Life and Literary Remains of L. E. L./1802-1815
1802 to 1815.
It is remarkable that the greater portion of L. E. L.'s existence was passed on the spot where she was born. From Hans-place and its neighbourhood she was seldom absent, and then not for any great length of time: until within a year or two of her death she had there found her home; not, indeed, in the house of her birth, but generally close by. Taken occasionally, during the earlier years of childhood, into the country, it was to Hans-place she returned; here some of her school-time was passed; when her parents removed, she yet clung to the old spot, and as her own mistress,
chose the same scene for her residence. When one series of inmates quitted it, she still resided there with their successors, returning continually, after every wandering, "like a blackbird to his bush."
L. E. L. was a reader almost in her cradle, and a writer, if the term may be employed when the mechanical aids to authorship were wanting, before she had been many years out of it. Her first efforts in learning were indicative of acute intellect; and the uses to which she invariably turned the rewards of her quickness and diligence already implied the presence of those admirable qualities, which afterwards characterised her private life. Need we here say to any that ever knew her, that we mean the ardour of her affections, and the unreserved generosity of her nature. It is not less because it is believed that the public would desire to know all that can be related about the earliest years of one who has interested and delighted them so long, than because it is certain that some of the most trivial and childish circumstances will serve to exhibit those qualities of the intellect and the heart—that to these pages are transferred such anecdotes of her infancy as the fond recollections of her first friends have treasured up and supplied.
She was taught to read by an invalid friend and neighbor, who amused herself by scattering the letters of the alphabet over the carpet, and making her little pupil pick them up as they were named. The principle of rewards was adopted solely, and these rewards, as they were won, were as regularly brought to her brother. That living relative who was her only playmate and companion, relates, in a letter from which we write—"If she came home without a reward, she went up stairs with her nurse, of whom she was particularly fond, to be comforted; but when she brought her reward with her, she never failed to display it in the drawing-room, and then share it with me. She must," he adds, "have been very quick at that early age, for she seldom came empty-handed, and I soon began to look for the hour of her return, for which I had such very good reasons."
When in her sixth year she was sent to a school kept by Miss Rowden,*[1] at No. 22, Hans-place—the house in which she afterwards resided for several years as a boarder. It seems to have been appropriated to such purposes from the time it was built; nor was L. E. L. the first who drank at the "well of English" within its walls. Miss Mitford, we believe, was educated there, and Lady Caroline Lamb was an inmate for a time. Here the little pupil's powers were so highly appreciated, that Miss Rowden presented her with a frock of her own working; it was long regarded as a robe of grace. One only complaint of misconduct in "the clever little child" was ever made, but this was a frequent one, and the fault was strikingly characteristic. Nothing could make L. E. L. walk quietly in the ranks with other children. The family residing near, she was sure to espy one of them, or a servant, or her nurse, and dart away she would. "On one of these occasions," says her brother, "and it is the second trait that I vividly call to remembrance, her nurse had purposely thrown herself in the way of the school and brought home her charge. My sister, on her arrival, wanted me to descend from a magnificent rocking-horse on which I chanced to be mounted, and on my refusal to surrender, she threw a tambourine at me; it struck me on the face and brought me to the ground. The hurt was worse than she imagined it to be at the moment, but it brought out her natural disposition—for she petted me more than ever, and I had every thing my own way a long time after. Indeed it was the luckiest hit for me ever made in the nursery."
At this school L. E. L. remained only a few months. Hitherto she had not been absent from London but on short visits to a place called Coventry-farm, on the borders of Hertfordshire, in which her father had speculated deeply, confiding the superintendence of the project to the care of a brother. This was, in fact, the source of his subsequent embarrassments. Now, when the young student was scarcely seven years old, the family removed to Trevor-park, East Barnet, where the care of her instruction was undertaken by her cousin, Miss Landon, whose zeal and guidance were repaid with the most constant acknowledgment of her worth. Some passages of a letter from this lady, in which she recalls the hours long past that were beneficially devoted to the interests of her charge, will happily exhibit the spirit of the modest and admiring teacher, while they strikingly exemplify the progress and character of the pupil. "In very many instances," says the writer, "in endeavouring to teach, I have myself been taught, the extraordinary memory and genius of the learner soon leaving the humble abilities of the teacher far behind. Any experienced person used to instruction would have smiled at hearing us. When I asked Letitia any question relating either to history, geography, grammar—to Plutarch's Lives, or to any book we had been reading, I was pretty certain her answers would be perfectly correct: still, not exactly recollecting, and unwilling she should find out just then that I was less learned than herself, I used thus to question her:—'Are you quite certain?' 'Oh yes, quite!' 'You feel sure you are correct?' 'Yes, very sure.' 'Well then, to be perfectly right, bring the book and let us look over it again.' I never knew her to be wrong. * * * At so early an age as this, she would occupy an hour or two of the evening amusing her father and mother with accounts of the wonderful castles she had built in her imagination; and when, rambling in the garden in fair weather, she had taken with her, as a companion, a long stick, which she called her measuring stick; she was asked, 'What that was for?' her answer would be, 'Oh, don't speak to me, I have such a delightful thought in my head.' And on she would go talking to herself. There was a little world of happiness within her; and even then, the genius afterwards developed was constantly struggling to break forth."
The works read at this period were precisely those that happened to be at hand, or were most readily procurable. The list opens, of course, with grammars and catechisms, glances at geography, Rollin's Ancient History, Hume and Smollett; then come Plutarch's Lives, the Fables of Gay and Æsop, Life of Josephus, Montesquieu's Spirit of the Laws, Dobson's Life of Petrarch, and many others, more or less adapted to the young reader. "I always," remarks the thoughtful cousin, "made it my particular care never to allow of her reading any novels, knowing it would only weaken her mind, and give it a distaste for more serious reading." Nevertheless, this restriction was somewhat less effective than it was intended to be; for he who shared in L. E. L.'s sports and pastimes, permitted or surreptitious, has a clear impression, that during the days of childhood, not less than from a hundred to a hundred and fifty volumes of the Poets and Novelists (Cooke's edition!) were all read through, forbidden though they were.
Books, and books only, whatever could be procured, were her delight from the first moment that she could read. Her capacity for acquiring knowledge was remarkable. The two masters from whom she received French lessons found the task of instructing her a new kind of pleasure; not only were her exercises always ready and correct, but she seemed to meet her teachers half-way, and if told one word, knew another as though by intuition. Yet, it must be admitted, that to the rule "whatever she attempted, she thoroughly mastered," there were two exceptions; the future poetess excelled neither in music, of which she, nevertheless, understood the very soul, nor in an art which, throughout her life, she incessantly practised—penmanship. Her cousin states that, "although Letitia's kind and accomplished friend, Miss Bissett, spared no pains during several years, to impart the same brilliant touch and execution she herself possessed, the attempt to make her proficient in music was vain. "Yet" (she adds) "music seemed to charm and inspire her; for hours she would sit writing upon her slate while any one played or sang." As for her proficiency in penmanship, her brother graphically pictures the fruitless effort. "Learning to write," he says, "was a source of extreme trouble to her, and of frequent imprisonment to me. (This we shall explain presently.) A kind old gentleman who witnessed this distress, and who never believed that any fault whatever rested with her, undertook to teach her himself.—And the copy-book was ruled, and his spectacles were rubbed, and his knife prepared to make the best pen possible; but it would not do; a broad nib and a fine nib, a hard pen and a soft pen, all failed, for in each case it was still a pen. At last he gave the task up in despair; he shook his head mournfully and said, 'No, your dear little fingers are too straight;' gave her a forgiving kiss, told her she was 'a dab at pothooks,' took up his hat, walked out, and never renewed his attempt."
To explain the foregoing allusion to the "imprisonment" of the young brother and playmate on his sister's account, it is necessary to introduce an anecdote, and to quote a remark of his, which, in its application to her, was as strictly true in her maturer years as in her childhood. "It was," he observes, "no easy thing to subdue her will, except through her affections." Hence, possibly, the adoption of a discipline that formed part of the educational system at Trevor-park, of punishing the one when the other deserved it! When either was "in disgrace"—that was the term used—the unoffending party was locked up in a dark closet, and, says Mr. Landon, "this effectually secured obedience and attention." He adds, with his usual recollection of the kindness of his sister—"On these occasions, the nurse, who had no notion of any such discipline, or, indeed, of any at all with either of us, always pushed under the door apples, sweetmeats, or roasted chestnuts; these she invariably saved, when locked up on my account, and gave me when she came out."
Difficult as it may be for grateful remembrance to avoid exaggeration, there is no partiality in the assertion, that even at the age we are speaking of, she would endure anything, and give up anything. She was encouraged, and grew, year by year, in these habits of fortitude and self-denial. We have another anecdote illustrative of the same feeling, and recorded in a similar spirit. Her devotedness to reading was only equalled by the readiness with which she acquired whatever she chose to commit to memory, and the accuracy with which she retained whatever she had once learned. Mr. Landon remembers one instance of this quickness. "I had petitioned my father for three shillings, when he offered me, by way of compromise, a new eighteenpenny-piece if I would learn and repeat to him the ballad—
'Gentle river, gentle river,
Lo! thy streams are stained with gore,' &c.
But as this same ballad was some thirty verses long, and the payment inadequate, I struck for the three shillings, and would learn no ballad for less. I was in disgrace accordingly. Without saying a word, my sister went out, came back in a very short time, and repeated the ballad for me—asked for the three shillings—got them, and a kiss or two besides. She then persuaded me to learn it, teaching it me verse by verse. I forget whether I ever said it; but I do not forget that she gave me the three shillings."
The spirit thus manifested found food in the subjects her reading embraced; and even the favorite pastimes of the brother and sister assumed a similar colour, and had their origin in the same associations. We do not allude to those amusements, which were continued, as opportunity offered, long after the brother had made his first appearance at school; amusements calculated to shock the rapt and romantic, if, being believers in fiction, they were not often incredulous as to fact—the amusements, in short, of donkey-riding and racing, resorted to daily—of trap-ball, hoop, and bow-and-arrow, practised continually—even to the acquisition of an extraordinary degree of expertness, especially in the latter art. No; what we would particularise as the favourite pastime of the children, what may be characterised as their first ambition, was "to be Spartans." Mr. Landon says, "There could be no greater reproach between us than to call each other 'Sybarite,' and this long before I knew why; as far (he adds) as Plutarch's Lives enabled her to comprehend Spartan maxims, she aimed at carrying them out—thieving alone excepted—and that, as her father told her, only because we were not in an enemy's country." And it is related by her cousin, that she would often give any dainty she was about to eat to some poor child who came to the gate, observing, as she turned away, "I would rather be a Spartan than a Sybarite."
One of the exploits of the young Spartans deserves, by way of specimen, to be recorded. For some wanton or heedless trespass, they had both one day been turned out of the garden. Their rage was so great that they hardly knew at first how to compass their revenge upon the gardener. "But, my sister," proceeds our authority on this grave matter, "proposed a rather curious method of taking vengeance. 'I tell you what—we'll make him a public character!' but as I did not know what that was, I thought it better to get our war-arrows (headed with nails instead of lead), and attack him on the spot. She was too much of a Spartan not at once to assent to the plan, and in another minute or two poor Joseph was stuck all over with arrows, for my sister, especially, was very expert. I shall never forget the man running at us, with his spade before his face; a charge which, as our weapons were not very 'Spartan,' ended the engagement at once. He took us both prisoners, and the punishment he inflicted was not without some tincture of retributive justice; for he tossed us upon the top of a quickset hedge, and there left us. After some furious crying, we found we were not much hurt. I remember, amidst my trouble, inquiring if she had read of any Spartans who had been served as we were?—an idea that instantly converted her tears to laughter, as she said, 'Very like Spartans, indeed!' In about half an hour the gardener came, accepted our promises, and lifted us down."
This gardener is the hero of another story, which must be related, as it introduces the little L. E. L. in the character of a preceptor. "He was almost thirty years old," says Mr. Landon, "had not the slightest acquaintance with the alphabet, but was anxious to learn. My sister, assisted by me, taught him first his letters, then to spell, to read, and at last, to write. It was at the spelling-stage that we were most amused. We used to pick out the 'hard words' for his lessons, and it was our delight to laugh at his extraordinary mistakes, some of which were, no doubt, intentional ones, designed to make fun for us. When I went to school, at eight years of age, he became Letitia's pupil solely. He carried a small dictionary, her gift, in his hat, and would con over a word while at work, and then append to one of us for the meaning; the explanation generally increasing his difficulty, because it brought more words with it. The dictionary was, with him, the one book needful; he was convinced that if he could but master that, all others would be perfectly easy. Such were the difficulties under which he persevered in the paths of useful knowledge! His name was Joseph Chambers; he lived with us many years, and only left when there was no longer any service for him. He subsequently obtained a 'milk-walk,' at Brompton, where, being enabled to rely on his own book-keeping, he made some little money, and is now landlord of a quiet hostelry at Barnet. He ever retained a very grateful regard for the memory of his little governess." The reader, who might happen to stop at Mr. Chambers's inn at Barnet, would, no doubt, obtain a verification of this narrative of the original joyousness of the young improvisatrice.
But we must not pass by the childish days of L. E. L., over the records of which we have not, it is hoped, lingered too long, without a glance at certain habits that were more peculiar to herself, and lay at the root of those literary aspirations which, long before the years of womanhood, indicated the workings of more than a woman's mind, and gave to poetry and romance a store of premature and unexpected treasures. Her genius seems to have sprung up
"Just as the grass grows that sows itself."
We have already seen her, in her cousin's description, pushing what she called her "measuring stick" before her, as she took her daily walk in the garden, and deprecating interruption because she had a "beautiful thought" in her head. And this picture may be filled up by the recollections of her brother, who has known her to be pacing up and down the lime-walk for hours in this way—sometimes talking aloud, sometimes repeating verses, oftener in silent thought—the result of all which exercises would be, at night, a long story, or an account of her intended travels, to which he, more especially, had to listen. And listen he did, patiently for some time; but at last, perhaps he got tired, or annoyed at losing his only playfellow in so unaccountable a way: for a bargain was struck between the children, to the effect that on one day he was to listen while she talked, and on the next she was to adopt his amusements. "On her days," runs the reminiscence, "I had to undergo either the account of 'her island,' that is, of what she would do as another Robinson Crusoe, or some fairy tale or verse of her own composition; or perhaps the battle scene from the 'Lady of the Lake,' for the whole of that poem I think she knew by heart." The listener's patience, after a time, appears to have failed again, for a fresh stipulation was made that the something, whatever it might be, which was to fall from the lips of the eloquent young child, was not to be repeated "more than twice or three times at the most."
L. E. L. has alluded, in some verses on the death of Sir Walter Scott, to the time and scene thus recalled by Mr. Landon.
How well I can recall the time
When first I turn'd thy page;
The green boughs closed above my head,
A natural hermitage.
*****
I peopled all the walks and shades
With images of thine;
The lime-tree was a lady's bower,
The yew-tree was a shrine:
Almost I deem'd each sunbeam shone
O'er banner, spear, and morion.
Her kind instructress also speaks of the ease and rapidity with which, at this time, she used to perform the task of writing themes upon given subjects. As soon as she could write, or rather make those pothooks which were afterwards to become the uncouth interpreters of such graceful meanings, "you would always," says the lady just alluded to, "see her with her slate; when not reading or talking it was her constant companion, morning, noon, and night; she invariably took it with her into her room when she retired to rest, though rest she could not always—for if any thought struck her in the night, it was written down, and I believe she as often wrote without a light as with one."
The date of the "first effort of her literary genius," is not known, but it is certain she was "very young," and the subject was the adventures of her cousin Captain Landon, who had then just returned from America. As she wrote she exhibited passages for approval. Much time was devoted to this: but the results have not been preserved. One of her very earliest pieces was a sketch (published years afterwards) of the character of Sir John Doyle, written after perusing an account of the Peninsular War. Her mind was wonderfully moved by the recital of any great or good action; her countenance, always strikingly expressive, would lighten up even in childhood as she read; and so early was her character formed that she not only seemed then, but really was, capable of any exertion or any self-sacrifice. Not less singular was her capacity of judging the characters of persons; while yet a mere child her penetration in this respect was frequently remarked; and though at the time they would often say "Letitia, you are wrong," the truth of the opinions she had expressed was as often confirmed by experience.
To account for the associations of travelling, and especially of travels in Africa, that were early predominant in her mind, we need but revert first to the voyage made while yet a youth by her father, and next to a book which he gave her, bearing the title of "Silvester Tramper." This was the pet among her "pleasure books," rivalling for a time even Robinson Crusoe, and decidedly eclipsing her fairy tales. She tried, in after life, to procure a copy of this work, but never could. Like Pistol, "it spoke of Africa and golden joys." It professed to be a narrative of travels in a region to her so fatal, and was full of wonders connected with bushmen, and lions literal and metaphorical—recounting narratives of much enterprise and adventure, illustrating, or rather exaggerating, the power which the arms and resources of a civilised few gave them over the savage many. At last her father presented her with the "Arabian Nights," and this acquisition soon settled the claims of Silvester and Robinson, by supplanting both. "Many a weary day," observes her brother, "those same Nights occasioned me—I had to hear all!"
L. E. L. reminded her brother, in a poem addressed to him in after years, of another volume, whose hero for a time eclipsed every other hero. Truth seemed indeed stranger than fiction as they read Cook's voyages:
"It was an August evening, with sunset in the trees,
When home you brought his Voyages who found the fair South Seas; . . . . .
For weeks he was our idol, we sailed with him at Sea,
And the pond amid the willows our ocean seemed to be;
The water-lilies growing beneath the morning smile,
We called the South Sea islands, each flower a different isle.
Within that lonely garden what happy hours went by,
While we fancied that around us spread foreign sea and sky."
The mention of the paternal gift (the "Arabian Nights"), suggests a reference, before we proceed further, to a little sketch in which the circumstance is mentioned by L. E. L. herself. It is called "The History of a Child," and formed one of about a dozen sketches published in 1836, under the title of "Traits and Trials of Early Life." Some of the incidents of her own childhood are related in it; but the whole bear the same relation to reality that phantasies bear to facts. The joy in the gift, the "delicious odour of the Russian leather," and the charm of the "pictures that glanced through the half-opened leaves," as she received the precious volumes—the excitement of "reading those enchanted pages," which was ranked as the "most delicious of her life"—may all be unexaggerated; but for the other events, the scenes, the feelings associated with them, they are just as unlike her own history, as Robinson Crusoe's island is unlike England. Taking this sketch in an autobiographical sense, we see in the heroine a shy, melancholy, lonely, unloved child—whose pride is stung by whispered affronts from servants about her "plainness"—whose affections are jokes or mysteries to all about her—whose heart breaks when her nurse calls her "a tiresome little thing"—and who, left to ruminate in solitude, found no pleasure but in a sense of neglect and presentiments of misery. Now the real L. E. L. was anything on earth but this. True, she seldom mixed with other children, for one reason, that there were none of her own age in the neighbourhood; true, that although very affectionate, she never cared to "pet" any animal, dog, cat, or bird—nor took pleasure in girlish toys; for her "pleasure-books" were her sole pets. But it is just as certain that so far from being a gloomy child, all who knew her laugh at such a notion. Now and then, as her cousin remembers, a certain violence of temper would get the better of the young student, and on such occasions her unfortunate books were condemned to take up their abode in different directions; but calmly to replace them, at a word, or even a look of admonition, was enough—"her tears flowed abundantly—she would kneel down and beg God to forgive her." Her temper, says this respected relative, was cheerful and kind; "and she lived only with those who loved her for herself, and wished solely for her good."
"I have told the history of my childhood," wrote L. E. L., concluding the little imaginative sketch of which mention has been made; "childhood which images forth our after life. Even such has been mine—it has but repeated what it learnt from the first, sorrow, beauty, love, and death." In contrast with the romance of this picture, and to clear up all mistakes as to the original melancholy of her nature, we must set before the reader a picture painted in far pleasanter colours, not even admitting that the truth is less poetical than the fiction. He who knew her childish feelings and habits so well, sharing her sports and seeing into her very dreams, gives us this assurance that "up to the age of thirteen, when the family quitted Trevor-park, she was a strong healthy child, a joyous and high-spirited romp. Nor," he proceeds, "was this disposition ever wholly lost. When, indeed, thought began to deepen, and the imagination to unfold, it then only changed to the milder and less childish form of playful wit and social cheerfulness." Such were the early days of the happy L. E. L.; and such, we venture to assert, were the feelings with which, when those days were passed, she commenced her career in the world.
- ↑ * The lady was herself a poetess, and otherwise highly accomplished. She afterwards became Countess St. Quentin, and died in the neighbourhood of Paris.