.
With kindly haste and trembling handShe drew away the gauzy mist:"Forgive, dear heart!" her sweet voice said,Her loving lips my forehead kissed.
With kindly haste and trembling hand
She drew away the gauzy mist:
"Forgive, dear heart!" her sweet voice said,
Her loving lips my forehead kissed.
We passed from out the searching light—The summer night was calm and fair—I did not see her pitying eyes,I felt her soft hand smooth my hair.
We passed from out the searching light—
The summer night was calm and fair—
I did not see her pitying eyes,
I felt her soft hand smooth my hair.
Her tender love unlocked my heart;'Mid falling tears at last I said:"Foresworn, indeed, to me that veil,Because I only love the dead!"
Her tender love unlocked my heart;
'Mid falling tears at last I said:
"Foresworn, indeed, to me that veil,
Because I only love the dead!"
She stood one moment statue-still,And, musing, spoke in undertone:"The living love may colder grow;The dead is safe with God alone!"
She stood one moment statue-still,
And, musing, spoke in undertone:
"The living love may colder grow;
The dead is safe with God alone!"
The following poem to his sister was sent to her by Whittier, with a copy of his book, "The Supernaturalism of New England," which consisted of poems relating to the superstition and folk-lore prevalent in New England. It was written in 1847, and is full of early memories and tender thoughts:—