I.

'The first poetess I can recollect is Mrs. Barbauld, with whose works I

became acquainted--before those of any other author, male or female--when

I was learning to spell words of one syllable in her story-books for

children.' So says Hazlitt in his lectures on living poets. He goes on

to call her a very pretty poetess, strewing flowers of poesy as she

goes.

The writer must needs, from the same point of view as Hazlitt, look upon

Mrs. Barbauld with a special interest, having also first learnt to read

out of her little yellow books, of which the syllables rise up one by

one again with a remembrance of the hand patiently pointing to each in

turn; all this recalled and revived after a lifetime by the sight of a

rusty iron gateway, behind which Mrs. Barbauld once lived, of some old

letters closely covered with a wavery writing, of a wide prospect that

she once delighted to look upon. Mrs. Barbauld, who loved to share her

pleasures, used to bring her friends to see the great view from the

Hampstead hill-top, and thus records their impressions:--

'I dragged Mrs. A. up as I did you, my dear, to our Prospect Walk, from

whence we have so extensive a view.

'Yes,' said she, 'it is a very fine view indeed for a flat country.'

'While, on the other hand, Mrs. B. gave us such a dismal account of the

precipices, mountains, and deserts she encountered, that you would have

thought she had been on the wildest part of the Alps.'

The old Hampstead highroad, starting from the plain, winds its way

resolutely up the steep, and brings you past red-brick houses and

walled-in gardens to this noble outlook; to the heath, with its fresh,

inspiriting breezes, its lovely distances of far-off waters and gorsy

hollows. At whatever season, at whatever hour you come, you are pretty

sure to find one or two votaries--poets like Mrs. Barbauld, or commonplace

people such as her friends--watching before this great altar of nature;

whether by early morning rays, or in the blazing sunset, or when the

evening veils and mists with stars come falling, while the lights of

London shine far away in the valley. Years after Mrs. Barbauld wrote,

one man, pre-eminent amongst poets, used to stand upon this hill-top,

and lo! as Turner gazed, a whole generation gazed with him. For him

Italy gleamed from behind the crimson stems of the fir-trees; the spirit

of loveliest mythology floated upon the clouds, upon the many changing

tints of the plains; and, as the painter watched the lights upon the

distant hills, they sank into his soul, and he painted them down for us,

and poured his dreams into our awakening hearts.

He was one of that race of giants, mighty men of humble heart, who have

looked from Hampstead and Highgate Hills. Here Wordsworth trod; here

sang Keats's nightingale; here mused Coleridge; and here came Carlyle,

only yesterday, tramping wearily, in search of some sign of his old

companions. Here, too, stood kind Walter Scott, under the elms of the

Judges' Walk, and perhaps Joanna Baillie was by his side, coming out

from her pretty old house beyond the trees. Besides all these, were a

whole company of lesser stars following and surrounding the brighter

planets--muses, memoirs, critics, poets, nymphs, authoresses--coming to

drink tea and to admire the pleasant suburban beauties of this modern

Parnassus. A record of many of their names is still to be found,

appropriately enough, in the catalogue of the little Hampstead library

which still exists, which was founded at a time when the very hands

that wrote the books may have placed the old volumes upon the shelves.

Present readers can study them at their leisure, to the clanking of the

horses' feet in the courtyard outside, and the splashing of buckets.

A few newspapers lie on the table--stray sheets of to-day that have

fluttered up the hill, bringing news of this bustling now into a past

serenity. The librarian sits stitching quietly in a window. An old lady

comes in to read the news; but she has forgotten her spectacles, and

soon goes away. Here, instead of asking for 'Vice Versâ,' or Ouida's

last novel, you instinctively mention 'Plays of the Passions,' Miss

Burney's 'Evelina,' or some such novels; and Mrs. Barbauld's works are

also in their place. When I asked for them, two pretty old Quaker

volumes were put into my hands, with shabby grey bindings, with fine

paper and broad margins, such as Mr. Ruskin would approve. Of all

the inhabitants of this bookshelf Mrs. Barbauld is one of the most

appropriate. It is but a few minutes' walk from the library in Heath

Street to the old corner house in Church Row where she lived for a time,

near a hundred years ago, and all round about are the scenes of much of

her life, of her friendships and interests. Here lived her friends and

neighbours; here to Church Row came her pupils and admirers, and, later

still, to the pretty old house on Rosslyn Hill. As for Church Row, as

most people know, it is an avenue of Dutch red-faced houses, leading

demurely to the old church tower, that stands guarding its graves in the

flowery churchyard. As we came up the quiet place, the sweet windy drone

of the organ swelled across the blossoms of the spring, which were

lighting up every shabby corner and hillside garden. Through this

pleasant confusion of past and present, of spring-time scattering

blossoms upon the graves, of old ivy walks and iron bars imprisoning

past memories, with fragrant fumes of lilac and of elder, one could

picture to oneself, as in a waking dream, two figures advancing from the

corner house with the ivy walls--distinct, sedate--passing under the old

doorway. I could almost see the lady, carefully dressed in many fine

muslin folds and frills with hooped silk skirts, indeed, but slight

and graceful in her quick advance, with blue eyes, with delicate sharp

features, and a dazzling skin. As for the gentleman, I pictured him a

dapper figure, with dark eyes, dressed in black, as befitted a minister

even of dissenting views. The lady came forward, looking amused by my

scrutiny, somewhat shy I thought--was she going to speak? And by the

same token it seemed to me the gentleman was about to interrupt her. But

Margaret, my young companion, laughed and opened an umbrella, or a cock

crew, or some door banged, and the fleeting visions of fancy

disappeared.

Many well-authenticated ghost stories describe the apparition of bygone

persons, and lo! when the figure vanishes, a letter is left behind! Some

such experience seemed to be mine when, on my return, I found a packet

of letters on the hall table--letters not addressed to me, but to some

unknown Miss Belsham, and signed and sealed by Mrs. Barbauld's hand.

They had been sent for me to read by the kindness of some ladies now

living at Hampstead, who afterwards showed me the portrait of the lady,

who began the world as Miss Betsy Belsham and who ended her career as

Mrs. Kenrick. It is an oval miniature, belonging to the times of powder

and of puff, representing not a handsome, but an animated countenance,

with laughter and spirit in the expression; the mouth is large, the eyes

are dark, the nose is short. This was the _confidante_ of Mrs. Barbauld's

early days, the faithful friend of her latter sorrows. The letters, kept

by 'Betsy' with faithful conscientious care for many years, give the

story of a whole lifetime with unconscious fidelity. The gaiety of

youth, its impatience, its exuberance, and sometimes bad taste; the

wider, quieter feelings of later life; the courage of sorrowful times;

long friendship deepening the tender and faithful memories of age, when

there is so little left to say, so much to feel--all these things are

there.