# Life and Literary Remains of L. E. L./Volume 1/1837-1838

1837 and 1838.
Mrs. Sheldon, the lady with whom L. E. L. had resided in Hans'-place, after the retirement of the Misses Lance, removed, in 1837, to Upper Berkeley-street, Connaught-square, West.
Just previous to her leaving Hans'-place, L. E. L. experienced a world of domestic trouble; but it was of no very heart-rending kind; at least the account which she gave of it is not at all in her pathetic style. The reader may judge for himself—and of her good spirits when on the eve of quitting the old house which had been her home so long.
"Do you, my dear Mr. Blanchard, know any person in want of a 'young woman, sober, honest, and good tempered,' 'would not object to waiting on a single gentleman?' If you do, for mercy's sake recommend me. For the last fortnight I have been qualifying for the situation. Everybody has been ill and in bed but myself; one servant gone home, the other turned out at a moment's notice for too great devotion to 'ardent spirits,' and we ​were left alone!—desolate as Babylon, or the ruins of Palmyra. I have run about with a saucepan of gruel in one hand, and a basin of broth in the other. I have not yet lost the keys, and have only broken one candlestick. I hope my patients are recovering, and then I shall leave the kitchen for the attic, when you shall have the first-fruits of my return. We move sometime next week—I believe, to 28, Upper Berkeley-street, West."
The next day she wrote—"We move in a week. I have some thoughts (two words, the last, though joined) of writing a farewell ode to Hans'-place."
Her unusual exertions in comforting the sick, and waiting on the servantless, ended in lassitude—or, to use her own words, downright stupidity; for before the week was over, arrived a note excusing the non-fulfilment of some literary engagement, for the fruits of which we were anxiously waiting. As it is a novelty and brief, we copy it—
"This has been a very Viola week—
"What is its history?
A blank, my lord."
I literally have been too stupid to write, but I have refused to dine out to-day, on purpose to do something for you to-night; at least I shall try, and, if I succeed, send it early to-morrow. As there are no books, I have made several extracts from the magazines. Yours very truly, stupid "L. E. L."
"I have some thoughts of advertising for myself—at least for my better part, my ideas."
Before we accompany L. E. L. to her new residence, let us indulge the hope of entertaining the reader with another specimen or two of her correspondence, which belong to an earlier date, but did ​not reach us in time to be inserted in due order. The subject here appears to be a wedding.
"Twice, my dearest ———, when I have been about writing, finding I had been forestalled by ———'s prolific pen, and knowing nothing is so tedious as a tale twice told, I have delayed my infliction till our news had either been told long enough to be forgotten, or something actually new had occurred. Expect from me only such a letter as might be published in the fashions for the month. I have lived in an atmosphere of silk, where the earth was satin, and the sky was blonde. Skirts in full plaits all round are no longer connected in my mind with a Dutchwoman. I despise any dress whose circumference is not like that of Grosvenor-square; by-the-by, I made the other day a suggestion, for which I have some thoughts of taking out a patent—we have all heard of beds inflated with air, (would it not be very poetical sleeping in them, like reclining on a cloud?) could not the invention be advantageously employed in dress?—indeed, I have no doubt that a petticoat trimmed with fixed air will be indispensable. Nothing has saved me from having a bilious fever, i. e. a nervous one, i. e. an envious one, but that one pretty thing has put another out of my head. In the multitude of dresses, as of councillors, there has been safety—who ever heard of dying for love of a dozen? and I really cannot make up my mind which dress to prefer. I have, however, come to this conclusion, that it would be a very fine thing to be married if it were not for the husband! . . . . I had a most delightful visit to Tunbridge Wells, where I passed two days, both in going and returning, at ———'s, whose name you will, no doubt, recollect as one of our sweetest poets; his wife is ​such a lovely creature. Do you remember a poem of mine, about three weeks ago, in the 'Gazette,' called 'Elise?' I can assure you it is but a faint description of her. I met at their house the author of 'May you Like it,' and 'The Human Heart,' three volumes of the most exquisite tales in the English language; if you have not read them, you have a treat to come; pray notice my two especial favourites, 'The Childhood of Charles Spenser,' and 'The Ladye Amoret, a romance.' * *
"I am sure, my dearest ———, I must say with the song, 'There is no place like home;' for, on my return, I found the most charming of parcels awaiting me. It was too much at once—as to the dress, I think that I never saw anything more beautiful. I am going to a very gay breakfast in Park-lane this week, and was turning in my mind that most important subject, costume; and now I have the very prettiest I could ever have imagined—all the hearts it captivates I shall put in my bag, and I am sure they must be satisfied. I am so much obliged to ———'s, and your fingers for it. . . . .
"I am sure, for the last three days, I might have been exhibited to idle apprentices, instead of George Barnwell; I mean as an example of industry—not having had, nor having, the slightest intention of murdering any of my uncles. But I do want 'a small piece of pleasure;' so will you drink an early tea with me to-day? then you may go away in time for tea at home—it will be a great charity."
"What can I say in the way of gratitude to you? I never saw anything prettier than the caps—and I put this in a little modest parenthesis (I never had anything so becoming). I have not gone to ​the desperate extent of having my head shaved—my courage failed when it came to that last and desperate remedy; but I have done what is nearly as bad, I have had my hair cut short to curl. Truly after having been so little accustomed to any trouble, with only bands that were smoothed in a moment, I had not calculated on the martyrdom of curls. I used to be indifferent to damp-days—defied wind and rain. Now, I look to change of weather like a farmer or a sailor, and have the exclamation 'dear, what a bad day it is for the hair!' perpetually on my lips. So your caps are not only beautiful, but useful." . . . .
"Did I live within walking distance, had I a carriage of my own, or a fairy for a god-mother, who would kindly turn a pumpkin and lizards into coach and horses, or had I Prince Huissein's carpet, I should, before this, have paid you a visit—however, there being no truth in old proverbs, especially the one which says, 'where there's a will there's a way,' I must content myself with a few lines. After finishing any work, I have always a little mental interregnum, and feel as if I had not an idea left in the world—it takes me some time to make up my mind what I shall do next. Amid so many projects as I always have floating in the future, it is no easy task to fix on what shall be the next; however, pray tell———I am not yet come to my treatise on moral philosophy. I beg to state that we had an apple-pie for dinner to-day, my last and only unsophisticated taste. You had beautiful weather for your Oxford excursion; pray, was not———greatly delighted with all the old halls and towers? I should think that the autumn foliage would have a beautiful effect in the Christ-church meadows, which, by-the-by, were overflowed when I was there." * * * ​ In Upper Berkeley-street L. E. L. had her home for a few months, when at the earnest desire of friends to whom she was much attached, she consented to take up her abode under their hospitable roof in Hyde-park-street. Here she remained in the enjoyment of every possible kindness. The year, 1838, commenced happily for her. Yet a joyous note which she wrote to us at this season opens with the announcement that she was "still on strict regimen, and under Dr. Thomson's care." But that was nothing. "I am gaining strength," she says, "and being really better every day. Perhaps one great reason why I am so recovered is, that I am so much happier. God knows, that even at this very moment I am sufficiently involved in all sorts of business-perplexities and anxieties; but for these I have always found a remedy in my own exertions. All the misery I have suffered during the last few months is past like a dream—one which, I trust in God, I shall never know again. Now, my own inward feelings are what they used to be. You would not now have to complain of my despondency." And then she rapturously expatiates on the good opinions that "Ethel" was winning for her in some quarters, and on the praises of her friends, exclaiming —
"I on honey-dews have fed,
And breathed the airs of Paradise."
The coming event, however, joyous as its character should be, cast a gloomy shadow before; for, as often as it was thought of, came the dark outline of the wild and far-off coast to which the summer months must see her voyaging. But at length the time was approaching when it would be necessary for Mr. Maclean to set sail for the ​scene of his official duties; and, with the arrival of that season came the marriage-morning—the 7th of June, 1838. The affair, however, was a secret; Mr. Maclean's wishes being strongly expressed for a private wedding. Few, indeed, of the closest friends on either side knew anything of the event, until a fortnight after it had occurred. L. E. L. was married to Mr. Maclean at St. Mary's, Bryanstone-square; the marriage-ceremony being performed by her brother, the Rev. W. H. Landon. The bride was given away by Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer, whose genius she admired, whose friendly sympathy she had long enjoyed, and whose good opinion she ever highly prized. After a few days spent out of town, the marriage was publicly announced, and Mr. and Mrs. Maclean returned to the house of their hospitable friends, where they remained until it became necessary to repair to Portsmouth.
The vessel was expected to sail by the end of the month, and various arrangements for the happiness of others (ever that on which her own depended) remained to be concluded. Her thoughts were especially directed to provisions necessary to her mother's comfort, and her efforts were not unsuccessfully employed. An engagement with Mr. Colburn for another novel, and contributions to his magazine—that with Mr. Heath, relative to the Female Characters of Scott—and the hope of some success for her tragedy—partially removed her anxiety on the score of those to whom her exertions had hitherto been necessary. Of the "Drawing-room Scrap-book" it was not so easy to retain the editorship; about this she was to the last exceedingly anxious; and this anxiety is referred to here, that the reader may perceive how she had ​calculated on continuing her literary exertions during the time she should be away, and how she allowed herself no rest while she had a duty to others to discharge. Each of these engagements, in her new position in life, would help her to accomplish one of the first wishes of her heart. "How much shall I write in three years!" was her exclamation to us;—for it should be stated, that her stay in Africa was expressly limited to three years, unless her own choice, at the end of that term, decided otherwise. It must also be observed, that her husband left all her literary arrangements, and the income arising from them, entirely in her own hands. She was unshackled by any stipulation whatever.
This feeling of independence, and the hope founded on it of ensuring independence to another, gave no slight colouring of happiness to her future prospects. There still remained some nervous fears about the climate (discovered to be, in her case, groundless on her arrival), but these were checked, as much as possible, by the reflection that she should be free to return in three years. About to part, she felt at peace with all, and enjoyed the confidence that her character would outlive all calumnies. To this must be added, the comfort derived from the reflection, that not one word had been uttered to her prejudice up to this hour that was not distinctly known to her husband. With every calumny, every report "however cruel and untrue" (to use her own expression), Mr. Maclean had been made acquainted; there was no concealment of anything on her side; and on his, just as little concealment of the honourable spirit in which he disregarded scandal.
The warmth of her affection for the lady with ​whom she was staying, is shown in the following note, addressed to her during a temporary absence in May. It is here inserted, as indicating the feelings with which she must have contemplated the coming separation.
"My dearest Mrs.————, I could not dine with an M. P. yesterday and not get a frank for you.—I am writing in your room—how desolate it seems; I look round and keep fancying you must be there, till at last I have turned the table, that I may not see your sofa. The drive to——was beautiful, so was the garden which looked upon the river—spring has just now its few loveliest days; leaves half out of that soft yellow green, while the fruit trees are just opening their blossoms. Our party was joined by a very celebrated German, Mr. Champollion, the first Sanscrit scholar in the world.—I cared more for Mr. Bruce, the same who helped Lavalette to escape. Lord———only came to make his excuse—one of his servants had the scarlet fever; and you yourself could not have been hurrying off with more anxiety than he was on account of his dear children.—Mrs.———'s little girls looked like so many pictures on the lawn.—My poor dear tragedy is now gone to Mr. Bulwer, we shall hear what he says. Pray come back—we cannot do without you. I knew how you would be missed, but even I did not know how much."
Every arrangement for departure having been finally concluded, a few of her friends assembled, on the evening of the 27th of June, to take their leave of her; and, on the 5th of July, the ship "Maclean," having the governor and his lady on board, sailed from Portsmouth for Cape Coast.
Her last affectionate adieus to her brother, though tender and mournful indeed, for it was the parting ​of two persons fondly attached to each other, were not without the animation that springs out of courage, hope, and a high and solemn sense of duty. She derived a feeling of fortitude from the knowledge that she carried with her from the land she loved, if not the "whole world's good wishes," yet the good wishes of numbers whom the world justly delighted to honour. Nor was this an illusion.
"Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue,"
than mere intellectual superiority obtains, were hers; the blessings and prayers that comfort the innocent heart, and reward the self-sacrificing spirit.
In the simple statement contained in the following letter, all the particulars of her last hours in England, and of the mournful parting, are placed before the reader, with an affection which he will appreciate, and with an interest which he will share.
October 27, 1840.
"MY DEAR BLANCHARD," In desiring me to relate to you, unimportant though they may be, such incidents as I remember of the few last hours that my sister passed in England; you have set me a mournful but not a very difficult task—nothing she then said or did was likely to be forgotten by me.
"In order that we might have her among us a day or two longer, it had been arranged that she was to go on board the vessel which was to carry her to Africa at Portsmouth, but when the letter came to tell of its arrival there, further delay was impossible. Mr. Hugh Maclean and I were to accompany her. We were to travel by railway as far ​as might be, and then post on. But parting with her friends was no easy matter, and we arrived at the station a little too late. By way of disposing of the three hours' interval which we had to wait for the next train, I recommended that we should go to the quarters which she had procured for me, at the Literary Fund Chambers, and take some coffee. 'Very well,' she said, 'for if I return to Hyde-park-street, I won't answer for not keeping you too long a second time.' The rapidity with which, for the first time, she was whirled along a railway, suited exactly with the excitement of her feelings; she laughed, and asked Mr. Maclean 'why don't you have them in Africa?' She grew weary during the posting part of the journey, and was sleeping, I remember, with her head leaning on my shoulder, when one of the forewheels threatened to go to pieces, and obliged us to get out and wait till an other was borrowed. On arriving at Portsmouth we found Mr. Hugh Maclean, who had not been too late for the first train, on the lookout for us. She was cheerful enough at dinner, but her spirits had been tried too much during the day, not to be entirely exhausted at night, and I believe every one of us was anxious to be alone, and to get rest, if we could.
"On returning from a stroll on the ramparts early the next morning, I found her already up and sitting on a hassock, on the floor, with the window-seat for a desk, busy writing a number of little farewell notes. Mr. Maclean did not rise till very late, but his brother soon joined us. At breakfast, though her spirits were renewed, yet she had not all her usual liveliness, and when she spoke of the friends she was leaving, it was with a deeper tone of affection; and the fantastic spirit of ​adventure with which she always parried every fact connected with going to Africa, did not show itself. She was full of the future—of her own, and ours. She liked Mr. Hugh Maclean, and gave him much playful advice, and myself a hundred cautions. She dwelt frequently on the great solace which the execution of her literary plans would be to her, and felt pride and pleasure at the prospects of her continued connection with this country; she said, how deeply shall I value praise when I am away! Her literature was to be her refuge in solitude. 'What will you do without friends to talk to?' 'Oh!' she said, 'I shall talk to them through my books.' The present, as it concerned herself, seemed to have but little place in her mind—she was all future.
"Her note writing was resumed immediately after breakfast, and this, with a little talk between perhaps every note, occupied the whole of her last morning in England. Let me here say a word of explanation on this point, which I would gladly have meet the eye of her friends. These notes were confided to me, and most of them were to be accompanied by some little memorial, a book, a portrait, one of Schloss's almanacks, or some other trifling token from her, a list of which she intended to furnish me with, but which, in the hurry of departure, she had not time to complete. I found but a very few names on the unfinished list, and was at a sad loss what to send with the notes; and I am grateful to those who did her the honour to inquire after what she named in any of them.
"The morning passed in anxious uncertainty at what hour the vessel was to sail, and it was not till the afternoon that the summons came. We were to dine on board the brig. I remember, while ​seated on the deck of the cutter which took us out to Spithead, she gave me her purse, said she should not want it where she was going, and added, laughing, 'Mind you take as much care of it as I ever have!' I gave my promise for the purse only, but I took her meaning literally, and both purse and contents have been sacred. As soon as Mr. Maclean stepped on board, the crew fired a salute, a compliment to which her ears were little accustomed. On going down into the cabin she was surprised at the change which the vessel had undergone since she saw it in London; and, indeed, nothing that could conduce to her convenience and ensure her comfort during the voyage had been spared. Every one was full of hopes, and though, perhaps, they sounded more like doubts, there was no want of cheerfulness at dinner, especially on her part. But the brig was all this time getting away from Spithead, and the captain of the cutter which followed to take Mr. Hugh Maclean and myself back, came below and said we could not stay any longer. All our spirits, real or not, dropped at once. The others went out, and I remained some time with my sister. . . . At last they came down and took her upon deck. I there perceived that Mrs. Bailey, who had not been before observed by us, was in the adjoining cabin, and I took the opportunity of speaking to her, as the only European female who would be near my sister, and the impression which, at the time, she made on my mind was, that of a woman both kind-hearted and trustworthy. We parted again on leaving the vessel, but nothing more was said. My sister continued standing on the deck and looking towards us, as long as I could trace her figure against the sky.
​ "This was the last I saw of a sister, endeared to me by every tie of grateful affection; of affection never, that I know of, broken for an hour. Many will be ready to give assurance of the private worth, the frank and confiding generosity of her disposition, but to this no one can be a surer witness, or with deeper reason, than myself. In the purposes to which she devoted the fruits of her laborious life, self was ever forgotten, and her industry, I believe, to have been unparalleled. Others are far better able than I am to speak of her as L. E. L., but my anxious testimony to the genuine goodness of her heart will not, I trust, be thought out of place; for, indeed, it springs not from any fond partiality, but is based upon the experience of my life. In childhood, and in after years, in every vicissitude of fortune, both when under severe family trials, she was gaining the rewards of literature, or when amid her success she had to pay the penalties which a woman hazards when she passes beyond the pale of private life, she was still the same—unselfish, high-minded, affectionate. "W. H. Landon."
There is yet one farewell to be added. Though not the last, in point of time, it is reserved until now, because it expresses all of hope that she who uttered it was capable of feeling, and all of memory which she most cared to cherish. No farewell ever came more fondly from the heart, and poetry was never more entirely the organ of truth than here. It may be said also, that gratitude and fondness could not have been more amply earned than by the generous lady whose maternal kindness gave a happy home to L. E. L. during the ​trying months of her later life—the lady to whom, in May 1838, she addressed the following poem:—
TO MRS.———
My own kind friend, long years may pass
 Ere thou and I shall meet,
Long years may pass ere I again
 Shall sit beside thy feet.
My favourite place!—I could look up,
 And meet in weal or woe
The kindest looks I ever knew—
 That I shall ever know.
How many hours have pass'd away
 In that accustom'd place,
Thy answer lighting, ere it came,
 That kind and thoughtful face.
How many sorrows, many cares,
 Have sought thee like a shrine!
Thoughts that have shunn'd all other thoughts,
 Were trusted safe to thine.
How patient, and how kind thou wert!
 How gentle in thy words!
Never a harsh one came to mar
 The spirit's tender chords.
In hours of bitter suffering,
 Thy low, sweet voice was near;
And every day it grew more kind,
 And every day more dear.
The bitter feelings were assuaged,
 The angry were subdued,
Ever thy gentle influence
 Call'd back my better mood.
Am I too happy now?—I feel
 Sometimes as if I were;
The future that before me lies,
 Has many an unknown care.
I cannot choose but marvel too.
 That this new love can be
More powerful within my heart.
 Than what I feel for thee.
Didst thou, thyself, once feel such love
 So strong within the mind,
That for its sake thou wert content
 To leave all else behind?
And yet I do not love thee less—
 I even love thee more;
I ask thy blessing, ere I go
 Far from my native shore!
How often shall I think of thee.
 In many a future scene!
How can affection ever be
 To me, what thine has been.
How many words, scarce noticed now,
 Will rise upon my heart,
Touch'd with a deeper tenderness,
 When we are far apart!
I do not say, forget me not,
 For thou will not forget;
Nor do I say, regret me not,
 I know thou wilt regret.
And bitterly shall I regret
 The friend I leave behind,
I shall not find another friend
 So careful and so kind.
I met thee when my childish thoughts
 Were fresh from chilhood's hours,
That pleasant April time of life,
 Half fancies and half flowers.
Since then how many a change and shade
 In life's web have been wrought!
Change has in every feeling been,
 And change in every thought
But there has been no change in thee,
 Since to thy feet I came,
In joy or sorrow's confidence,
 And still thou wert the same.
Farewell, my own beloved friend!
 A few years soon pass by;
And the heart makes its own sweet home
 Beneath a stranger sky.
A home of old remembrances
 Where old affections dwell;
While Hope, that looks to other days,
 Soothes even this farewell.
Strong is the omen at my heart,
 That we again shall meet;
God bless thee, till I take, once more,
 My own place at thy feet!
Letitia Elizabeth Landon.
We have now approached a period when all speculation becomes more or less vain, and when our course must be confined as much as possible to the relation of facts and circumstances, deeply mournful in themselves, and rendered doubly so, first, by the mystery in which they have been shrouded, and next, by the surmises that have been formed in connection with them. Fiction can never have a tragedy so horrible as that which the imagination often builds on unconnected and disputable facts, or on the partial knowledge of a melancholy truth. In that truth, as far as it is clearly ascertainable, there is, without resorting to needless surmise, more than enough to shock sensibility, and to raise to the dead a lasting monument of the sweetest pity, unprofaned by those images of horror, which hasty apprehensions would conjure up around it.
A close adherence to a statement of facts, arranged with no art or effect that is not essential to a simple elucidation (if it be possible) of the truth, is the most just and delicate course that can be adopted in relation to the feelings and interests of the living. This course, and this alone, ​consists with what is not less sacred in our regard, justice and delicacy to the dead. She who died under the circumstances now to be narrated, reminded us, at parting, of an old promise to take such charge of her writings as events might require, and to see justice rendered to her name, adding, as well verbally as by letter, "I have in you the most affectionate confidence." It is with the keenest remembrance of this, that the attempt is here made to trace her thoughts and actions fairly, from the evil hour when, sailing from native England, she was seen by her old beloved friends no more.
The voyage presented no remarkable feature to report; the ship had fair weather, and accomplished the passage in about the usual time. The delicate and inexperienced voyager shared the usual fate attendant upon sea-travelling, but her health was re-established, and this sort of sickness she could well bear. In short, she encountered bravely all the privations and pains incidental to the passage.
We subjoin a few extracts from the journal which she kept during her voyage.
"Never is there one moment's quiet—the deck is about a yard from your head, and it is never still; steps, falling of ropes, chains, and the rolling of parts of machinery, never stop: if you sleep, you are waked with a start, your heart beating—by some sudden roll. There is one peculiarity about sea-sickness, it is accompanied by constant craving—you first wish for one thing then for another, not that anything does you any good, but I could think of nothing but what I had nice when I was with you; I do think I should have cried with joy, if I could have had a glass of jelly—then the ​thirst is burning—at first I found ginger-beer the greatest comfort, but I am grown so tired of it. After all, acids are the only things, and I have been getting better ever since Mr. Maclean landed at Madeira; we there got plenty of arrow-root and lemons, and I do think they saved my life. Mrs. Baily, my servant, has been too ill to do the least thing. . . . .
"One day will give you a picture of all—fancy Mr. Maclean up by eight! ! ! taking the sun. That poor Sun—he never seems to have a moment's rest! Then he and the captain breakfast, but generally he comes for a moment to see how I am. Now I get up, but dressing is a work of time, for every two minutes you have to catch hold of something to keep your feet; I then go to the sofa in the cabin, and he is there very busy keeping the ship's reckoning. Even L———would have enough of latitude and longitude. Till to-day I have attempted to do nothing, and even this scrawl is a labour of Hercules; the table rocks to which the sofa is tied, and the sofa rocks too. . . . .
"The sky is filled with stars, and there is a new moon—just Coleridge's description:—
'The moon is going up the sky
With a single star beside.'
"All seem to be racing—I can use no other word—up and down the heaven, with the movement of the vessel. It is tremendous to look up, and see the height to which the sails ascend—so dark, so shadowy; while the ship seems such a little thing, you cannot understand how she is not lifted out of the water. The only light is that in the binnacle, where the compass is placed, ​by which the course is steered; it is such a speck of light for the safety of the whole to depend upon. The colour of the sea is lovely . . . . . we had a slight tornado last night, the lightning was splendid, the thunder appeared to me much louder than I had ever heard; it was at night, and I was luckily on deck; it was very striking—the sudden stir on the deck that had been so still—the men who start up, you cannot tell from whence, and the rapid furling of the sails! . . .
"Friday, August 10. We can now see the land. All I can say is, that Cape Coast must be infinitely worse than my worst imaginings, if it does not seem paradise after the ship. . . . The sea appears to me the most monotonous view in the world—the first impression is grand; and the waves, with the sun upon them, the loveliest purple imaginable;—the moonlight too—on one side a tremulous track of silver, the other dark, but lighted with pale gleams of some phosphoric fire; but it is always the same.—. . . . I shall indeed be glad to land. I trust, from the very first, I shall be able to lay down a regular plan of employment. . . . . Cape Coast Castle! Thank goodness, I am on land again. Last night we arrived; the light-house became visible, and from that time, gun after gun was fired to attract attention, to say nothing of most ingenious fireworks invented on the spur of the moment. A fishing-boat put off, and in that, about two o'clock at night, Mr. Maclean left the ship, taking them all by surprise, no one supposing he would go through the surf such a foggy and dark night. I cannot tell you my anxiety, but he returned safe, though wet to the skin. We found the secretary dead, poor young man! so that everything was in utter confusion." ​ Whither her thoughts tended, what her heart felt, the images which filled her soul, as the ship flew on its course, all this is recorded by her own hand, in verses equally characterized by impassioned tenderness, and idealized beauty. To show how she thought and felt during those six weeks of her voyage, is to bring to view the very depths and springs of her enthusiastic nature. Of the two poems, the first is called the "Polar Star," the second, the "Night at Sea," which she transmitted to her publisher, Mr. Colburn, for insertion in his "New Monthly Magazine."
THE POLAR STAR.
This star sinks below the horizon in certain latitudes. I watched it sink lower and lower every night, till at last it disappeared.
A star has led the kindling sky—
 A lovely northern light—
How many planets are on high,
 But that has left the night!
I miss its bright familiar face;
 It was a friend to me,
Associate with my native place
 And those beyond the sea.
It rose upon our English sky,
 Shone o'er our English land,
And brought back many a loving eye
 And many a gentle hand.
It seem'd to answer to my thought,
 It called the past to mind,
And with its welcome presence brought
 All I had left behind.
The voyage, it lights no longer, ends
 Soon on a foreign shore;
How can I but recall the friends
 Whom I may see no more?
Fresh from the pain it was to part—
 How could I bear the pain?
Yet strong the omen in my heart
 That says—We meet again.
Meet with a deeper, dearer love;
 For absence shows the worth
Of all from which we then remove,
 Friends, home, and native earth.
Thou lovely polar star! mine eyes
 Still turned the first on thee,
Till I have felt a sad surprise
 That none look'd up with me.
But thou hast sunk below the wave,
 Thy radiant place unknown;
I seem to stand beside a grave,
 And stand by it alone.
Farewell!—ah, would to me were given
 A power upon thy light,
What words upon our English heaven
 Thy loving rays should write!
Kind messages of love and hope
 Upon thy rays should be;
Thy shining orbit would have scope
 Scarcely enough for me.
Oh, fancy, vain as it is fond,
 And little needed too;
My friends! I need not look beyond
 My heart to look for you.
L. E. L.
NIGHT AT SEA.
The lovely purple of the noon's bestowing
 Has vanished from the waters, where it flung
A royal colour, such as gems are throwing
 Tyrian or regal garniture among.
'Tis night, and overhead the sky is gleaming,
 Thro' the slight vapour trembles each dim star;
I turn away—my heart is sadly dreaming
 Of scenes they do not light, of scenes afar.
My friends, my absent friends!
Do you think of me, as I think of you?
By each dark wave around the vessel sweeping,
 Farther am I from old dear friends removed;
Till the lone vigil that I now am keeping,
 I did not know how much you were beloved.
How many acts of kindness little heeded,
 Kind looks, kind words, rise half reproachful now!
Hurried and anxious, my vex'd life has speeded.
 And memory wears a soft accusing brow.
My friends, my absent friends!
Do you think of me, as I think of you?
The very stars are strangers, as I catch them
 Athwart the shadowy sails that swell above;
I cannot hope that other eyes will watch them
 At the same moment with a mutual love.
They shine not there, as here they now are shining;
 The very hours are changed.—Ah, do ye sleep?
O'er each home pillow midnight is declining—
 May some kind dream at least my image keep!
My friends, my absent friends!
Do you think of me, as I think of you?
Yesterday has a charm, To-day could never
 Fling o'er the mind, which knows not till it parts
How it turns back with tenderest endeavour
 To fix the past within the heart of hearts.
Absence is full of memory, it teaches
 The value of all old familiar things;
The strengthener of affection, while it reaches
 O'er the dark parting, with an angel's wings.
My friends, my absent friends!
Do you think of me as I think of you?
The world, with one vast element omitted—
 Man's own especial element, the earth;
Yet, o'er the waters is his rule transmitted
 By that great knowledge whence has power its birth.
How oft on some strange loveliness while gazing
 Have I wish'd for you—beautiful as new.
The purple waves like some wild army raising
 Their snowy banners as the ship cuts through.
My friends, my absent friends!
Do you think of me, as I think of you?
Bearing upon its wings the hues of morning,
 Up springs the flying fish like life's false joy,
Which of the sunshine asks that frail adorning
 Whose very light is fated to destroy.
Ah, so doth genius on its rainbow pinion
 Spring from the depths of an unkindly world;
So spring sweet fancies from the heart's dominion—
 Too soon in death the scorched-up wing is furl'd.
My friends, my absent friends!
Whate'er I see is linked with thoughts of you.
No life is in the air, but in the waters
 Are creatures, huge, and terrible and strong;
The sword-fish and the shark pursue their slaughters,
 War universal reigns these depths along.
Like some new island on the ocean springing,
 Floats on the surface some gigantic whale,
From its vast head a silver fountain flinging,
 Bright as the fountain in a fairy tale.
My friends, my absent friends!
I read such fairy legends while with you.
Light is amid the gloomy canvass spreading,
 The moon is whitening the dusky sails,
From the thick bank of clouds she masters, shedding
 The softest influence that o'er night prevails.
Pale is she like a young queen pale with splendour,
 Haunted with passionate thoughts too fond, too deep;
The very glory that she wears is tender,
 The very eyes that watch her beauty fain would weep.
My friends, my absent friends!
Do you think of me, as I think of you?
Sunshine is ever cheerful, when the morning
 Wakens the world with cloud-dispelling eyes;
The spirits mount to glad endeavour, scorning
 What toil upon a path so sunny lies.
Sunshine and hope are comrades, and their weather
 Calls into life an energy like spring's;
But memory and moonlight go together,
 Reflected in the light that either brings.
My friends, my absent friends!
Do you think of me, then? I think of you.
The busy deck is hush'd, no sounds are waking
 But the watch pacing silently and slow;
The waves against the sides incessant breaking,
 And rope and canvass swaying to and fro.
The topmast sail, it seems like some dim pinnacle
 Cresting a shadowy tower amid the air;
While red and fitful gleams come from the binnacle,
 The only light on board to guide us—where?
My friends, my absent friends!
Far from my native land, and far from you.
On one side of the ship, the moonbeam's shimmer
 In luminous vibrations sweep the sea,
But where the shadow falls, a strange pale glimmer
 Seems, glow-worm like, amid the waves to be.
All that the spirit keeps of thought and feeling,
 Takes visionary hues from such an hour;
But while some phantasy is o'er me stealing,
 I start—remembrance has a keener power.
My friends, my absent friends!
From the fair dream I start to think of you.
A dusk line in the moonlight I discover,
 What all day long vainly I sought to catch;
Or is it but the varying clouds that hover
 Thick in the air, to mock the eyes that watch?
No; well the sailor knows each speck, appearing,
 Upon the tossing waves, the far-off strand;
To that dark line our eager ship is steering.
 Her voyage done—to-morrow we shall land.
August 15.L. E. L.
These poems were sent to England for insertion in the "New Monthly," by the first vessel that sailed after her arrival at Cape Coast. It will be observed that the signature she affixed to each piece was, as usual, "L. E. L." It is natural to call her so even now, and thus, then, let her still be designated.
"To-morrow we shall land!" This was written on the 15th of August. The next day the desired landing was effected; and the best possible accommodation that could be obtained for the governor's lady (whose arrival was unexpected) was instantly provided. All necessary exertions were made at the castle to prepare it for the reception of its mistress; and everything being arranged, Mr. Maclean ​conducted his wife to that stately and sea-washed home.
A vessel sailed from Cape Coast soon after their arrival, and this brought to England a letter for Mr. Landon, from his sister, stating, in the strongest terms, her favourable impressions of the country, her satisfaction with her new abode, her enjoyment of health, and her cheerful hopes and prospects. Subsequent letters, addressed to several of her friends, repeat these statements without variation. To these it is now necessary to refer, because they afford a description of the castle as a residence; some account of the people about her; a picture of her domestic trials, in the severe illness of her husband, and the want of certain accomplishments in housewifery, on which she had never bestowed a thought; with a little insight into her new habits of life, the state of her feelings, and the progress of her literary occupations. All these are glanced at in the following:
"My dear Mr. Blanchard, "Though so many thousand miles of land and sea are between us, I do not feel at all afraid that you have forgotten me; I recall you too kindly myself. You must, will, and shall be glad to hear from me. I am very well and very happy; my only regret—the emerald ring that I fling into the dark sea of life, to propitiate fate—is the constant sorrow I feel whenever I think of those whose kindness is so deeply treasured. I was wretchedly ill during the whole of the voyage. I shall never read Cooper's novels with any pleasure again. I protest against the 'Corsair.' I own that I am
'a luxurious slave,
Whose soul will sicken o'er the heaving wave.'
'Aye, let the wild winds whistle o'er the deck,
So that those arms cling closer round my neck;
The only murmur of this lip should be,
No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee.'
My only prayer would be, do let me land.
"The castle is a fine building, shaped like an H, of which we occupy the middle. A huge flight of steps leads to the hall, on either side of which are a suite of rooms. The one in which I am writing would be pretty in England. It is of a pale blue, and hung with some beautiful prints, for which Mr. Maclean has a passion. On three sides the batteries are washed by the sea, the fourth is a striking land view. The hills are covered with what is called bush, but we should think wood. It is like living in the 'Arabian Nights,' looking out upon palm and cocoa-nut trees. I have seen very little, for Mr. Maclean has been exceedingly ill, though now fast recovering. My talk must be of 'familiar matters to-day'—all my housekeeping troubles, for which, heaven knows, I have neither talent nor experience. However, I am beginning to get on. I know how much yam is to be given out, and how many plantains are to be eaten; and I know how much flour makes such a sized loaf. The bread here is delicious, though they use palm-wine by way of yeast. In short, if any one would steal the plate, which must be cleaned, and the mahogany tables, which must be polished, I should be very comfortable. The solitude is absolute. I get up at seven o'clock, and, till I see Mr. Maclean at our seven o'clock dinner, I rarely see a living creature, except the servants. You may suppose ​what a resource writing is. This ship brings home the first volume of a novel, and a series of papers, the 'Essays on the Female Characters in Walter Scott,' which Heath will publish from next January, a number every fortnight. I have especially begged that they may be sent to you, as it is a work about which I shall be anxious for your opinion. If my literary success does but continue, in two or three years I shall have an independence from embarrassment it is long since I have known. It will enable me comfortably to provide for my mother. * * * Mr. Maclean, besides what he did in England, leaves my literary pursuits quite in my own hands, and this will enable me to do all for my family that I could wish. I treat you, you see, with all my old confidence. I hope you will write to me; you can form no idea of the value of anything English here. Do send me any paper that you do not care about; here it will be invaluable. Tell me any chance of my tragedy, since you and Sir Edward Bulwer are its godfathers; but, most of all, tell me that you remember "Yours, most cordially, "L. E. Maclean."
Alluding, in another letter to the perpetual dash on the rocks, she says:—
"One wave comes up after another, and is for ever dashed in pieces, like human hopes, that only swell to be disappointed. We advance—up springs the shining froth of love or hope; 'a moment white, then gone for ever.'"
But this must be construed as the vein poetical; for, instead of hopes disappointed, she was experiencing a pleasant surprise that the pestilential ​climate was so harmless, and indulging in the prospect of successful literary exertion, and the realization of all her filial desires. This description occurs in a letter to Mrs. S. C. Hall:—
"The native huts I first took for ricks of hay, but those of the better sort are pretty white houses, with green blinds. The English gentlemen resident here have very large houses, quite mansions, with galleries running round. Generally speaking, the vegetation is so thick, that the growth of the shrubs rather resembles a wall. The solitude here is very Robinson Crusoe-ish. The hills are covered to the top with what we should call calf-weed, but here is called bush; on two of these hills are small forts, built by Mr. Maclean. The natives seem obliging and intelligent, and look very picturesque, with their fine dark figures, with pieces of the country cloth flung round them; they seem to have an excellent ear for music."
And to Lady Stepney she writes,—"I do think the band plays from morning to night; the people seem to have a musical genius, they catch a melody at once." And of the native servants—"I find the servants civil, and wanting not in intelligence, but industry. Each has servants to wait on him, whom they call sense-boys; i. e. they wait on them to be taught. Scouring is done by the prisoners. Fancy three men employed to clean a room, which, in England, an old woman would do in an hour, while a soldier stands over them with a drawn bayonet."
To other acquaintances in a similar strain. To Mrs. Thomson, she enters more into personal particulars, which she knew would be expected, and which she felt it a relief to communicate to such a friend.— ​ "Dearest Mrs. Thomson, "Though hurried out of my wits—for the Maclean sails to-morrow, I must write to you. I should have had my letters preparing, from the moment I heard of her departure, but Mr. Maclean's severe illness has prevented my doing anything. For four nights I never attempted to do more than for half an hour, when he was still with opiates, to lie down on the floor in my shawl. He suffered extreme pain, but, as Mr. Dinde assured me, was in no danger: it was violent cold and stoppage. He is quite recovered now. I cannot tell you how much better the place is than we supposed; if I had been allowed to bring a good English servant with me, to which there is not one single objection, I could be as comfortable as possible. The person who, at the eleventh hour, was permitted to accompany me, was never in such a capacity before; she is, therefore, no workwoman, no cook, no washer, all three most invaluable accomplishments here, but a most civil, obliging person, and superior in respectability. Her stay, however, depends on the passage home.* . . . .
"I have lists of everything, and see them counted out every Monday. I see to the cleaning, and I am sure you would have laughed at my toil and trouble, when the governor of Guiana came to dinner here. I now ought to tell you how highly I hear Mr. Maclean spoken of in his public capacity, on all sides, and I cannot but see his enthusiastic devotion to his duties. We have in England little idea of the importance or the resources of this country. They send hundreds of miles along the coast, to refer causes to Mr. Maclean's decision; ​this will show the idea they have of his justice. When he came here it was one scene of anarchy and confusion; now the country is so quiet, a child might carry gold dust from one town to another. I was much amused at a cause tried here the other day: two of Captain Stanley's workmen ran away some time ago; when brought back, the reason they gave was, 'Master stand by of a morning, and we could not talk.' The people here are the greatest talkers in the world. I believe the continent of Africa was formed of the remains of the town of Babel. We have just had a visit from the commander of the Pylades, Captain Castle, a most kind and gentlemanlike person. * * * Do you remember our delightful day at Boxhill? you sat down and sketched—I wish I could do the same, I should so like to give you an idea of my whereabouts. Ah, my dear kind friend, I thought I loved you very dearly in England, I love you much more here. I do not the least feel the want of society. I should regret to form new friendships, my heart is quite full. I should have written to Dr. Thomson, but have only time to send my kindest, my most grateful regards; my medicine-chest has been invaluable. As to myself, I have not been so well for years; my old complaint is painful, but merely local; one small abscess forms after another in my ear, and is there any remedy for excruciating faceache?
"I must again repeat how infinitely better the place is than we thought. I have not suffered at all from heat, and there are very few insects.
"Remember me most kindly to Kate and Anthony, and believe me ever "Your affectionate and indebted, "L. E. Maclean."
​ Thus we find her writing on the 10th of October, to a confidential friend. It appears also, from her letter to the writer of these pages, that, notwithstanding her own sickness during the voyage, and her unremitting attention to her husband during his illness, she had written since she had quitted this country, part of the first volume of a novel commenced in England, and twelve of the essays on Scott's Female Characters, in addition to the poems composed at sea. We find her contemplating a long course of exertion for the best of objects, imposed upon her by a rigid sense of duty; as active-minded to serve, and with as much fortitude to bear, as ever; divested, moreover, of the anxiety with which she quitted England, because convinced that she now knew the worst she had to suffer from the climate, and that most of the evils she had anticipated were visionary. Her troubles and distresses, in short, appear to be traceable principally to inexperience in those "house-affairs" which she would "in haste dispatch," but which required a system of forethought and patience, together with considerable practice, to regulate efficiently.
To her brother, above all, she says—
"August 28.
"My dearest Whittington, "Now I hope and trust that this letter will find you well in every way. I cannot tell you how anxious I am to know something about you, and how you are getting on. I was sea-sick till within the few last days, and as to describing the suffering I cannot; it is a wretchedness no one could pity who had not felt; excepting a scrawl to Mrs.——, I never even attempted to write; my headache was perpetual, and I am still stone ​deaf on one side. The castle is a fine building, a sort of double square, so ⊡⊡; the middle is ours. You enter by a flight of steps into an immense hall; the dining-room at one end, a bed-room beyond, the drawing-room at the other, arid two or three more rooms; a veranda runs along the back, which commands the sea and the adjacent country. I am very well, and see every prospect of being exceedingly comfortable. Mr. Maclean has been very ill, though now recovering. I can scarcely give an opinion of the place, for we arrived under every disadvantage; just like going to a large unfurnished house in the country, which had been shut up for months. The first two or three days 'food, fire, and candles,' were not easily procured, but the mischances of the first week were only temporary, and I see every prospect of comfort: the place is far better than we ever imagined—capital rooms, plenty of servants, all of whom seem very willing, I must say. I find that I have two or three hours more than I expected, so can tell you more.
"I have scarcely ten minutes, but I mind it the less as I have sent Mrs.———a complete journal; which is for general information. I may be very comfortable, but there are a great many difficulties, and most of a nature that we never thought of. I find myself in great want of things that never crossed my mind; if you should see a pretty small show-desk, for I am obliged to write many notes in our sitting-room, and the one of real use cannot be put there; now be very discreet in the way of expense, and put into it slate pencils, a quire or so of small coloured note-paper, and a pasteboard pattern of the little envelopes. I wish, too, that you would speak to a bookseller, and see what sort of a bargain you could make to send a monthly packet of books​—you must only inquire and let me know. I must get, at trade price, 'Thiers's History of the Revolution,' in French, and all George Sands's works, 'Valentine,' 'Indiana,' &c. &c. I think that they are to be had at the upper shop in the Burlington Arcade—send me also Lamb's works, you have them; also three yards of white waist-ribbon for belts, and the Forget-Me-Not. I write the order for it below—put it under cover to Ackerman, Strand. I forget at where Miss———had her lodgings—Park-street; two volumes of memoirs, translated from the French—if still there, they would be invaluable. Good God! how anxious I am to know how this letter may find you. Five pounds is due from the Forget-Me-Not. Do not get the desk and books unless cheap. God bless you; this is most abrupt and hurried, but you will have letters enough next time, and Mrs.———'s letters tell all. "Your affectionate, "L. E. Maclean.
"Do not send the desk unless cheap—tell me all about yourself—from me you shall have a complete journal—ask to see Mrs.———'s; how I hope you are doing well—it makes me so low to think of you."
"September 27.
"My dearest Whittington.
"I am now getting every day more and more anxious to hear something about you—though I know very well it is too soon even to think of expecting it—I wonder so often what you are doing, how you are getting on, and if any good luck has happened to you. . . . . . . I can scarcely make even you understand how perfectly ludicrous the idea of jealousy of a native woman really is. ​Sentiment, affection, are never thought of—it is a temporary bargain—I must add that it seems to me quite monstrous * * * *
"Now he gave me not one real idea of what I was coming to—half the time bestowed in fancying unreal horrors, would have made me mistress of all I needed to know. I do not know what Scotch girls may do, but I am quite sure any English girl would be puzzled. * * You would be surprised at the pains I have taken; I give out everything—I have made lists of everything, and I stand over the cleaning of everything—but I will give you the history of one day:—I rise at seven, breakfast at eight—give my orders—give out everything—flour, sugar, &c., from the store—see to which room I will have cleaned, and then sit down to write—lunch at one on roasted yam, then write—much interrupted by having to see to different things—till six—dress—walk in the veranda till dinner at seven. * * * * Mrs. Bailey, the person you saw at Portsmouth, is a most obliging, respectable person, but nothing as a servant; no worker, and little of a cook, but I know not what I should have done without her and her husband; he is invaluable, and I wish to heaven he had been going to stay, or that I had brought Martha—a good English servant would be a blessing. So much for the worst side; but there is also a better one to the picture—I may get on better than I expect. Let me know if you are in London, and can make a bargain for books, but not at more than half-price. My darling Whittington, while the messenger waits for Mr. Maclean, I will take the chance of a few more lines—how I hope you are all right—I had no idea I should have been so anxious. I was so worried before I left England, that I did not ​say half I now think—I feel selfish in leaving you, and fancy a thousand things in which, had I been near, I might have helped you. Remember me kindly to Mr. Blanchard. God bless you, my dearest brother, your affectionate "L. E. Maclean."
Finally, she thus writes to her mother in the month of September.
"My dear Mother—Though this is but a hurried opportunity of writing, I will not let the African sail without a few lines. I suffered most dreadfully, during the voyage, from sea-sickness—during the whole six weeks I scarcely held up my head; but, since I landed, I have been perfectly well,—indeed, in some respects, better than I have been for many months. You cannot imagine how different everything here is to England. I hope, however, in time, to get on pretty well. There is, nevertheless, a great deal to do. I have never been accustomed to housekeeping, and here everything must be seen to yourself; it matters not what it is, it must be kept under lock and key. I get up at seven, breakfast at eight, and give out flour, butter, sugar, ale, from the store. I have found the bag you gave me so useful to hold the keys, of which I have a little army. We live almost entirely upon chicken and duck, for if a sheep be killed, it must be all eaten that day. The bread is very good; they use palm-wine for yeast. Yams are a capital substitute for potatoes; pies and puddings are never thought of, unless there is a party. The washing has been a terrible trouble, but I am getting on better. I have found a woman to wash some of the things, but the men do all the starching and ironing. Never did people ​require so much looking after. . . . . . At seven Mr. Maclean comes in from court—till then I never see a living creature, but the servants. . . . . Mr. Maclean has been very ill—he caught cold from getting wet through when he landed in the dead of the night. I hope to hear good accounts from England; it makes me often very anxious to think what a distance I am, and what may have happened. I have just had a beautiful little gazelle given me, no bigger than a kitten, but it will be very difficult to keep alive. The weather is now very warm—the nights are so hot that you can only bear the lightest sheet over you. As to the beds; the mattresses are so hard, they are like iron—the damp is very destructive—the dew is like rain, and there are no fire-places; you would not believe it, but a grate would be the first of luxuries. Keys, scissors, everything rusts. I have been in the greatest trouble with Mr. Maclean's sudden and violent illness; for four nights I never laid down but on the floor by his bedside; he suffered very much, though there was no danger; he has never been quite well since he arrived. I think I was never so fatigued in my life as by the Dutch governor's visit—himself, his two aides-de-camp, and the dinner, really drove me to despair. The utter want of the commonest necessaries—no such thing as saucepan, jug, or pail; there was certainly plate, glass, and china, but a dinner requires something more. . . . Remember me to my cousin; I am glad you have seen Mrs. Thomson. Write to your affectionate "L. E. Maclean."
Such was her own account to relations, friends, and acquaintances, of her health, her feelings, her ​situation, her prospects, up to the evening of Sunday, the 14th October—the night before the expected sailing of the vessel which was to bring these gratifying and welcome tidings to her native country. From herself there is no further intelligence. The Maclean arrived at the close of the year, bringing, with these seeming evidences of life and hope, intelligence of the dreadful reality—Death, sudden death. The public papers of the 1st of January, 1839, contained the following announcement:
"Died, on Monday, the 15th of October last, at Cape Coast Castle, Africa, suddenly, Letitia Elizabeth, wife of George Maclean, Esq., Governor of Cape Coast."
The intelligence created but one sentiment of grief and pity in all to whom it came; but to the few who received, at the same moment, an apparent testimonial, under her own hand, of health and spirits, cheerful views and honourable endeavours, the shock was profound, the anguish bitter. There was a pang beyond even that; and it followed quick, upon the announcement that, according to the verdict of a coroner's jury, summoned to inquire into the cause of death, the lamented lady had died by poison, incautiously administered by her own hand, as a remedy for a spasmodic attack with which she had been seized on the morning of the fifteenth.
The depositions taken at this inquest were immediately obtained, by the brother of the deceased, from the secretary to the Western African Company. They are as follow:—
"At an inquisition held at Cape Coast Castle, the fifteenth day of October, eighteen hundred and thirty-eight, before me, James Swanzey, Esq., one of her Majesty's justices of the peace, and ​others, the jurors of our Lady Queen Victoria, upon view of the body of Letitia Elizabeth Maclean—Emily Bailey, being duly sworn upon the Holy Evangelists, and examined, deposeth and saith: That between the hours of eight and nine of the morning of the 15th instant, the deponent having received a note addressed to Mrs. Maclean, from Mr. Swanzey, went to her room for the purpose of delivering the same to her, found some difficulty in opening the door, in consequence of Mrs. Maclean having fallen against it; that deponent on entering the room, discovered Mrs. Maclean lying on the floor, with an empty bottle in her hand (which bottle being produced was labelled 'Acid Hydrocianicum Delatum, Pharm. Lond. 1836. Medium Dose Five Minims, being about one-third the strength of that in former use, prepared by Scheele's proof), and quite senseless; that on seeing this deponent went for her husband to call Mr. Maclean; she believed that Mrs, Maclean must have been attempting to open the door to call for assistance when she fell; that her mistress was subject to be attacked by spasms, and was in the habit of taking, occasionally, a drop or two of the medicine in the bottle in water; but had not herself seen her do so more than two or three times; she (Mrs. Maclean) had the spasms rather badly the previous evening, and wished to take a little of the medicine contained in the bottle to give her relief; she did not complain much this morning. Deponent was not present when her mistress was taken ill; but had seen her about half-an-hour before, when she appeared well, and made her a present, as the deponent was about leaving the Coast for England; that Mrs. Maclean then told deponent to retire, and she would send for her when she wished to dress. Deponent had not seen her writing this morning; but she was so employed the previous evening, when she delivered to deponent two letters for friends in England, and was affected at the thought of deponent leaving her; that when deponent saw her last, she was in her usual spirits; the bottle found in Mrs. Maclean's hand was uncorked, and she (deponent) afterwards corked it, and put it aside; she could state nothing more which could throw any light on the subject.
"The husband of the above witness then deposes to his being called by his wife, that he placed the head of the deceased on a pillow, and went for medical attendance, at Mr. Maclean's request.
"George Maclean then deposeth and saith—That deponent saw nothing particular about Mrs. Maclean this morning, except that she complained of weariness, and after having, as usual, given him some tea and arrow-root, at six o'clock, went to bed again for about one hour and a half. Deponent attributed her weariness to attendance upon himself while sick, and want of rest for three previous nights; that she was very subject to spasms and hysterical affections, and had been in the custom of using the medicine ​contained in the small bottle produced, as a remedy or prevention, which she had told him had been prescribed for her by her medical attendant in London (Dr. Thomson); that on seeing her use it deponent had threatened to throw it away, and had at one time told her that he had actually done so, when she appeared so much alarmed, and said it was so necessary for the preservation of her life, that deponent was prevented from afterwards taking it away; that he had been called by Bailey that morning, when he found Mrs. Maclean on the floor near the door, quite senseless; that he immediately sent for the doctor, and assisted to carry her to the bed; but the efforts of the doctor to restore life were in vain, and that deponent cannot assign any cause for her death; that the letter in the following words now produced to this deponent are stated to have been found in Mrs. Maclean's desk this morning, is in her own hand-writing, and that an unkind word had never passed between Mrs. Maclean and deponent.
(LETTER.)
"My dearest Maria, "I cannot but write you a brief account, how I enact the part of a feminine Robinson Crusoe. I must say, in itself, the place is infinitely superior to all I ever even dreamed of. The castle is a fine building—the rooms excellent I do not suffer from heat; insects there are few, or none; and I am in excellent health. The solitude, except an occasional dinner, is absolute; from seven in the morning till seven, when we dine, I never see Mr. Maclean, and rarely any one else. We were welcomed by a series of dinners, which I am glad are over—for it is very awkward to be the only lady—still the great kindness with which I have been treated, and the very pleasant manners of many of the gentlemen, made me feel it as little as possible. Last week we had a visit from Captain Castle, of the Pylades. His story is very melancholy. He married, six months before he left England, to one of the beautiful Miss Hills, Sir John Hill's daughter, and she died just as he received orders to return home. We also had a visit from Colonel Bosch, the Dutch governor, a most gentlemanly-like man. But fancy how awkward the next morning—I cannot induce Mr. Maclean to rise, and I have to make breakfast, and do the honours of adieu to him and his officers—white plumes, mustachios, and all. I think I never felt more embarrassed. I have not yet felt the want of society in the least. I do not wish to form new friends, and never does a day pass without thinking most affectionately of my old ones. On three sides we are surrounded by the sea. I like the perpetual dash on the rocks—one wave comes up after anothor, and is for ever dashed in pieces, like human hopes that only swell to be disappointed. We advance—up springs ​the shining froth of love or hope, 'a moment white, and gone for ever.' The land view, with its cocoa and palm trees, is very striking—it is like a scene in the 'Arabian Nights.' Of a night the beauty is very remarkable; the sea is of a silvery purple, and the moon deserves all that has been said in her favour. I have only once been out of the fort by daylight, and then was delighted. The salt lakes were first died a deep crimson by the setting sun, and as we returned they seemed a faint violet in the twilight, just broken by a thousand stars, while before us was the red beacon light. The chance of sending this letter is a very sudden one, or I should have ventured to write to General Fagan, to whom I beg the very kindest regards. Dearest, do not forget me. Pray write to me, "Mrs. George Maclean, Cape Coast Castle, care of Messrs. Forster and Smith, 5, New City Chambers, Bishopsgate-street." Write about yourself—nothing else half so much interests your affectionate "L. E. Maclean." Cape Coast Castle, Oct. 15.
"William Cobbold, surgeon, is the next witness; he states that he 'was called upon to attend Mrs. Maclean, and that, on his arrival he found her perfectly insensible, with the pupils of both eyes much dilated, and fancied he could detect a slight pulsation at the heart, but very feeble, and which ceased a very short time after his arrival; knew that violent action was going on, and immediately administered a dose of ammonia, which happened to be in the room, and directed frictions of the same kind to be applied.' The deponent then goes on to describe that he was preparing other remedies, 'before which could be effected life was extinct. Was strengthened in his opinion that death was caused by the improper use of the medicine, the bottle of which was found in her hand, from learning that Mrs. Maclean was in the habit of taking it occasionally for spasmodic affection, to which she was subject. The body after death was perfectly natural; imagined that Mrs. Maclean, not having experienced the usual benefit from the prescribed quantity may have been induced to exceed it, or that the spasms may have come on when she was in the act of taking the medicine, and thus involuntarily a greater quantity may have been swallowed; had no hesitation in ascribing her death to this cause; ten drops would be sufficient to cause death in ten or fifteen minutes, to a person not in the habit of using it; was so fully convinced that the medicine was the cause of her death, that he did not think it necessary to open the body.'
"A deposition from Mr. Brodie Cruikshank closes the evidence. He swears to have seen Mrs. Maclean the night before 'in her usual spirits,' and to having promised to take some letters to England for her. ​ "The inquest is then given. It recites that it was taken 'before me, James Swanzey, Member of the Council of the Government, and one of her Majesty's Justices of the Peace in and for the British Settlements on the Gold Coast of Africa, acting as Coroner, upon the view of the body of Letitia Elizabeth Maclean, then and there lying dead,—upon the oaths of William Topp, John Jackson, Robert Jackson, William Edward Stanley, Joseph Clouston, James Henry Akhurst, Henry Smith, William Spinks, and Thomas Hutton, good and lawful men of Cape Coast Castle aforesaid; as well as upon the oaths of James Morley, master of the brig Governor Maclean, Francis Swanzey, of Dixcove, John Gardiner Jackson, master of the brig Osborne, and Brodie Cruikshank, of Annamaboe, who being sworn and charged to inquire on the part of our said Lady the Queen, when, where, how, and after what manner the laid Letitia Elizabeth came to her death, do, upon their oaths, say that on the day and year aforesaid, and at the place aforesaid, the death of the said Letitia was caused by her having incautiously taken an over-dose of prussic acid, which, from evidence, it appeared she had been in the habit of using as a remedy for spasmodic affections to which she was subject."
The publication of these depositions and the verdict founded on them, created a deep and general interest, and was instantly followed by a variety of rumours and surmises of the most painful description. The circumstance that written evidence only was received, the surgeon's omission to open the body, the irregularity of the entire proceedings, compared with the mode in which inquests are conducted here, and the marked insufficiency of the inquiry, were freely commented on in the public journals. The verdict itself was received with great suspicion, and soon failed in most quarters to obtain concurrence.
The inference then was, and the dreadful idea became but too prevalent, that the deadly acid had been taken by the deceased, but not accidentally; that, racked by many nameless griefs, beset with distracting fears of peril and accumulating trouble, the object of our admiration and sympathy, over wrought, over-excited by the very effort to ​suppress her sorrows, and to write gay accounts of her health and spirits to her friends in England, had swallowed the fatal draught by design. It was said so publicly, and thence believed—perhaps generally.
To this succeeded a report, of even a more revolting nature, a suspicion so dark, that without the strongest colour of reason, it would be criminal as well as torturing to entertain it. It was connected with a circumstance already adverted to as having been communicated to L. E. L. before her marriage; the existence at Cape Coast, though at many miles distance from the Castle, of one who, with her child, had formerly been its inhabitant; and hence to those whose minds reverted to the hot blood and the fierce habits of the natives of Western Africa, the dreadful suggestion was presented, that the English intruder at the governor's residence, the European lady of the colony, had been sacrificed to a horrible spirit of female vengeance. This was the darkest picture the mind could dwell upon, and it was therefore, at least as attractive, and as generally favoured, as the other gloomy hypothesis.
A request was then publicly made on the part of the head of Mr. Maclean's family in England, and the nearest relative of the deceased, that all who respected and lamented her, would abstain from adding to the many idle and distressing speculations relative to her fate. They represented, that, far from the morbid or melancholy temperament which had been, most erroneously, ascribed to her, all who were more familiarly acquainted with her, could bear witness to the cheerfulness and gaiety of her natural disposition, which even care and trouble could only temporarily obscure. ​The feeling with which she regarded her new duties and prospects on quitting England, was borne testimony to, and her general correspondence was dwelt upon as ample and touching evidence of the affectionate remembrance with which her friends were regarded. With respect to the more intimate relation of life, the duties of which she fulfilled with exemplary devotion—having attended her husband in his illness for nights and days together, up to the hour of her decease—the "Courier" had the joint authority of the head of her husband's family in England, and of her own nearest relative, to state, that Mr. Maclean, in his letter accompanying the intelligence of his loss, declared that his affections for her, his confidence in the qualities that ennobled her nature and endeared her to all, remained unimpaired to the latest moment; every expression he used tending to show how much she deserved to be happy, and how irreparable was his bereavement.
This appeal checked the propensity to publish, though the mystery remained to be everywhere discussed, and found fruitful of surmises in private. Measures were next adopted for clearing up, if possible, all that was obscure in the depositions, and obtaining every necessary particular of the mournful accident.
In the meantime came a calmer opportunity of considering, and examining minutely, the evidence already furnished. And hence arose a new hypothesis, which, although it rejects the verdict as inconclusive, the favourers of gloomier ones had not been struck with. Let us, with the view of examining it, recur to the depositions.
In the first place, the reader will not fail to observe, that no one circumstance or expression ​occurs in the whole account to weaken the testimony as to the general health and good spirits of L. E. L., which her own letters had given. The poetical image of "hopes breaking like the swelling waves," has been already alluded to, as a mere literary embellishment that indicates no feeling at all; the statement of Emily Bailey, that her mistress was, the night before, "affected at the thought of parting with her," is of more importance. Yet this parting could occasion no sudden shock; it was foreknown, and, as well as might be, prepared for; it was mentioned in the letter to Mrs. Thomson, which also says, that the person, "though most civil and obliging, and of superior respectability," had "never been in such a capacity before, and was therefore no workwoman, no cook, no washer." Now it has all along been seen that the mistress of the castle stood in no particular need of civil and obliging persons, but that she was much troubled by the want of an efficient servant—one possessing the "invaluable accomplishments" which Emily Bailey had not.
It is hardly, therefore, to be inferred, that this separation, though naturally affecting, could have had any remote connection with the cause of death, unless, indeed, by tending, with other things, to hasten on a nervous or spasmodic attack; it could not have suddenly originated the impulse of self-destruction; it could not have been sufficient to awaken and set in action the idea, even though it had held previously a slumbering existence in the mind. Add to this the important assurance, that no differences with her husband on this or any other subject, had suddenly affected her; Mr. Maclean having stated upon oath, that "an unkind word had never passed between them." In his letter ​announcing his loss, he declares that his affection for her, his confidence in all the qualities that had endeared her to him, remained unimpaired to the latest moment. His account of the circumstances preceding the calamity, and of the feelings it had produced in him, is a picture of generous attachment, intrepid exertion, and constant fortitude on her part—of constant occupation and illness, and a heavy sense of loss, on his.
In the next place, according to the evidence of Mrs. Bailey, her mistress had "wished to take a little of the medicine out of the bottle, for relief from spasms the evening before;" she had not "complained much" in the morning, but had made the servant a present, and "was in her usual spirits." Further there is Mr. Maclean's evidence that she had been in close attendance upon him while sick, and had suffered from want of rest for three nights; that she was very subject to spasms and hysterical affections, and was in the habit of using the "medicine contained in the bottle" (whatever it may have been), as a remedy and prevention.
From a consideration of these two points, then, it appears, first, that there is no ground whatever on which to found a presumption of any motive for a sudden resolve of self-destruction; and, secondly that there is some ground for presuming an intention to resort to the "medicine contained in the bottle," for precisely the same reason and purpose (though she had not complained "much" when Mrs. Bailey last saw her) that prompted the desire to use it the evening before.
And now arises this serious question: What particle of evidence is there yet in existence that she ever took Prussic acid at all? Let justice be ​at once rendered to Dr. Thomson, in reference to the statement that he had supplied the medicine. On the 7th of January, the following letter was published in the "Courier;" the paper in which the only authorized announcements were made to the public.*
"Sir—In the interesting and affecting account of the death of Mrs. George Maclean, which appeared in the 'Courier,' and which has been copied into various papers, there is a statement that I furnished Mrs. Maclean's medicine chest and introduced into it a bottle of Hydrocyanic (Prussic) acid. Assuming this to be true, you very properly state that the bottle was labelled with great care; and consequently, that every precaution had been taken to prevent any accident from an over-dose. Now, sir, it is true that I ordered the medicines in Mrs. Maclean's medicine chest, but none of these were Hydrocyanic acid; nor was any of that acid contained in any of the medicines in the chest.
"For my own satisfaction, I called upon Mr. Squire, the chemist and druggist to the queen, at the corner of Duke-street, Oxford-street. That excellent chemist supplied the drugs for Mrs. Maclean's use; and he showed me not only the list of those which he put into the chest, inserted in ​his books, but my original order, which he had filed, and a copy of which I enclose. I also found, on referring to the numerous prescriptions which I wrote for Mrs. Maclean, and which were made up by Mr. Squire, that not one of them contains Hydrocyanic acid. These facts can be verified by any one who may take the trouble to examine Mr. Squire's books.
"I have only to add that no person knew better than myself, the estimable qualities, generous feelings and exalted virtues of Mrs. Maclean; none can more deeply lament the irreparable loss which not only her friends, but society, has sustained by her death. "I have the honour to remain, "Your humble servant, "Anthony Todd Thomson."
Subjoined is a correct list of the contents of the medicine chest which in her letter to Mrs. Thomson, written five days before the fatal morning, L. E. L. pronounced to be "invaluable."
3jss. :
| "Henbane, | 3jss. |
| "Squills, | 3jss. |
| Aceti Cantharidus, | 3js. strongest. |
| Tinct. of Jalap, | 3iv. |
| Spir. Ammoniæ Aromaticæ, | 3iv. |
| Tinct. of Mur. of Iron, | 3iv. |
| Bi-carbonate of Potassa, | 3iv. |
| Sulphate of Quina, | 3ss |
| Calomel, | 3j. > |
| Tartar Emetic, | 3j.> Phials in Drawer. |
| Rhubarb, | 3ij. > |
It is certain then, that Prussic acid was not in her medicine chest, and that she never procured any through Dr. Thomson. If ever it was in her ​possession, her means of obtaining it remain a mystery. How in London could she have procured such a medicine, unassisted and undiscovered? or how, having by some extraordinary means become possessed of it, could she have kept that possession a secret from the persons by whom she was always surrounded?—from Mrs. Sheldon, who knew every medicine she took—or from her friends in Hyde-park street, from whom she hid nothing. It was equally improbable that she could have secretly procured it from the laboratory at the Castle.
But granting that, in some unaccountable way, she had become possessed of Prussic acid, the evidence taken at the inquest not only leaves the proof of her having swallowed it, inconclusive, but furnishes the strong presumption, that her death could not have been caused by such means. The surgeon found her "perfectly insensible, with the pupils of both eyes much dilated;" an empty bottle, labelled "Hydrocyanic acid" in her hand; was convinced that the medicine was the cause of her death, and did not open the body. This is the whole of the testimony in support of the hypothesis that she died by poison.
Now, assuming Prussic acid to have been in her possession, as a bottle so labelled undoubtedly was (though not concealed, but shown to her husband, and seen by her servant,) are the circumstances in which she is found dying, favourable to the supposition that she had swallowed any? Mrs. Bailey distinctly swears, that her mistress was "lying on the floor, with the bottle in her hand." The effect of Prussic acid, however, is hardly reconcilable with this fact; for that effect is, the instant relaxation of the whole system; and ​a person who had taken it in the quantity implied by drinking it from a bottle would, beyond doubt, be incapable of retaining in the hand the empty vessel. Instant prostration ensues, and the grasp of a bottle, after falling upon the floor, is an inconceivable occurrence. Besides, had such a dose of Prussic acid been taken, life would have been extinct much sooner. A considerable time must have elapsed, between the supposed poisoning and the moment of death. Every body knows how rapidly, how all but instantaneously, that medicine acts; yet, in this case, the patient lived for ten minutes and upwards after attendance arrived. What interval had previously elapsed, it is impossible to say; but Mrs. Bailey came unsummoned, and not in consequence of any alarm being given; so that twice ten minutes might have elapsed between the act of falling against the door and the entrance of the attendant.
The inference then would be, perhaps, that the dose was less powerful than is implied by other circumstances above alluded to; but even then there are facts remaining which it is impossible, or at least exceedingly difficult, to reconcile. She is found motionless, insensible, a bottle in her hand, and, as Mrs. Bailey has since stated to us, her handkerchief also. But, judging from the effects of Prussic acid upon animals, and reasoning as it is fair and just to reason, a moderate dose of that poison would infallibly produce in the human subject a spasmodic action, inconsistent with the retention of the bottle and handkerchief,—a violence quite opposed to the senseless and quiet appearances described.
The other witnesses, Emily Bailey and Mr. Maclean, merely depose that they found her "on the ​floor, quite senseless." Mr. Maclean, in his written account of the occurrence, addressed to her brother, further says, in reference to that remedy for the spasms, which she was in the habit of taking,—"The surgeon thought it possible that she swallowed too much of this medicine, which is very powerful; but nothing indicated this, nor was anything got off the stomach." No appearances are described by either of the three witnesses, corresponding with those of which we read in accounts of death by the poison referred to, and which medical authorities declare to be the invariable consequences of taking it. Not a word is said of the effluvia which is instantly created in the apartment where the acid has been taken—effluvia much too powerful for any one approaching the scene to be unaffected by, or unconscious of it.
These are some of the inferences against the hypothesis of self-destruction, which are fairly to be drawn from the statements made at the inquest; inferences, however, equally unfavourable to the verdict that she died by an incautious use of the poison, to which she is supposed to have resorted for relief, on a return of the spasmodic affection of the night before, when she had wished to take it.
In support of these inferences, may be adduced the result of inquiries made on the return of Emily Bailey to this country, at the close of last year, a twelvemonth after the time appointed for her arrival. She found her mistress on the floor, she assisted to lift her on the bed, she supported her head on the pillow, she bent over her before death for several minutes,—inhaling, in fact, her dying breath—and yet declares, though repeatedly questioned, that she was unaffected by any effluvia, ​unconscious of any whatever. Not only is it stated by her to have been undiscoverable in the room, but there is no one word of her statement, whether on oath or otherwise, relative to the medicine or its presumed effects, that can in the slightest degree affect the value of the remarkable circumstance thus ascertained, that the breath of the dying gave no symptom of the presence of that powerful and strongly-scented poison in the stomach.
The empty bottle (which was dry when examined,) though it bore on its label the words "Hydrocyanic acid," ceases to be a proof of her having taken any, when it is found thus held in her hand; and when other circumstances, ascertained beyond question, and of still greater significance—that especially, of the absence of all effluvia—concur to negative the assumption. The label, although undoubtedly in ordinary cases,
————"the title-page
That speaks the nature of a tragic volume,"—
something that too fearfully denotes a foregone conclusion,—tells no conclusive story under circumstances such as these, and would be rejected as evidence by any coroner's jury in this country.
How many thousands of persons have at times kept medicines in bottles, from which the labels of their previous contents had never been removed? Not bottles that had contained Prussic acid, it may be objected! But is it certain that L. E. L. was aware that Hydrocyanic acid meant Prussic acid? We can only say that Mr. Maclean was not. Explaining an apparent discrepancy in his statements—that he never knew his wife to take Prussic acid for spasms, and yet that he had seen her use the medicine in this bottle, and had threatened to ​throw it away—he reconciles the two facts by the simple declaration, that he did not know Hydrocyanic and Prussic acid to be the same. (The writer can add for himself, that at the time referred to, he was equally ignorant on this point.) So may it have been with numbers; and so with her, who, using some remedy for spasms, may have little suspected that the bottle containing it had once held a poison which, under its common name, she knew to be of the very deadliest character. In a majority of instances taken from ordinary life, the word "Hydrocyanic," would probably produce very little of that instinctive caution and alarm which the familiar term "Prussic acid," would be certain to excite.
Instances of sudden death from natural causes occur too frequently, and are always too shocking to the feelings of survivors, to warrant us in attaching to incidents seemingly connected with the cause of death yet mysterious in themselves, more consequence than fairly belongs to them. Whatever may have been the nature of the sudden illness, the deadly fit with which she is presumed to have been seized (respecting which there can now be no evidence), it may have been instantaneous and terrible enough to have prevented her from giving an alarm, from calling for water to mix with the medicine, from using it if it were at hand. Yet the natural impulse of hastening to seek assistance, seems evidently to have operated in carrying her across the room to the door; there the medicine may have escaped from the bottle as she fell—fell, too, as was denoted by some bruises on her cheek and hands, with a greater degree of violence perhaps than consists with the instant relaxation which is the declared and unquestioned consequence of a powerful dose of Prussic acid.
​ We must be permitted to adduce one or two other circumstances, tending to strengthen the probability we have dwelt upon, that the death, though lamentable and sudden, occurred under natural circumstances. At seasons of strong mental excitement, or of much bodily exhaustion, L. E. L. had been not merely subject to spasmodic affections, but had been known to sink down in fainting fits, so deep and instantaneous, as to create, for some minutes possibly, the most natural apprehensions, that death had taken place, or that life, if not quite extinct, was beyond hope. But a very few months before she left England, being then weak in body, a sudden emotion overpowered her in this way; and the lady who saw her fall, and flew to aid her, with all a mother's alarm and interest, has stated to us her well-founded impressions, that the thread of life was then almost snapped, and that had the shock been in the least degree more violent, or the frame been but a little more reduced and weakened, the catastrophe over which so many have wept, would have been mourned months earlier. Such fits as these may have occurred but once or twice previous to her departure; but there is small reason to doubt that they were all but fatal, and it is certain that the insensibility wore, in an unusual degree, the aspect of death. We must remember that, with much mental excitement, there was extreme bodily exhaustion, at the time of her decease.
And now, let us turn to those letters, addressed to her brother and to Mrs. Thomson, in which she makes mention of some new symptoms of bodily illness; though, accustomed as she was to frequent pain, and strong in the endurance of it, she passes them by slightly enough. To the former she ​complains of deafness—total deafness in one ear—experienced during the voyage; to her female friend, she writes a few words in explanation of the cause. One thing, she says, troubles her; "one small abscess forms and breaks after another in her ear," and "is there any remedy for excruciating face-ache?" This statement was made no longer than five days before her death. The deafness had been succeeded by these continual abscesses; the decrease of her physical strength, and the want of necessary rest (the total want for some days and nights) going on all that time. Is it improbable that this disease, though merely local, and apparently not dangerous, had more to do with premature dissolution, than poison incautiously swallowed, when not a single trace of any such medicine having been taken is discoverable?
Are there not—if we are rightly informed there are—instances of abscesses in the ear breaking, not outwardly, but inwardly? Where one after another formed and broke, this may not irrationally be presumed to have happened. In that case, the result would have been a suffusion on the brain, attended possibly with all those appearances that have been described. Those appearances, at all events, are not exclusively the symptoms of death by poison; they present themselves under other "forms, modes, shows" of death; and are no better or more final evidences in themselves, than is a mere label on a bottle, when the presence of the medicine it refers to cannot be detected.
Such consideration only as fairly belongs to them, is claimed for these reflections. The spirit in which they are here put forward, must not be misunderstood. There is no intention and no wish to strain such suppositions too far; or to offer ​them as an effectual solution of the mystery, in which the awful calamity to which they have reference, will ever perhaps be wrapped. The writer's motive simply is, to suggest a view of the case, which seems to have almost escaped notice, amidst a multitude of ingenious or extravagant speculations.
A distinguished physician, whose opinion on some of the matters glanced at in the foregoing observations we had solicited, has favoured us with a comment, which is here subjoined:
"Memorandum.
"We dare not trust ourselves to comment upon this extraordinary inquest.* We should also animadvert upon the extraordinary conduct of the jury, in finding the verdict upon the evidence before them. In England, could such an inquest have been tolerated, the verdict would have been simply 'Found dying.'
"The only rational hypothesis which can be framed respecting the cause of death, is the possibility that, possessing a bottle of hydrocyanic acid (how procured it is impossible to say), and having found that a few drops of it relieved spasms, she might imagine that the topical application of it to her jaw, in which she endured great torture, might relieve her sufferings; and, having rubbed the face with some of the acid poured into the palm of the hand, there can be no doubt that it would prove fatal. The death of a distinguished German chemist, Schader, was attributed to some of the strong acid having been applied to the sound skin of the arm. ​A bottle of the acid was broken in the laboratories of Dr. Ittner, in Germany, and of Professor Silliman, in America; both of these gentlemen experienced oppression at the chest and painful respiration, giddiness or vertigo, and burning heat. Dr. Hiller (London Med. and Physical Journal, vol. liii, p. 63) details the case of a chemist in Paris, who applied a bottle of Schule's acid to his nose. He was seized with extreme tightness across the chest and rigidity of the whole body; his legs, in particular, were moveless. The vapour of ether and ammonia were applied to his nostrils; but the circulation remained extremely slow, the pulse not rising above forty in the minute. He did not wholly recover until the following day.
"From the consideration of the powerful influence of this acid, even when topically applied in these and other instances, it is possible that the application of it to her face, and its consequent inhalation, would more powerfully affect her in the weak state of her frame, from her previous attendance on Mr. Maclean, than would otherwise have been the case; and finding its effects, she had rushed to the door to call for assistance, when she fell and became insensible. Such, at least, are circumstances which are within the limits of possibility as explanatory of the death of this ill-fated lady. Still we are forced to acknowledge that over this melancholy event hung a veil of mystery which may, perhaps, never be removed."
With such facts as these only before them, the friends of L. E. L. in England felt most deeply a sense of the necessity of further investigation; and with assiduity equal to their interest in her fame, ​and their pity for her fate, they devoted themselves in every practicable way to that object. Application was made through colonial authorities; no point was left unexamined, no means of eliciting the requisite information untried. The two letters which, according to Emily Bailey's statement, her mistress, the night before she died, delivered to her for friends in England, might possibly have aided the endeavour to elucidate the mystery. Of those letters, one, it is ascertained, was addressed to her brother, and the other to that friend in whom, next to him, she fully reposed confidence. But neither of these letters ever reached the parties to whom they were addressed. The person (Emily Bailey) to whose care they were entrusted, who had taken leave of her mistress with the view of immediately sailing from Cape Coast, did not arrive in England until more than a twelvemonth afterwards. These two facts are adverted to in the following communication from Mr. Landon. It relates circumstantially the steps that have been taken to make clear all that was mysterious, and to render justice alike to the memory of the dead and the feelings of the living.
"The subjoined statement (says Mr. Landon), may be perhaps acceptable; at least I trust it will show that there has been no slackness on my part in seeking investigation into the cause of my sister's death, and no injustice towards Mr. Maclean.
"Let it be remembered that the first announcement of Mrs. Maclean's death was published in the ‘Watchman,' Dec. 31st, 1838, contained in a letter from Mr. Freeman, the missionary at Cape Coast Castle, and pronounced, by Mr. Maclean's agent, 'to be a disgraceful production, insinuating, ​as far as it dared, that the verdict of the jury was not a conscientious one.' This letter of the missionary was quoted in the papers on the following day, when it was also stated, 'that the wife had been poisoned out of vindictive feelings to the husband.' The suppression of the depositions taken at the inquest could only confirm such insinuations, and the authentic documents were published in the 'Courier,' by my desire, accompanied solely by the request that Dr. Thomson, my sister's valued friend, might be exonerated from all blame.
"For several days the press teemed with reports and conjectures more or less distressing, and we were alternately distracted by insinuations that she was poisoned or had destroyed herself. Several of her private letters appeared in the papers, but in no single instance, with the consent or knowledge of her family; on the contrary, the following paragraph was put forth in the 'Courier,' earnestly deprecating the publication of her letters, and all further comment. And we were grateful when to this request the whole press paid a generous attention:
"'The late Mrs. Maclean.—Those who stood in the nearest and tenderest relationship to this lamented lady have authorized us to make a representation to her friends and acquaintances, that they would forbear at present from making public any communications from her, or any surmises of their own, that can only tend to excite most idle but at the same time most painful speculations as to the circumstances of her death. In the absence of more positive intelligence, this is surely not too much to ask from those who really are, as they assume to be, more anxious for the sacredness of her memory than for the gratification of their own desires to pay homage to it. Such only were worthy of her friendship; and all who were so worthy will shrink from the awful responsibility of strengthening or extending surmises, that result from excited feelings more than cool judgment or acquaintance with facts.'
"The paragraph went on to represent her ​cheerful disposition, her affectionate remembrances of her friends, her devoted attentions to her husband, and his sense of her admirable qualities, and of his own irreparable loss; concluding by saying, is it too much, under such circumstances as these, to ask her friends to forbear from publishing their premature speculations regarding her fate, as they could only give pain and excite prejudice, without in any way facilitating the objects of inquiry.
"Every rumour was then sifted, letters and depositions were compared; every inquiry was instituted among those long familiar with the coast; and all that threw light on the circumstances, and appeared to have fact for its foundation, was submitted judicially to the Colonial Office, and investigation solicited and accorded.
"In July, 1839, Captain Castle, of the 'Pylades,' who had been for some time off the coast, and who had seen my sister the day before her death in health and spirits, called upon us and gave all the information in his power, and whatever he said was most satisfactory to us as far as it went.
"On the 2d of August, 1839, I received, through Mr. Maclean's brother, a communication of thirty- one folio pages. It appears, from information which I received in November last, that a previous communication, of considerable length, had been addressed to me from Cape Coast, by Mr. Maclean, so early as February, 1839. This, however, never reached my hands, but I have received an explanation from Mr. Maclean's agent, that the non-delivery of it was attributable to a mistake.
"The document which I did receive was said to be 'written exclusively for my information, and to be considered private, at least for the present.' I made an offer to Mr. Maclean's family to append ​it to this memoir, but the offer was not accepted. It cannot therefore speak for itself. In reply to the letter by which it was accompanied, I declined pronouncing any opinion upon the statements, but I observed, 'I do not hesitate to say, that I think George Maclean's own narrative is marked by the desire, and goes to remove any impression of suicide from my sister's memory, and is just so far acceptable as it is calculated to attain the end which alone I had at heart in soliciting investigation by government.'
"More than a year had elapsed from the date of my sister's death, when Mrs. Bailey and her husband returned to England. I questioned her myself, and could elicit little more than was already known; except the statement that my sister had given her two letters the evening before her death; and that she had also given her a lock of her hair for me, enjoining her to deliver it, together with the letter, before she had been twenty-four hours in England. Mrs. Bailey gave me the hair, but the two letters her husband had taken to Mr. Maclean. I did not trust to any examination of my own; a friend accompanied me and re-questioned Mrs. Bailey; and all who know him would be fully satisfied that nothing was left unsifted.
"I then addressed to the Colonial Secretary, Lord John Russell, the following letter:—
"December, 1839.
"'My Lord," "'Early in the present year it became my duty, as brother of the late Mrs. Maclean, of Cape Coast Castle, to solicit investigation into her fate. As the proper authority to which I could appeal, I sought and had an interview with Sir George Grey, ​at the Colonial Office. The public press teemed with accounts that my sister had either committed suicide, or fallen a victim to poison. This latter supposition was corroborated by my own inquiries among those long familiar with Cape Coast—by the medical comment of Dr. Thomson, my sister's physician, while in England—by the unsatisfactory nature of the inquest—and by the apparent detention of the principal witness. On these and on other grounds, which I submitted in writing, together with Dr. Thomson's medical comment on the inquest, investigation was promised. Subsequently Mr. Labouchere assured me that Lord Normanby had kindly signified that every requisite and expedient inquiry should be instituted. I have received no communication from the Colonial Office, and I now entreat your lordship to authorize my being informed of the result to which the promised investigation has led; and, if at hand, that my papers be returned.
"'It were unbecoming to burden your lordship with any detail, how, on the one hand, I have been charged as unjust towards Mr. Maclean; and, on the other, as slack in the investigation of my sister's memory. I have done only what I felt to be my duty; but it is necessary for me to state, that Mrs. Bailey, the principal witness, has recently returned, and adds little to her deposition, except admitting the fact, that two letters were entrusted to her by my sister the evening before her death; that one of those letters was for me, and so addressed; and that they were given to Mr. Maclean. Those letters have not been received. It is a mournful satisfaction for me now to say, that the statement which at first I submitted (whatever the issue), was substantially correct in every particular.
​ "'Anxious as my family and friends are to close a source of so much aggravated sorrow, and despairing now of any positive proof of her true fate, your lordship's kindness will, I am sure, comply with my request, and enable me as far as possible, to lay at rest the memory of my poor sister. "'I have the honour, &c. (Signed)"'W. H. Landon.'
"To the above letter I received the subjoined reply: —
"'Downing-street, 26th Dec, 1839.
"'Sir, "'I am directed by Lord John Russell to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of the 11th instant, requesting to be informed of the result of the inquiries which you were led to expect his predecessor in office would institute into the causes which led to the melancholy demise of your sister at Cape Coast Castle, and I am to acquaint you in reply, that Lord Normanby had found so many difficulties in the way of a proper investigation, that might with any hope lead to a satisfactory conclusion; that he was forced to abandon his original intention; and Lord John Russell is now, with great regret, for the same reasons, compelled to decide to the same effect. The papers to which you allude, having, from their confidential nature, been diverted from passing through the ordinary official channels, are at present mislaid, but will be returned to you as soon as they may be found. "'I am, Sir, &c. "'R. Vernon Smith.'
"I have only to add to this the expression of my belief, that could any further information have been elicited it would not have been wanting. W. H. L."
​ It is now our duty to offer the explanations with which we have been favoured, with regard to those two points whereon the conduct of Emily Bailey appears calculated to create suspicion; viz. her absence from England for a whole twelvemonth after her return seemed decided upon, and the non delivery of the two letters which had been entrusted to her care by her mistress; both facts—of her intended return and of the letters being given into her hands—being stated in her own deposition at the inquest. Having spoken with her ourselves, we subjoin her explanation upon these subjects, as reduced to writing at the time.
"With respect to the two letters, one for Mr. Landon and the other for Mrs.———, they were merely letters of introduction for myself, which Mrs. Maclean had mentioned she would give me about a fortnight before her death. When she gave them to me, she said the one to her brother was to let him know who I was. She at the same time gave me a lock of hair for him. The one for Mrs.———she said was also a letter of introduction, and it would give me an opportunity of informing Mrs.———what things would be useful and necessary for the country, that she might know what to send her out. As I did not then leave, for the reasons hereafter mentioned, I gave them to my husband, who informed me he gave them to Mr. Maclean. If they were not sent home I cannot account for it, unless it was because I was not coming myself. Indeed, I said to my husband when I gave them to him, that as I was not going it was useless to send them.
"When I left London with Mrs. Maclean it was not agreed that I should stay in Africa, and about three weeks or a month before her death it was ​settled that I should return home, and I was about to leave the morning after her death. This unexpected and sorrowful event delayed the sailing of the vessel some days. My husband having been engaged in England, as steward on board the vessel, through Mr. Maclean's recommendation, without Captain Morley, who was the master of the vessel, being consulted, he took a dislike to him, from that and other things, and they had words on the passage out. When my husband and I were about to embark, Captain Morley said my husband should go before the mast, and not as steward, as on the outward passage (Mr. Maclean no longer having any power, he said, on board the vessel), and that I should go in the steerage. This my husband objected to, and I believe Mr. Maclean also disapproved of it when consulted by my husband, as there were no accommodations in the steerage for a female. We were obliged, therefore, to wait for another opportunity; and, subsequently, my husband received an appointment as overlooker of the labourers, which delayed our return for nearly a twelvemonth. These are the only reasons why I did not return as was originally intended."
In further explanation of the protracted stay of the Baileys, a circumstance which certainly occasioned much anxiety and suspicion in this country, we are enabled to append the statement of Mr. Maclean himself. It forms part of a letter, addressed by that gentleman to Mr. Landon, and dated the 28th February, 1839. Mr. Landon never knew of its existence until apprised of its contents by the writer of these pages—to whose hands a copy of it was committed, so lately as November, 1840.
​ "It seems, also, that I detained the two servants here to prevent their giving evidence against me in England! This must necessarily have been but a surmise—a surmise, too, with as little foundation for it as any of the others. Both Mr. Cruikshank, and the commander of the 'Governor Maclean,' could have proved how very anxious I was for the return of these servants to England after my dear wife's death. Mr. Cruikshank, I think, saw me pay their wages, and make every arrangement for their going; and I was most reluctantly prevailed upon to keep them on the earnest representation of the man-servant (steward), that both he and his wife would be made miserable if forced to go on board the vessel—both having given offence to the commander. I had even talked of their going home before poor Letitia's death, though I had not then really intended it on her account, as she disliked the idea of being without an English female attendant; but the husband being a servant of the vessel, not of mine, I had no right to keep him, and warned him to prepare to go accordingly. Aware, however, that the commander was as anxious to leave them as they were to remain, I knew I should thus secure the woman's services for her mistress, without the appearance of improperly using my authority to deprive a vessel of one of her crew, and without coming under an obligation to either party. But after my poor wife's death, I was unaffectedly anxious for their going, having no possible motive for detaining both of them, though, on account of my illness, I could certainly ill spare the services of the husband. . . . Had I even been wicked enough to wish to stifle their evidence, I had it not in my power, not having seen or spoken to either of them alone, before they were placed ​upon their oaths, and subjected to a close and strict examination."
The letter from which we have, in justice to Mr. Maclean, extracted the foregoing statement, contains some passages that appear to he necessary to a better understanding, first of the circumstances under which L. E. L. wrote her complaints of the "wants, hardships, and house-keeping troubles" to which she was exposed; and next of the conduct which she experienced from her husband, amidst the many distressing influences of illness and occupation that beset him from the moment of his arrival.
Certain allusions in Mr. Maclean's letter to the vague and unsupported rumour, that his wife owed her death to the jealousy of a native female, we pass by, the subject being one on which it is now useless and painful to enter. Mr. Maclean, we presume, was never suspected of having anything either to conceal or to disclose in relation to such a rumour. It is the reference to his own "conduct," and to her "complaints," with which, as a matter of vital interest, we have here to do; and it is exactly the same feeling, the same sense of justice and honour, animating from the beginning the endeavour to do justice to the character of the dead, that has prompted an application to Mr. Maclean's friends in England, for permission to print the passages referred to, in his vindication and in hers—in explanation of much that might otherwise have remained conflicting and mysterious.* ​
First, in reference to rumours which had reached him that various expressions in his wife's letters afforded the presumption that he had "treated her with cruelty," that "her life had become insupportable," and that she had "resolved to end it."*
"It is impossible that such could have been the tenor of her letters . . . It is most true, God knows—and I am not aware that I ever wished or attempted to conceal it—that after our arrival on the coast, it was out of my power to be the same attentive husband that I had endeavoured to be previously. Not only was my health entirely broken, but I frequently suffered acute bodily pain—and if a temporary remission of pain took place, I was harassed almost beyond endurance by an accumulation of business arising from various causes. Thus worn out in body and mind, at a time when I knew the public service demanded my best energies—how could I be the attentive husband I was at other times? But was she one seriously to care for the want of attentions, the absence of those accommodations, or of those trifling articles of luxury, or even of convenience, to which she had been accustomed? Was she one seriously to care for such temporary privations, or even for peevishness of temper, when evidently induced by acute bodily suffering! . . . . I shall never forget the words she used. I had told her that, at one period of my illness, I had felt sure of dying, and that, then, my only thoughts had been about what would become of her. She looked up into my face, and said, 'And do you really think that I could ​survive you? Never believe it, nor take any thought about my fate, for I'm sure I should not live a day after you.' And yet this is she who had written but a few days before, that her existence was insupportable on account of my 'cruelty and indifference!'"
Secondly, in relation to letters, complaining of hardships and of her husband, in terms which he himself knew of, saw and sanctioned.
"I believe I saw all her letters to Mrs.———and others. At least, when I was able to read or listen, she used to bring them to me for the purpose; and I recollect her saying to me (laughingly) 'I promised to tell Mrs.—— all my grievances, and depend upon it I'll keep my word.' I answered in the same tone, 'Do so, by all means, for then I shall be sure to hear of them.' . . . . The letters which I recollect having seen, contained such expressions as these. 'His habits are the most out-of-the-way you can imagine.' 'He is the most unliveable-with person I ever saw.' 'I am terribly at a loss in household matters, and he is so particular.' 'We have splendid plate, and beautiful crystal, but not a thing to clean either with.' 'He is always worrying me to attend to household matters, and not to mind writing nonsense-verses, as he calls them;' with fifty more expressions of the same kind. In fact, I myself made up and sealed the very letters containing these complaints and details of hardships. But little did I, or the writer dream that they were destined to be understood literally—and even in an infinitely worse sense than the words themselves warrant—little did either dream that they were to be made a handle for taxing me with the blackest ingratitude, and cruelty, and indifference, towards her, for whom, God knows, I would gladly have sacrificed my life. . .
​ "I must have seen it, had she been so unhappy. She could not, would not, have so concealed it. I have racked my memory, in order to recollect whether I could have spoken peevishly or unkindly to her during the few days immediately preceding her death—I had just then been relieved from the dreadful pain I had suffered—but I cannot remember having done so, even by accident. . . .
"You will understand that I have here spoken of poor Letitia's situation in its very worst light, at a period when I was ill and suffering cruelly, without alluding to the many hours of happiness, pure unalloyed happiness, and of still happier anticipations of the future, which we have passed together; nor have I said a word of her almost invariable cheerfulness, and (apparent) happiness and contentment, which would alone give the lie to the vile insinuations, so industriously circulated and so eagerly believed."
Mr. Maclean also adverts to the fact, of his having transmitted the letters alluded to, subsequently to his wife's death, which, except upon the principle, Quem Deus vult perdere, prius dementat, he would scarcely have ventured to do, had he felt that there was anything to suppress. "I knew," he says, "the contents of the whole, having made them up, and sealed, and, I think, addressed, a portion of them. I had them in my exclusive possession—in my own sole power; and surely had I been indeed the monster I have been represented, I should, at least, have had the common discretion to destroy or suppress such formidable proofs of my villany." . . .
He then states that on the evening of Sunday, the 14th of October, his wife, seeing him scarcely able to attempt even one or two indispensable ​letters, had kindly offered to write a few lines to his father. "This letter," he says, "was written and given to me to be sealed, late upon the Sunday, about twelve hours before her death;" and he concludes it to be the last she ever wrote, with the exception of that which was found open in her desk. (It was on this evening, however, that she wrote the two missing letters entrusted to Mrs. Bailey.) There is certainly, in this letter to the Rev. Mr. Maclean, no indication of ill-health, ill-spirits, or pining discontent. It is merely an echo of many of the preceding. It describes the illness over which she had watched, and the "intolerable torture" of her husband. " I am most thankful to say that he is recovered now, and I hope he will take a lesson from it of prudence for the future. He desires me to express his regret that his brother did not deliver his letter to Mr. Mathew Forster. I am, however, afraid to repeat his scolding, for it is just what he himself would have done." . . . . " I am quite surprised to find Cape Coast so much better than I had supposed." The account already given of the habits of the natives, of their idleness and love of music, follows this, and the letter terminates with expressions of respect and affection.
In a letter written subsequently to a friend, Mr. Maclean says—"Her letters contain nothing beyond an exaggerated account of the 'awful difficulties' my poor wife experienced 'in her attempt at housekeeping;' and she mentions 'my particularity about having things right,' and a great deal more to the same purpose; merely to show what an excellent wife and house-manager she had become, and how much she had had to go through on account of my illness. I understood the spirit in which they were written."
​ To this friend, Mr. Maclean says, that he has stated his case at its worst, on the principle that a man is a fool if he do not tell his solicitor or physician the real state of affairs, "the whole truth."*
In both letters he professes his desire for the institution of a most rigid inquiry, and his readiness to bear the whole expense of it; adding to this, the expression of his deep anxiety to return to England, to meet every charge, and to enforce investigation. But finding this to be impracticable, he has subsequently authorized an offer to be made in his name—to pay the entire expenses, including, of course, the passage out and home, of any one whom the friends of his late wife might appoint to ​visit Cape Coast, and make inquiries on the spot into all matters connected with her residence and death on the coast of Africa.
One other example of that honourable liberality in all pecuniary matters, which had characterized Mr. Maclean's conduct from the beginning, it would be here an injustice to omit. Soon after the death of his wife, he addressed a letter to Mrs. Landon, intimating his desire to continue to her the income which it was the affectionate hope of her daughter to settle permanently upon her. The offer was declined by the family; but the generous feeling which regarded the proposal but as a duty, and the fulfilment of an implied engagement, is here mentioned with respect.
We now close our extracts from Mr. Maclean's narrative: unconscious of the omission of a single passage calculated to throw light on the events to which it refers, to explain his own conduct, or to vindicate the dead.
Mr. Maclean caused, as we are informed, "the highest honours to be paid to her remains." The arrangements for interment were necessarily made in haste, but the ceremony, we may suppose, was not less solemn from the awful and sudden fate that had overtaken one, who was the object of respect as well as admiration wherever she was known. The inquest having taken place within a few hours after death, the remains of L. E. L. were, on the following day, consigned to a grave dug near the Castle, and within the wall enclosing it. It was the immediate wish of Mr. Maclean to place above this grave a suitable memorial, and his desire was expressed in the earliest letter which he sent to ​England; but we believe that some delay took place in the execution of the order he issued, from the necessity of referring back to the Coast for information as to the intended site of the monument, in order that it might be prepared accordingly. "A handsome marble tablet" is now, it appears, on its way to Cape Coast, to be erected in the castle, bearing the following inscription: —
"Hic jacet sepultum
Omne quod mortalo fuit
Letitiæ Elizabethæ Maclean.
Quam egregia, ornatam indole
Musis unicè amatam,
Omniumque amores secum trahentem,
In ipso ætatis flore Mors immatura rapuit.
Die Octobris xv. a.d., md.ccc.xxxviii.
Ætat. xxxvi.
Quod spectas, viator, marmor,
Vanum heu doloris monumentum
Conjux mœrens erexit.
"Here lies interred
All that was mortal
Of Lætitia Elizabeth Maclean.
Adorned with a pure mind,
Singularly favoured of the Muses,
And dearly beloved by all,
She was prematurely snatched away
by death in the flower of her age,
On the 13th of October 1838,
Aged 36 years.
The marble which you behold, O traveller,
a sorrowing husband has erected,
vain emblem of his grief."
A writer, equally characterized by acute intellect and a zeal for truth, justly urged, at the time, that the duty of investigation was rendered the more imperative by the scene of the transaction. "A small colonial settlement," he observed, "in a ​barbarous region, like that of Cape Coast Castle, is, of all places in the world, that which most needs jealous supervision. Savage life and despotic power are rude elements, whether in agreement or in collision. Such localities are the fitting haunts of oppressions, sufferings, and crimes, that could not exist in the sunshine of civilization. When, on what proved to be the last evening of her life, the departure of her only European attendant was announced to L. E. L., how completely were her own lines verified,
'I seem to stand beside a grave,
And stand by it alone.'
To her admirers in this country it is now as if her unconscious corpse were in banishment. The feeling is not to be repressed that sympathy and justice require us to look thitherward, and not to leave all that has passed to be quietly covered with oblivion."
"Should there," he asked, pursuing this subject, "be nothing more than an ejaculation of passive regret, when life has been made unendurable to one whom it seemed preparing to crown with fame and happiness? As yet in the very bloom of life, with growing powers and reputation, a new world of nature around her, and her former world anxiously beginning to calculate the length of her sojourn; endowed with qualities of heart that, by those who knew her, are spoken of still more enthusiastically than her clear intellect and brilliant fancy, and but recently entered on that stage which, if sanctified by the attention that constitutes its essence, is the most blissful on earth; what could produce the tremendous revulsion implied in the fatal act? Any imputation, either on conduct or temper, as a disposing cause, is effectually precluded by the evidence of her husband. So entire was his satisfaction, so full his approval, that even slight and unavoidable irritability had met with no provocation, and he deposes that not an unkind word had ever passed between them. There must be some deep fault, some great personal or social wrong, somewhere; or whence the mournful catastrophe?"
​ Here, after many months have elapsed, and all possible inquiry has been anxiously and unweariedly made, we must leave what additional evidence has been dragged to light, to weigh against the melancholy impressions that her life had become "unendurable," and that the catastrophe was more "mournful" than accident or mere suddenness could render it. Against all such impressions we must religiously set, not merely the testimonies here collected, but the natural cheerfulness of her disposition, the buoyant feelings and resolute habits of a life—the crown of "fame and happiness" prepared for her—the growing powers and reputation, the new world of nature around her, and the recent entrance on that novel stage of enjoyment and interest adverted to above. Her amiable relative, the cousin who was her preceptor and friend in early youth, speaks of her thus:—"She endured pain with surprising fortitude whenever exertion was required; I have never met with any one who was so capable of it in any difficulty. Her ideas were always clear and at her command; she seemed to see what others never thought of." Faith in this fortitude and self-sustaining power, may well guard us against gloomy and needless fears, when we remember how faithful was her discharge of duty in the more sacred relations of life, how lofty and severe was her sense of what yet remained for her to do in that respect, how cheerfully she looked forward to the task, and what advantages she possessed for accomplishing it honourably and happily.
A touching and graceful compliment was once paid to L. E. L. It was a tribute from America, ​sent from the far-off banks of the Ohio—a curious species of the Michigan rose, accompanied by a prayer that she would plant it on the grave of Mrs. Hemans. To no hand could it have been more appropriately transmitted, than to the hand which wrote so reverently and so rapturously of the genius of that gifted woman. Not only did L. E. L. (who missed the happiness of knowing Mrs. Hemans personally) pour out her love and praise in melodious verse, but in an essay on the character of her writings, admirably analyzed and asserted their claim to permanent remembrance. One solemn passage from this paper, will find here an appropriate place.
"Did we not know this world to be but a place of trial—our bitter probation for another and for a better—how strange in its severity would seem the lot of genius in a woman. The keen feeling—the generous enthusiasm—the lofty aspiration—and the delicate perception—are given but to make the possessor unfitted for her actual position. It is well; such gifts, in their very contrast to the selfishness and the evil with which they are surrounded, inform us of another world—they breathe of their home, which is Heaven! the spiritual and the inspired in this life but fit us to believe in that which is to come. With what a sublime faith is this divine reliance expressed in all Mrs. Hemans's later writings. As the clouds towards nightfall melt away on a fine summer evening into the clear amber of the west, leaving a soft and unbroken azure whereon the stars may shine through; so the troubles of life, its vain regrets and vainer desires, vanished before the calm close of existence—the hopes of Heaven rose steadfast at last—the light shone from the windows of her home as she approached unto it."
​ We have said nothing of the religious principles of L. E. L., nor need we after this, which so eloquently expresses much in a few words; unless it be to remark, that even in regard to her religious feelings and belief, she was not always free from misrepresentation. She was a constant attendant at Divine worship. Faith and hope she had at all times in the beauty and heavenliness of Christianity; and, if her charity exceeded even these in its truth and steadfastness, it was only because that has been pronounced to be the greatest of the Three.
To the foregoing may be added, as another instance of her superiority to literary jealousy, and of ungrudging admiration of genius and virtue in her own sex, her recollection of one "who was equally amiable and accomplished"—of her who married and went to India, "full of hope and belief, and thinking she might do much good; but the tomb suddenly closed upon her warm and kindly heart." The allusion is to the author of "The Three Histories," the excellent Miss Jewsbury, afterwards the wife of the Rev. Mr. Fletcher.
'Day by day,
Gliding like some dark mournful stream away,
My silent youth flows from me.'
"Alas! it was the shadow of the early grave that rested upon her."
​ No one who conversed as L. E. L. did could be insensible to the enjoyment of such companionship as Miss Jewshury's. There was in it a moral, as well as an intellectual fascination; and L. E. L.'s gayer, and much less guarded and disciplined spirits were not proof against its influence. She had been tamed from high raillery, or almost childish glee, to a seriousness not less natural in her, though less seldom indulged in society, by the mastery of that eloquence, which she compares to a book full of thought and poetry. This charm was mutual. In thought, habit, manner, few persons bore less resemblance to each other; but there were some strong affinities of feeling between them, that brought them near and made them friends; some fine sympathies, which they had in common, and which fitted them to enjoy the converse both were so able to maintain. Perhaps the very contrasts between them favoured in some respects this appreciation of each other's powers. What L. E. L. thought of her grave and high-minded friend, she, on various occasions, expressed with characteristic warmth; how that friend thought and felt towards the brilliant L. E. L. we see expressed in a correspondence that followed their first meeting in London. At parting, Miss Jewsbury, playfully expressing her dislike "to be associated either on the 'red-leaved table' of a drawing-room, or of a heart, with an olive-coloured book," withdraws the dim volume her friend had detained as a memorial, and substitutes one more appropriate. "The English of all which," she continues, "is, that you will never see Pascal again, but must take the accompanying memorial, instead of a very warm friend. And now, farewell! The feeling with which I bid you farewell would amount to real ​pain did I not hope to renew our intimacy next season, and exchange occasional letters between now and then. John Gilpin 'little dreamed when he set out' of losing his wig, nor I of losing any portion of anything like heart. Farewell! Never write with a ruby pen to me, or eke a crow-quill. Abuse me as little as your witty mischief will permit, and shield me from the wit of others when convenient—
'And I'll avenge the feud myself
When I come o'er the sea!'
Furthermore take care of your health. Remember the sage citizeness's words—
'What avail these loads of wealth
Without that choicest blessing, health!'
Protect your chest like a miser. Finally, believe me, with truth and simplicity, very affectionately, and in many things very admiringly, your friend."
It was the fate of this deeply-regretted lady, as it was the fate, at no distant day, of her whom she thus addressed, to marry and quit her native country, to die prematurely amidst the new hopes and prospects that grow out of a new tie, but far from the old and cherished friends by whom she craved to be remembered.
————"She pass'd from sight;—
So in the East comes sudden night!"
"Alas! hope is not prophecy—we dream.
But rarely does the glad fulfilment come;
We leave our land, and we return no more!"
than the passage became applicable to her who had quoted it in sympathy and regard.
Few ladies, perhaps, certainly few authoresses, have found more friends and acquaintances among their own sex than L. E. L. Some of them, possibly, she may have owed to that feeling which, associating her with her poetry and thus familiarizing itself, forbade the idea of strangership and the cold language of ceremony, even when addressing her for the first time. We assume, from the tone of several letters, that this was the case. Her introduction to Miss Mitford seems to have had its origin partly in this feeling: since, designating her "My dear Miss Landon," she says, "I do not address you as a stranger because I cannot think of you as one." But however acquaintanceship may have in any case commenced, it is certain that her intimacies, amongst her own sex, were neither few nor slight. In several instances, honourable in every sense as conveying proofs of her virtuous feeling and amiable temper, these intimacies ripened into the closest and most trusting friendships. Nor was it her fortune merely to make friends, but to retain them to the last. Now and then, indeed, she might share the common lot, and find even her own sex "a little lower than the angels;" estrangement might here and there ensue, from some infirmity of temper, or some literary mistake; but of this she experienced as little as most people, while it was her happiness to feel that the ties of grateful attachment which bound her to some of the best and purest among women, grew stronger as they grew older.
​ We are not speaking here merely of literary intimacies, or, we should rather say, of intimacies with ladies to whom our literature is indebted. Of the friendship she thus enjoyed, some pleasant examples have been cited in the course of our narrative; and to the names of Mrs. Thomson, Mrs. Hall, Miss Roberts, Miss Mitford, Miss Jewsbury, &c., may be added those of Lady Stepney, Lady Emmeline Stuart Wortley, Miss Jane Porter, Miss Louisa Stuart Costello, and Miss Strickland. But the list of acquaintances by whom she was held in estimation, and to whom her visits had often given pleasure, admits of many additions, in the names of Miss Turin, with whom she stayed in Paris, Mrs. General Fagan, to whom her latest letter was addressed, Lady Gore Ousely, Mrs. Dawson Damer, Mrs. Skinner, Mrs. Kemmis, Mrs. and Miss Sheldon, &c., from some of whom her marriage and departure from England brought letters expressive of the highest personal esteem, and the friendliest regret at the loss of her society. We need hardly here mention the Misses Lance—those amiable persons with whom it was L. E. L.'s good fortune to reside so long, who knew all her acts, all her habits, all her conduct so well, and who esteemed because they knew her.
While thus alluding to some of L. E. L.'s female friends, we are agreeably reminded of one who has that equal right to be included amongst them; which a long preserved and intimate attachment confers. We allude to Miss Thomson, now Mrs. John Moren, a young friend with whom L. E. L. frequently corresponded, and who, while these sheets were passing through the press, has favoured us with some pleasant proofs of her advantages in that respect. These are to be found in the letters ​we now subjoin. The tone of them is too lively, pointed, and characteristic, not to be welcomed by every reader who may take an interest in the familiar writings of L. E. L. Though thus inserted out of place, the period at which they were written will be inferred from some of the subjects incidentally adverted to.
"Good, bad, or indifferent, my dearest Anna, I intend giving you a full and particular account of all my news, adventures, &c, I hope you are not particular as to quality, for truly nothing extraordinary has befallen me. I have been a little sullen and a little sick: the first was want of money, and the last, as they say in riddles, arose from my first. I am happy to tell you, that two pale pink cheques, inscribed with a name at once 'so dreaded and so dear,' (what lover's name will ever make my breast beat as does that of Messrs. Longman?) these, with one prescription of your father's have completely restored that happy equilibrium which constitutes health; and I am under no present apprehensions that the professors of the 'London' will be enabled to demonstrate from my skull the origin of sense and sensibility. I beg you to observe the technicalities of my language; I have not read the 'Magazine' for nothing; I am grown so learned on the transmigration of plants, that I made a sweet youth start and draw his chair three paces from mine at dinner in consequence. No smile could restore my lost ground, and we preserved a reverential distance during the dessert.
So————is married! Saturday last shone on white gloves, and whiter satin. I had a note from her, literally overflowing with happiness. I feel inclined to ask Solomon’s question—'What is sweeter ​than honey?' for, truly, honeymoon seems nothing to express their felicity. Well, I do wish her all sorts of good wishes, and think she is as likely to be what you may call contented as anybody I know.
"Mrs.———has just interrupted me, to ask if I am writing to you on such nasty paper.' My dear Anna, you are to consider it as a personal compliment: you must expect that one who intends to be a constant correspondent cannot afford to ruin herself in satin paper, &c. That lady sends the kindest of loves. She is happy in the recent purchase of a superb chantilly veil, down to her knees, and a vapeur silk bonnet, lined with black velvet, trimmed with a leopard ribbon vapeur with large black floss-silk spots. She has no new flirtation on hand, and is living on the memory of your brother, and the hope of Pannizi.
"I dined last Sunday in Hinde-street. Coming home, I did not dare walk for my cold, so I rode; the coach broke down, and I had to be pulled out of the window; a mere trifle, I can assure you, when you are used to it. My brother has been up in town for a week; I am happy to tell you I observed no symptoms of moonlight or melancholy about him. I have such a horror of living in the country: hawthorn hedges and unhappy attachments always go together in my mind; but when I found he listened with all the attention of interested conviction, when I said a lady's face should be looked for in the three per cents, and her figure in her landed property, I felt safe in the belief that he would deeply enter into the merits of an heiress. As for my own situation, I do think it very dangerous; for dull, desolate, and autumnal Hans-place is almost as bad as the country. Besides, idleness is the root of all mischief, and now ​my book is out, I have nothing to do; and the streets are perambulated by such picturesque-looking gentlemen in dark blue, that one forgets they are policemen, and fancies them into heroes.
Miss Fanny Kemble has produced such a sensation. I have not seen her. I want to see her in some other character than Juliet. I am afraid you will think it high treason; but it is not a favourite play of mine: it is anything but my beau-ideal of love. Juliet falls in love too suddenly, and avows it too openly; and Romeo changes too suddenly from one lady to another; to my thought their love wants sentiment. Viola is my pet: so devoted—so subdued; began in girlhood—cherished as the lonely but deep feeling of after years; I think Shakspeare never drew a more exquisite picture of feminine love!"
At another time she writes:
"I take it for granted you intend attacking my most ungrateful self, and write to petition against meeting with my deserts. My only excuse for not writing is in the spirit of the French philosopher—the best thing you can do for your friends is to let them forget you. I do think I never passed so unfortunate or so miserable a year as since we last met. * * Once in difficulties, there you may remain; debts are like cross-roads, one leads into another; and it really is a very extravagant thing to be poor. * * If I could have seen you how glad I should have been to have talked to you; and the real cause why I have not written is, that to write a letter one must be by oneself; I then get thinking my own thoughts, till I am too much out of spirits to write. As for news, it is barely ​possible to have less to tell than I have; we are a little duller, if possible; the very policemen complain of their station, and petition to be removed from Hans-place.
“Mr.———is married, and has most unpatriotically married out of the parish. The lady is not pretty, and a saint. I was at some very gay balls at Miss———; she had a new, and very good set of Americans. I liked the present minister's family so much. I have been to one or two pleasant dinners, and some very delightful parties. I find———the most exquisite addition to London; there is only one fault, that going to their house quite disgusts you with any other place. Comparatively, I went out very little last season. I am sick of parties, and go only for the credit of saying I have been there. Miss———has had a legacy left her, on the strength of which, she set out on a tour to Scotland; and did go as far as Barnet. She says she cannot sit down under her laurels, and intends leaving literary pursuits to needy people."
And now, we close our specimens of the letters of L. E. L. with a brief passage, wherein is displayed the mingled gravity and gaiety—the gay humour greatly preponderating—that generally constituted the feeling with which she alluded to any heavier or accumulated literary labour. Her good spirits, and her joy in the tasks she imposed upon herself, might usually be seen, as here, through the vehemence and ardour of her complaints of fatigue. She liked to tire herself.
"'Death or apology!' I offer neither; as to death, I don't—(discontented as I am with the world)—I do not precisely wish to die; and as to apology, no mere apology would, even if it ​satisfied you, satisfy myself; and yet come to Hendon I cannot; printers are 'stronger than love,' and the press 'more cruel than the grave.' I am in the agonies of my last volume, unable to sleep for thinking of my preface, and unable to eat for meditating my dedication; also, I know not which way to turn for a motto. Moreover, this is my very busiest time, writing for the annuals. Therefore, instead of apologizing, I leave you to judge of the impossibility. 'The fascinations of Hans-place!' vivid must be the imagination that could discover them.
'Never hermit in his cell,
Where repose and silence dwell,
Human shape and human word,
Never seen and never heard'—
had a life of duller calm than the indwellers of our square. * * There is one conclusion at which I have arrived, that a horse in a mill has an easier life than an author. I am fairly fagged out of my life."
Such parties as some of those which are alluded to in the preceding letters, as being to L. E. L. sources of amusement at one time, and weariness at another, might be more specifically mentioned, were it necessary to show by what persons of worth and honour her society was courted. L. E. L. was never won by aristocratic influences alone—never captivated by title, or mere condescending profession. Miss Emma Roberts, who in many respects knew her so well, has remarked—"though exceedingly indifferent to the vanities of worldly intercourse, and not caring to number lords and ladies among her acquaintance, for the sake of their titles only, L. E. L. was by no means insensible to the ​more flattering testimonies of the esteem in which she was held by those whose good opinion conferred honour." And among the aristocracy were several persons, dignified alike by virtue and talent, who delighted to call her friend, and in whose esteem she was equally happy.
The reception her talents won for her in various distinguished circles, she insured to herself, to the very last, by her winningness of disposition and rectitude of conduct, and at no period of her life were such marks of kindness and appreciation conferred upon her as during the last two years of it. The election of her brother, which called forth many of these, has already been noticed, with the flattering expressions of Sir Robert Peel and Mr. Hope upon that occasion. The list might be extended to considerable length; in it would be found many illustrious names. And it should be mentioned that for no little of the interest and favour thus conferred on L. E. L., she was indebted to the generous sympathy of a lady whom she never even saw—to that kindly regard, admiration, and assistance, which talent is sure to experience from the Countess of Blessington. From a multitude of letters, by persons who could only be influenced by a high and disinterested sense of her deserts, passages of encomium might here be adduced, and woven, were it necessary, into an eulogy of which the most distinguished might be proud—that eulogy which renders the truest homage to genius, by estimating at a still higher value the moral excellence that dignifies and refines it.
It is much, to be admired and esteemed by many; it is more, to have been truly beloved by a few; and both these fortunes met in the destiny of L. E. L. It was her desert, and no more.
The qualities which claim our admiration, so far ​from being those with which the public were most familiar, were perhaps those which she least publicly exhibited. She did better justice to her moral than to her intellectual gifts. To her genius, exercised either in poetry or prose, she was only just learning to do justice when she died; but in both the progress was perceptible and sure. We have but to compare the light and spangled drapery of her earlier muse, with the chastened colours and the simpler forms in which Poetry came arrayed in her later productions, to see what she was yearly becoming, and to predict what she would have been if she had lived. High and solemn thought had found the place where wild fancy or extravagant sentiment alone had revelled before; knowledge had succeeded to mere impulse or reckless speculation; the feelings had become more deeply seated, as the heart beat less feverishly; the sportive child had sprung into the woman.
Look to the glowing and impassioned pages of the "Improvvisatrice;" admire all that is naturally musical in the verse, beautiful in the romance of affection, rich and graceful in the imagery; and then measure her success by the calmer and deeper tenor, the bolder combinations of thought, the loftier pictures, and the nobler purposes of her best poems in the "New Monthly," and the "Drawing-room Scrap-book." The idea became purer as her knowledge of the actual advanced; and her dreams deepened in loveliness from her intercourse with the world. The severities of criticism, and more especially, perhaps, the sting of ridicule, aided in the production of this change. As she sprang almost from the arms of the teacher into those of fame, she had won the wreath of poetry before she knew it was anything more lasting than a pretty ​ornament to be worn in a ball-room, and before she had found out its full value, it had apparently ceased to charm. To her active and unwearied mind, the contest for the prize was better than the possession of it. Quick and vivid sensation was a necessity in her nature; visions, rhapsodies, reveries, were the natural offspring of her excitable and imaginative temperament; these would make themselves heard, taking the expression of the moment, and she "lisped in numbers, for the numbers came;" she wrote on, because she could not help it.
But to what end? Was she to go on writing Troubadours and Golden Violets all her days—apostrophizing loves, memories, hopes, and fears, for ever, in scattered songs and uncompleted stanzas, and running the chance of weakening the effect of her past music by the monotony of the note? That she was in danger of doing this was indicated by the tide of criticism that set in against her. It stimulated her to a gradual change of the poetic note that had acquired for her more popularity that she could permanently retain. Her thoughts found a deeper channel, and flowed still more freely; her observation took a wider range, and scanned the features of life as they presented themselves to her earnest gaze—not as she had imaged them in the pages of chivalry and romance, or shaped them for herself amidst the grotesque fancies of a dream. She discovered that her powers acquired elasticity, as the subjects on which they were exercised became more various; and that the world widened as she went on. Reality, in short, grew as familiar to her as Romance. She led Prose captive, as she had led Poetry. She became the author of "Francesca Carrara," and of "Ethel Churchill." Compare these works (the latest of ​them written in 1837) as evidences of advance with the Romance and Reality of 1830.
It was still provoking, occasionally, to observe a lingering attachment to some of her worst faults—to see her, with the consciousness that she had scattered the seeds of many pleasures in the world, with a full sense of what ought by all to be enjoyed, and of the human capacity to enjoy, perversely contrasting the actual with the ideal, not seemingly with a view to kindle emulation in her readers, but to put them out of heart with themselves; to find her deprecating what is, for the mere sake of glorifying what is not and cannot be. It would have been delightful to own that she had entirely ceased to cultivate her want of faith in the world's virtue, since nobody had more practical charity for the world's vice. But the pleasure next to this remains for us, in the proof that she was in a fair way to do it; that her advance to a right understanding of her own powers was regular and certain; and that her use of those fine gifts was becoming as admirable as the gifts themselves.
To her affections, throughout this period of intellectual progress—to her womanly sympathies—to her kind and generous disposition, she did ample justice. "Whatever errors may have been hers," observes a living writer, in a letter full of sad regrets for her loss, "what excuses she had! and: what noble qualities! what independence of spirit—what generosity and loftiness of feeling! The head of a man, and the heart of a woman."
Much as she was misrepresented, we never knew L. E. L. to be even suspected of a meanness. Of anything little, or paltry, or shabbily selfish, she was utterly incapable. She seemed in her very soul to scorn whatever was sordid. On the other ​hand, we know that she was capable of the most unselfish, the most imprudently generous actions. In pecuniary matters, this may almost be said to have been her ordinary rule of conduct. To the last, she was in the habit of giving away her labour, which to her was money—as she would give away the money with which her principal labours were rewarded. We know her to have offered, upon one occasion, in a manner the most exquisitely delicate, fifty pounds which she could very ill spare, to a friend who had no claim upon her on earth, but for the good wishes which were mutual. In some years, her income was not small, though, for the reason stated, her literary profits were seldom so large as they seemed to be; and in one of those years, 1832, she derived an extra sum of between three and four hundred pounds, under the will of her grandmother, who appointed her sole executrix and legatee. Yet this, like all her literary receipts, she expended freely and liberally; so little of her money being "laid out upon herself," that those who only knew that she received such sums and did not hoard them, wondered what she did with them. Her own occasional inconveniences, from a scarcity of funds, only served to render her more keenly alive to the necessities of any one, whom her affection, her esteem, or her gratitude, in its romantic excess, had invested with a claim upon her assistance.
In our cursory remarks upon her writings, we have freely commented upon her passion for effect. The reflection here occurs—how different a person was the L. E. L. who delighted in saying brilliant things, to the L. E. L. who delighted in doing disinterested and generous actions. Here there never was the remotest view to effect—never the most ​distant consciousness that any advantage was to be gained by the good done, but the pleasure of doing it. The author ceased to exist when the pen was laid down. She reversed in her practice the quality attributed to Garrick—she never acted when off the stage; it was then that she became most herself, and most merited the praise of being "natural, simple, affecting." She was most beautiful when farthest removed from those artificial lights in which she was too fond of exhibiting herself. In her, the constant flush of the affections was, after all, lovelier than the sparkling fancy or the glowing intellect.
What her real feelings towards her friends were, may be partly seen by her letters to some of the dearest of them; this is to a certain extent true also of her opinions and tastes; but here she was not so serious, and the rule is the less unerring. We find an example in a fact to which Dr. Thomson has directed our attention, that notwithstanding her devoted affection for the metropolis, expressed in several of the letters now published, she had in reality a fine taste for the beauties of the country. "In a visit," says that constant friend of L. E. L., "with which she favoured us at Brokham, near Dorking, we were in the habit of walking out daily; and whilst Mrs. Thomson would sit down to sketch from nature,*<ref>* This incident is alluded to in one of the last letters L. E. L. ever wrote. How fondly were such scenes remembered in Africa.</poem> L. E. L. would take my arm and range over the fields for hours together, stopping every now and then to expatiate on the beauty of some new opening scene, or to listen while I explained the botanical character of a wild flower, or some fact in vegetable physiology. ​On these occasions, she would make observations and hazard opinions, which obviously demonstrated that the grasp of her intellect would have been productive of equally great results in whatever direction it had been turned, whether by accident or by circumstances. She long recurred with pleasure to that visit; and it was, on that occasion, that I first was enabled to estimate justly, the depth of her affection, as well as the capaciousness of her intellect; the one warm, generous, unalterable—the other capable of any effort, imaginative or substantial. Her powers of conversation, when her mind was not bent on being playful, were great, and her remarks original. Whatever might have been the irritability of L. E. L. in early life, she, at that visit, displayed the sweetest and most amiable temper—mild, gentle, and conciliating; and on no future occasion had I ever cause to alter this opinion of her disposition."
L. E. L. deserved the praise which in one emphatic word she bestowed upon her friend, Miss Jewsbury—she was high-minded. This she was, whatever errors and weaknesses might intervene, in every important relationship of life; this she was alike in the liberality of her conditions with publishers—in the reliance she placed on all good intentions—and in intercourse under any circumstances with friends; this she was under every trial of her affections, amidst all injustice to which she was exposed, and throughout her conduct to her family. What she was during the brief interval between her marriage and her death, her husband has told us—she was animated by the purest sense of duty—a being the most devoted and self-denying—all that is most enduring, courageous, and uncensurable.
​ We have now a pleasant duty, to connect with these records the recollections of two or three of L. E. L.'s personal friends, and the tributes of a few other writers who have expressed themselves most worthily in relation alike to her genius and her misfortunes.
And with respect to her genius, the course she should have more diligently pursued for its cultivation, was pointed out in a friendly note, written by the late William Gifford,to a mutual acquaintance, just before his relinquishment of the editorship of the "Quarterly Review;" in respect to which he says, "there is little or no chance of my holding my station for another number." Had L. E. L. strictly followed his plain advice, she would earlier have attained the elevation to which her later writings were rapidly advancing her.
"Meanwhile," he says, "the young lady must plume her wings for a steadier flight. She has fancy, a good ear, a command of poetical language, and a quick succession of imagery; but all these will not make a good, much less a great poet, without correct taste and feeling and knowledge. Your amiable friend, she may be assured, cannot retain her present elevation in the public mind, but by something of a more decisive description, of a more uniform and direct tendency than her last poem. If I might advise her, she should no longer dance from measure to measure in the same story, but end with that she began—either lyric or heroic:—and let her plan her subject at first, and not trust to accident for its course and end."
The passages that follow are selected from recollections which we owe to a female pen—the same that supplied a note descriptive of L. E. L.'s study, in the earlier part of our narrative. Since this ​lady's personal acquaintance with L. E. L. commenced, in 1835, the circumstances of occasional intercourse have been peculiarly favourable for knowing and estimating her rightly. Little, indeed, as she remarks, can we judge of real character from the superficial views only which general society presents; least of all, of such beings as L. E. L.
"It was my privilege to associate with her in a circle comprising some among the few of her heart's chosen and trusted friends—those to whom she opened her inmost soul—those as she emphatically said, 'who loved her for her own sake, not admiring or flattering her because she was L. E. L.' The idea of being sought merely for her literary popularity ever roused her disdain; and she would speak in no measured terms of persons who considered themselves as patronizing literary characters, by inviting them as sources of amusement or objects of curiosity. 'What!' she would indignantly exclaim, quoting her own expressive lines—
'Be made the wonder of a night,
As if the soul could be a sight."
"By the friends referred to she was understood and appreciated in all her varying moods, literary or social. Their homes were the green and sunny spots where her spirit looked for rest when worn and wearied in the crowded highways of the world. Their generous kindness, and protecting care, were around her during the last few months she dwelt in her native land, securing her comfort, and shielding her from anxiety.
"How vividly does memory recall my first visit with L. E. L., that lonely morning room with its sweet garden prospect, its birds and flowers, its ​books and works of art, all arranged with exquisite taste. The place itself was one of the few spots out of town for which L. E. L. seemed to possess an affection. There she often read to us, sometimes her own poems. Her style of reading was peculiar, a kind of recitative, more poetical than musical, derived rather from the soul than from the ear—but giving the fullest effect to every variation of thought, feeling, and character. She became for the time a literal improvvisatrice; and you listened entranced to the earnest but varying intonations of her voice, as if it were pouring from her soul in all their first freshness, the beautiful creations of which she was the previous originator.
"With evening usually came a change over L. E. L. In the more general circle which the dinner hour assembled, she might often be found like her own Eulalie —
'The centre of a group whose courage light
Made a fit element, in which her wit
Flash'd like the lightning.'
It was often interesting to compare the L. E. L. of the morning with the Miss Landon of the evening. Alike, yet how different. Genius now folded its wings, and walked forth in the garb of social life. Yet still might that genius be recognized in the courteous and nicely fitting compliment, the piquant remark, the brilliant repartee, and sometimes in the full flow of eloquence. Abundantly amusing was it to watch how she almost intuitively read the characters of those before her, and with what tact she adapted her conversation to each and all. In their varying tastes, however opposed to her own, she would be sure to express a grateful interest. She never appeared conscious of her own ​superiority—one often heard her spoken of as a pleasant, unassuming girl. There seemed, also, constantly in exercise, a good-natured toleration of what, by many, would be deemed impertinent. One evening, a 'butterfly of fashion' hearing Miss Landon's name mentioned, begged for an introduction; and, in a few minutes afterwards, seated with L. E. L. on a step of the conservatory, was heard to express her satisfaction in having met with such a kindred heart, as she was sure Miss Landon's must prove!
"It was an especial pleasure to hear her converse on Shakspeare. It was more difficult to please her taste on this than on any other literary subject. Very few criticisms came up to her standard. These characters, she would say, require not only the feeling of a poet to appreciate, but the analytic skill of a philosopher to examine them as they deserve. To her favourable opinions of the works of her contemporaries, L. E. L. ever gave free and generous expression. Writing to a young author, she observes, 'Criticism never yet benefitted a really original mind; such a mind macadamizes its own road.' Jealousy seemed utterly opposed to her nature. In the petty rivalries which sometimes disturb the outer-court worshippers of the Muses, she even disdained to take part, except in vindication of a friend. Her disposition was peculiarly disinterested; she never paused to think of herself when others required any assistance which she could bestow.
“Many people have been at a loss to reconcile her love of poetry with her apparent indifference to music and painting. That she did not care for scientific music, nor for elaborate pictures, merely as music or as painting, was certainly true; yet, in ​the midst of an interesting conversation, a few notes of melody floating to her ear from an adjoining room would cause her to start up, utter an exclamation of deep emotion, and then diverge from the previous topic into some discussion most musical and sweet. As for painting, it was impossible that its combinations should not be duly appreciated by one whose own taste was exquisitely picturesque, using that term in its artistic, rather than in its sometimes more romantic application. Miss Landon's refined taste would instantly detect the slightest incongruity in the arrangements of a room, in the appointment of a table, in the adaptation of colours in dress, and in the attitudes and manners of persons. Equally quick was she in admiring to the least minutiæ any circumstances accordant with the principles of good taste. L. E. L.'s appreciation of painting, like that of music was intellectual rather than mechanical, belonging to the combinations rather than to the details; she loved the poetical effects and suggestive influences of the arts, although caring little for their mere technicalities.
"Everything seemed accomplished by her without effort. Her thoughts seemed to spring up spontaneously on any proposed subject; so that her literary tasks were completed with a quickness that to slower minds wore almost the aspect of intuition. In truth she could say—
'I but call
My trusty spirits, and they come.'
In her conversation, too, there was the like use, the like rapidity of transition, together with a correspondent quickness of utterance, as if her beautiful thoughts were glad to escape into expression. ​With what rapidity would she utter such sentiments as the following:—'It ever seems so strange to me that people should mistake the semblance of excessive cheerfulness, when it is assumed only as a mask to conceal the real features of the wearer. When mirth takes a sarcastic form, it always gives me an idea of the speaker's own internal wretchedness or deep sense of injury; for when does the foam mantle highest on the wave and sparkle brightest in the sunshine? Is it not when that wave is passing over the jagged rock, and the rough stone, lurking beneath?'
"The last period, of any length, I spent under the same roof with L. E. L., was for a month immediately before her departure from England. Her mind and her time were necessarily so occupied, that we had only occasional glimpses of her own real self. Sometimes, however, she would throw off all that pressed upon her, and be entirely the L. E. L. of former days."
It has been remarked that it was only when with the frivolous that she assumed frivolity. The writer of the above recollections, therefore, must have seen her in her happier and more serious moods.
Mrs. S. C. Hall, commenting upon the portraits of her lamented friend, remarks,
"It is singular that so few portraits of this accomplished woman should have been painted. For nearly twenty years she occupied a large portion of public attention; and, during the whole of her career, was almost idolized by the young and warm-hearted. Although certainly not beautiful—perhaps she can scarcely be described as handsome—her countenance possessed that which an artist prizes above beauty, at least above the beauty that is without it—expression; her features were not regular, but they were pleasing and attractive at all times; and when animated, had a character approximating to loveliness. Her form, too, though petite, was graceful. She had a large acquaintance among artists, to whose ​society she was always especially partial. Is it not strange, then, that so few have employed the pencil in perpetuating the remembrance of one so dear to fame, and whose works must for ever form a conspicuous part of the literary history of the age?"
That she merited every compliment at their hands, by her own high conceptions of painting, and her qualification for judging of whatever was most elevated in the works of artists, is undoubtedly true; and evidence of her sympathy with them is given with matchless force and beauty, in the "Subjects for Pictures," which appear in these volumes.
The same writer observes—
"Though quite unskilled in the language of the schools, she had a fine feeling for 'The art that can immortalize.' I remember her once speaking of artists in her usual animated and pictorial manner, and concluding by saying, 'that they deserved all honour, they idealize humanity.' What a string of pearls I might have gathered, had I noted down the thoughts that fell in sayings from her lips."
In 1822 or 3, she sat to Mr. Pickersgill for a portrait. It has not been engraved; though like, in many respects, it was not a pleasing resemblance. An engraving that accompanied a sketch of her life, in the "New Monthly," some years ago, was still less successful; and we remember the gravity with which she complained that the painter, or the engraver, had magnified her ears, of the prettiness of which she could not but be conscious, in a most libellous manner. To Maclise she sat three or four times, with better success on each occasion. With the last portrait from his hand it would be unreasonable to be in any way dissatisfied. It is a delightful record of the serene, yet lively, ​thoughtfulness that was so often seen to lighten up her expressive countenance. Later than this, and but a few months before her marriage, a medallion portrait of her, in plaster, was executed by Mr. Weekes. Although the profile was not the happiest view of her face, the likeness is sufficiently faithful to be very agreeable; and were the throat less long, and the bust less broad and full, the resemblance would be perfect. It is cleverly executed, but has not yet been published. Nor should we here forget to mention the miniature likeness with which the grateful anxiety of Mr. Schloss adorned his "Bijou Almanack."
As a pen and ink drawing, we know nothing so minutely and carefully filled up as the following portrait, for which we are indebted to the loving remembrance of a youthful friend of L. E. L., with whose name we are unacquainted. With one or two exceptions which we are disposed to make, for there will be differences of opinion even about such matters of fact as lofty foreheads and black lashes, the picture is no exaggeration, and may be received as an atonement for the feebleness of the sketch which our own recollection has supplied:—
"It was strange to watch," says her admiring friend, "the many shades of varied feeling which passed across her countenance even in an hour. I can see her now—her dark silken hair braided back over a small, but what phrenologists would call a well developed head; her forehead lofty, and full and open, although the hair grew low upon it; the eyebrows perfect in arch and form; the eyes round, soft, or flashing, as they might be—gray, well-formed, and beautifully set—the lashes long and black, the under ones turning down with a delicate curve, and forming a soft relief upon the tint of her cheek, which, when she enjoyed good health, was bright and blushing; her complexion was delicately fair; her skin solt and transparent; her nose small (rétrousée); the nostril well defined, slightly curved, but capable of a scornful expression, which she did not appear to have the power of repressing, even though she gave her thoughts no words, when any mean or despicable ​ action was alluded to; it would be difficult to describe her mouth; it was neither flat nor pouting, neither large nor small; the under jaw projected a little beyond the upper; her smile was deliciously animated; her teeth white, small and even, and her voice and laugh soft, low, and musical; her ears were of peculiar beauty, and all who understand the beauty of the human head know that the ear is either pleasing to look upon, or much the contrary; her's were very small, and of a delicate hue, and her hands and feet even smaller than her sylph-like figure would have led one to expect. She would have been of perfect symmetry were it not that her shoulders were rather high; her movements, when not excited by animating conversation, were graceful and lady-like; but, when excited, they became sudden and almost abrupt."
Of the warm and eloquent praise lavished upon her by "Blackwood's Magazine" in 1830, she proved herself more and more deserving year after year. Such recognition of her powers might well encourage her to mature them by deeper study and worthier care for their direction.
"Tickler.—I love L. E. L.
"North.—So do I, and being old gentlemen we may blamelessly make the public our confidante. There is a passionate purity in all her feelings that endears to me both her human and her poetical character. She is a true enthusiast. Her affections overflow the imagery her fancy lavishes on all the subjects of her song, and colour it all with a rich and tender light which makes even confusion beautiful, gives a glowing charm even to indistinct conception, when the thoughts themselves are full formed and substantiated, which they often are, brings them promiscuously out upon the eye of the soul in flashes that startle us into sudden admiration. The originality of her genius, methinks, is conspicuous in the choice of its subjects—they are unborrowed; and in her least successful poems—as wholes, there is no dearth of poetry. Her execution has not the consummate elegance and grace of Felicia Hemans; but she is very young, and becoming every year she lives more mistress of her art, and has chiefly to learn how to use her treasures, which, profuse as she has been, are in abundant store; and, in good truth, the fair and happy being has a fertile imagination—the soil of her soul, if allowed to lie fallow for one sunny summer, would, I predict, yield a still richer and more glorious harvest. I love Miss Landon—for in her genius does the work of duty, the union of the two is "beautiful exceedingly," and virtue is its own reward; far beyond the highest meed of praise ever ​bestowed by critic—though round her fair forehead is already wreathed the immortal laurel.
"Tickler.—Her novel is brilliant.
"North.—Throughout.
"This morning gives us promise of a glorious day."
There was a critical observation in the "Athenæum" on the appearance of "Ethel Churchill," which should be added here:—
"We find in the prose writings of Miss Landon the same warmth of feeling as in her verse. The language only is changed; the genius that prompts it is the same. But the qualities that have established her fame as a poetess occasionally interfere with the full development of her powers as a writer of novels. In all, we admit there are fine and noble thoughts beautifully expressed; her personages think wisely, tenderly, or romantically, as suits her purpose; they speak eloquently and wittily, but they seldom act. Her novels, in fact, are more records of feelings, than narratives of events. Instead of giving her full attention to working out a character, or unravelling an artfully involved plot, she pours forth from the fulness of her own heart a profusion of deep and eloquent reflections, which, though excellent in themselves, do not assist in the progress of the story. But readers must be more critical than we are disposed to be if they find much fault with a habit from which they derive so much pleasure. These episodes are indeed the characteristics of Miss Landon's style; and we confess we would not change them for an improvement in the mere machinery of a novel."
The author of an article on the Female Novelists in the "Edinburgh Review." discussed L. E. L.'s pretensions to a distinguished place amongst them, in a spirit of liberal appreciation. Conscientiousness of judgment, accompanied by brilliancy of expression, gave value to this critic's praise; his objections were not prejudice, nor his acknowledgments flattery. There could be no risk in grounding upon the opinion of such writers, the assertion, that L. E. L.'s place in modern literature would have been no unelevated one had she never written a single poem.
​ In "Fraser's Magazine" for January, 1840, appeared the following comments on her genius, her character, and her fate:—
"'Where my father's bones are lying,
There my bones will never lie;
**** Mine shall be a lonelier ending,
Mine shall be a wilder grave,
Where the shout and shriek are blending,
Where the tempest meets the wave;
Or perhaps a fate more lonely,
In some drear and distant ward,
Where my weary eyes meet only
Hired nurse and sullen guard.' ****
"In her poems there are unquestioned indications of genius, and sometimes the indication is fulfilled by her execution. She had a deep and sweet feeling of affection, and a fine eye for the more ornamental and picturesque beauties of the external world, which she frequently expressed in harmonious verse, suggested by copious reading of various literature, and regulated by a musical and practised ear. With the young she was always a favourite: other ladies—for by ladies it must be done if at all—may, but hardly soon, supplant her in that favour. May their career be less burthened by wearisome exertion, their close less sorrowful than hers! At the period of her death she was rapidly rising in all that could gratify a lady and an authoress—in general estimation, in public honour, in increasing respect—as well as in the more matured development of her genius, made evident in her prose compositions. "Ethel Churchill" is, indeed, a work of beauty and talent, for which it would be hard to find a parallel in the history of female authorship. And then, when the prospect of her taking a place in her land's language was within her sight—then she died. The promise of her life was unfulfilled:—
"'Life is made up of miserable hours;
And all of which we craved a brief possessing,
For which we wasted wishes, hopes, and powers,
Comes with some fatal drawback on the blessing —
We might have been.
The future never renders to the past
The young beliefs entrusted to its keeping.
Inscribe one sentence—life's first truth and last
On the pale marble where our dust is sleeping—
We might have been.'
The able writer, whose speculations on her death have been already adverted to and quoted, eloquently bore witness to the noble generosity of her nature as indicated in her works:—
"The loss of a writer, and that writer a woman whose career had commenced so brilliantly and promised so much, had her life been spared and her circumstances propitious, of fame for herself and enjoyment to others, is properly regarded as a public loss. Her works indicated a noble and generous nature, an organization of passionate sensibility, and a correctness and keenness of observation rarely combined with those qualities in early life. And if this lustre was not wholly unobscured by occasional conventionalism, by a luxuriant verbiage, and by a factitious melancholy, still there was reason to hope that the poetical genius which was in her would, as its strength became matured, have scattered the mists and shone forth in its natural splendour. That hope is suddenly blighted. 'A star has left the kindling sky,' (to borrow from the beautiful song that was one of her latest compositions, and is so full of seeming presentiments or analogies of her own fate); and
"'The voyage it lights no longer, ends
Soon on a foreign shore.'
She sleeps in the barren sands of Africa, and the mournful music of the billows to which she listened in her solitary sea-girt dwelling, is now the dirge that resounds over her distant grave."
What remains of our task is of a less doubtful and less melancholy character. It is simply to introduce to public notice her latest writings; the ​dramatic work (her only one) which she completed just previous to her departure from England, and the essays on the female characters of Scott, which were the interesting and appropriate subjects of her last literary speculations when in Africa.
The reader, as he peruses those glowing records of a woman's thoughts and feelings in relation to some of the most beautiful pictures of passion, sentiment, and character in her sex that genius has bequeathed to us, will not find his emotions less pleasurable from this reflection—How many anxious and troubled hours may these, her last compositions, have lightened? How much pain, whether of sickness, or of watching over sickness, may they have helped to dissipate? How much of solitude may they have peopled with familiar and delightful images? What associations of old friends and of the old home may they have awakened! of youthful hours deliciously spent over the pages she was illustrating—of early desires to see some bright creations of her own also, entwined with her land's language—of hopes already not unfulfilled, and of a future that was to give reality to her fondest dreams!
These are reflections that will occur at least to some readers, and hence, perhaps, a pleasant and grateful conclusion that the mind which could so exert itself—so turn in a new position to its old pursuits—so employ its best and happiest energies with such vivid and successful results, must have been nobly sustained and fortified even to the very last.
It has been the fashion, as we have seen, to judge of the tone of L. E. L.'s ordinary feelings by the tone of her more earnest writings—to decide that when her poetry presented but a succession of ​sombre and desolate images, her heart was world-weary and her life miserable—to argue from her intellectual to her moral tendencies, and to assume that those subjects of uncontrollable fate, early and withering disappointment, premature but welcome death, to which her imagination reverted, were but pictures drawn from her experience of life, and prefigurings of her hopeless and inevitable future. Let this rule be applied at least consistently: we should rather say, let her for once be judged not unjustly by this principle. If evidence of the healthy, the animated, the cheerful flow of her thoughts and feelings in her last days, may be drawn from her writings—in the subjects upon which she was employed, and in her sparkling and picturesque style of treating them—that evidence will be found in her criticisms and reflections on the female characters of the illustrious Novelist. The new novel upon which she was herself engaged, the first volume being finished in Africa, affords evidence to the same effect, and equally strong; it is the opening of a story of modern life and manners, comic and satirical in its spirit; but too dependent for its effect upon the consecutiveness of its scenes, and the shadowy contrasts of its family liknesses, to admit of its set of sketches being separated with success.
From the morning of her marriage to the morning of her death, she was too incessantly occupied by necessary duties and habits of literary exercise, in which she never relaxed, to sit down, even for an instant, under the shadow of desponding thoughts. Brief, however, was the interval between: it was the breathless moment betwixt "the flash and thunder." As she stood at the altar in her bridal garments, beloved friends surrounding ​her, with her brother presiding at those rites whose very solemnity is half joy, even then, to borrow a fine image of her own from "Castruccio,"
"———her shadow fell upon her grave,
She stood so near to it"
But, short and hurried as the time was, she neglected no duty, shrank from no call upon her intrepidity and watchfulness, forfeited no particle of claim to our admiration and regard: this, above all the rest, is certain and consolatory. A "ministering angel" amidst her husband's sickness; enduring, almost uncomplaining, under her own; self-denying and absorbed in care for others; thus, herself to the last, consistently ended the life of L. E. L.
Note.—I must be permitted to observe that the arguments which have been advanced relative to the cause of death—arguments founded on indications unfavourable to the supposition of death by prussic acid, do not depend for their validity upon any statement of Emily Bailey's. The facts from which I have chiefly drawn the inferences referred to are of the same weight with or without that person's testimony; they are established by the evidence of other witnesses, and are therefore unaffected by her general want of veracity—which, since the pages referred to were written, has become sufficiently glaring.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
* ↑ *Some expressions are omitted here which are considered to have been written confidentially.
* ↑ * The writer of these pages, having been, at the period referred to, the editor of the "Courier," takes this occasion to state, for the information of Mr. Maclean's friends, that the earlier announcements in that journal were made by him on his own responsibility, and without the concurrence or knowledge of his friend, the Rev. Mr. Landon. An allusion was made to letters, from which it might be inferred, that her spirit was not always so tranquil; of this allusion Mr. Landon knew nothing till he read it in print. It was a reference chiefly to her regrets at losing her only European servant.
* ↑ * An observation relative to the proceedings of the surgeon we are compelled to omit.
* ↑ * It should be remarked that Mr. Maclean's letter was not intended for publication. It was written amidst "distracting thoughts," and with an indignant sense of the injuries inflicted upon him by the rumours then in a course of circulation. But all his friends will feel that there is no indelicacy in making public the passages above quoted.
* ↑ * We know of no such expressions, or of anything at all resembling them in any of her letters.
* ↑ * Lest any testimony, in addition to the declarations of Mr. Maclean, should be deemed desirable—lest in a narrative designed to exhibit to the world a faithful picture of the conduct and character of the wife, we should be supposed to be indifferent about the question of justice or injustice to the husband, we close this statement, by citing in Mr. Maclean's behalf, the opinion of the Rev. Mr. Freeman, of the Wesleyan Missionary Society. This gentleman, whose letter relative to the death he lamented, and the verdict of the jury, was supposed to have supplied the first grounds of prejudice against Mr. Maclean, in this country, when appealed to by that gentleman to state "Whether you have ever observed anything in my conversation, manners, or conduct, which could induce you to think me capable of behaving cruelly or unkindly to any one," ..... hastened to explain the object of the letter referred to, and to declare, "I have never seen anything in your conversation, manners, or conduct, either in public or private, which would induce me to consider you capable of harsh or unkind treatment to any one, under any circumstances whatever, nor have I ever seen anything which would lead me to suppose or suspect you of being careless of the feelings of others, or capable of any ungentlemanly conduct." "I saw nothing whatever in your behaviour which could create in my mind the slightest suspicion of your being unkind to Mrs. Maclean during her life. I have seen you as a gentleman at the head of your table, and I have witnessed your conduct, both as a husband and as a widower; it is upon this intimate knowledge of your deportment that I have made the preceding statements."