THE
POETICAL WORKS
OF
ANNA SEWARD;
WITH
EXTRACTS FROM HER LITERARY CORRESPONDENCE.
EDITED BY
WALTER SCOTT, ESQ.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
EDINBURGH:
Printed by James Ballantyne and Co.
FOR JOHN BALLANTYNE AND CO. EDINBURGH;
AND LONGMAN, HURST, REES, AND ORME, PATERNOSTER-ROW,
LONDON.
1810.
CONTENTS
OF
VOLUME FIRST.
PAGE.
Biographical Preface, i
Extracts from Miss Seward’s Correspondence, xli
The Visions, an Elegy, 1
Knowledge, a Poem in the manner of Spencer, 10
Portrait of Miss Levett, 13
Elegy, addressed to Cornet V----, 15
The Hay-Field, a Morning Scene, 19
Inscription for an Urn in a Gentleman’s Garden, 24
Love Elegies and Epistles, 25-67
The Anniversary, written in June 1769, 68
Ode to Content, 74
Epistle to Miss Honora Sneyd, 76
Elegy written at the Sea-side, 82
Epistle to Miss Honora Sneyd, 84
Time past, written in January 1773, 87
Lichfield, an Elegy, 89
Invocation to the Genius of Slumber, 100
Monody on Mrs Richard Vyse, 104
To Mrs Coltman of Hull, 108
Receipt for a Sweet Jar, 110
Invocation to the Shade of Petrarch, and to the
Spirits of the Persian Poets, 113
Ode to William Boothby, Esq., 115
Ode to Sir Brooke Boothby, 119
Songs, 124-160
Ode to Euphrosyne, 161
Prologue written for the Tragedy of Braganza, 165
---- written for Mr Penn, 168
---- to the Circassian, 171
---- to the Fortunate Disappointment, 174
Epilogue to the Fortunate Disappointment, 176
Complaint of an Arabian Lover--An Ode, 179
Blindness--A Poem, 181
Verses, sent with some Ornaments for the Hair,
to Miss Margaret Knowles, 187
BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE.
The name of ANNA SEWARD has for many years held a high rank in the
annals of British literature; and the public has a right to claim, upon
the present occasion, some brief memorials of her by whom it was
distinguished. As the tenor of her life was retired, though not
secluded, and uniform, though not idle, the task of detailing its events
can neither be tedious nor uninstructive.
Miss Seward’s father was the Reverend Thomas Seward, Rector of Eyam, in
Derbyshire, Prebendary of Salisbury, and Canon Residentiary of
Lichfield. In his youth he travelled as tutor with Lord Charles Fitzroy,
third son of the Duke of Grafton, a hopeful young nobleman, who died
upon his travels in 1739. Mr Seward returned to England, and soon after
married Miss Elizabeth Hunter, daughter of Mr Hunter, head-master of the
school at Lichfield, the preceptor of Johnson, and other eminent
literary characters. Mr Seward, upon his marriage, settled at his
rectory of Eyam. In 1747, the second year of his marriage, Miss Seward
was born. She had several sisters, and one brother; but none survived
the period of infancy except Miss Sarah Seward, whom her sister and
parents were to lament at a later and more interesting stage of
existence.
Mr Seward was himself a poet; and a manuscript collection of his
fugitive pieces is now lying before me, the bequest of my honoured
friend, when she entrusted me with the task I am now endeavouring to
discharge. Several of these effusions were printed in Dodsley’s
Collection, volume second, towards the close. Mr Seward was also an
admirer of our ancient drama; and, in 1750, published an edition of
Beaumont and Fletcher’s plays, which, though falling beneath what is
expected from the accuracy and investigation of later dramatic editors,
evinces a scholar-like degree of information, and a high relish for the
beauties of his authors. Thus accomplished himself, the talents of his
eldest daughter did not long escape his complacent observation. He
early introduced her to Milton and to Shakespeare; and I have heard her
say, that she could repeat passages from the Allegro before she was
three years old. It were absurd to suppose that she could comprehend
this poem, even at a much later period of infancy; but our future taste
does not always depend upon the progress of our understanding. The
mechanism, the harmony of verse, the emotions which, though vague and
indescribable, it awakens in children of a lively imagination and a
delicate ear, contribute, in many instances, to imbue the infant mind
with a love of poetry, even before they can tell for what they love it.
Miss Seward was one of these gifted minds which catches eagerly at the
intellectual banquet.--The romantic hills of Derbyshire, where the
village of Eyam is situated, favoured the instructions of her father.
His pupil imbibed a strong and enthusiastic partiality for mountainous
scenery, and in general for the pleasures of landscape, which was a
source of enjoyment during her after life. Her father’s taste was
rigidly classical; and the authors to whom Miss Seward was introduced,
were those of Queen Anne’s reign. She was early familiar with Pope,
Young, Prior, and their predecessor, Dryden; and, in later life, used to
make little allowance for poetry of an older date, excepting only that
of Shakespeare and Milton.
The desire of imitating the compositions which gave her pleasure, very
early displayed itself. Anna Seward attempted metrical versions of the
Psalms, and even exercised herself in original composition, before she
was ten years old. An Address to the First Fine Day of a Backward
Spring, which has been preserved from these early days, intimates
considerable command of numbers and language, though the ideas cannot be
called original.
About 1754, Mr Seward removed with his family to Lichfield, which
continued ever afterwards to be his daughter’s residence, although
varied, during her father’s life, by occasional visits to his rectory at
Eyam. Lichfield, the birth-place of Johnson and of Garrick, and,
necessarily, the residence of a body of learned and well-educated clergy
attached to its cathedral, had been long distinguished by its classical
pretensions. These were at this time exalted by its being the residence
of the celebrated Dr Darwin, who soon distinguished and appreciated the
talents of our youthful poetess. Some lines had been shewn to him, which
he thought so far superior to her age, that he conceived they must have
been written, or greatly improved, by her father. He contrived to engage
her upon a poetic theme when Mr Seward was absent, and the result of the
experiment having ascertained the originality of her talents, Dr Darwin
thought them worthy of attentive cultivation. At this time, however,
literature was deemed an undesirable pursuit for a young lady in Miss
Seward’s situation,--the heiress of an independent fortune, and destined
to occupy a considerable rank in society. Her mother, though an
affectionate parent, and an excellent woman, possessed no taste for her
daughter’s favourite amusements; and even Mr Seward withdrew his
countenance from them, probably under the apprehension that his
continued encouragement might produce in his daughter that dreaded
phænomenon, a learned lady. Poetry was prohibited, and Miss Seward
resorted to other amusements, and to the practice of ornamental
needle-work, in which she is said to have excelled. Thus rolled on time
for nearly ten years after her father had settled in Lichfield. When it
is considered that her attachment to literary pursuits bordered even
upon the romantic, the merit of sacrificing them readily to the
inclination of her parents, deserves our praise. But other incidents
occurred in her own life, and that of a confidential friend, that called
for stronger exertions of prudence, self-denial, and submission to
parental authority. There are, in Miss Seward’s letters during this
period, passages which shew great firmness and steadiness of mind, and a
capacity of compelling feelings, which nature, and perhaps early
cultivation, had strung to a keen tone, to submit to the dictates of
prudence and of duty. I regret that many of the lessons which she taught
her own heart, and that of her friend, must be withheld from the public,
lest, even at this distance of time, the incidents to which they relate
might injure the feelings of any concerned in them.
In 1764, a heavy calamity took place in Mr Seward’s family. Miss Sarah
Seward, his younger daughter, had been for some time on the eve of
forming a matrimonial connection with Mr Porter, a merchant at Leghorn,
brother to Mrs Lucy Porter of Lichfield, and son-in-law, of course, to
the celebrated Dr Johnson. Miss Anna Seward was to have accompanied her
sister to Italy, and already anticipated, with delight, the pleasure of
treading classical ground, of viewing the paintings of Raphael, and
wandering among the groves of Valambrosa. These flattering prospects
were clouded by the sickness and death of the young and lovely bride. An
affecting account of this distressing calamity occurs among the
following extracts from Miss Seward’s correspondence. Mr Porter appears
afterwards to have intimated a wish to transfer his attachment to the
surviving sister, but it was not encouraged. When time had softened the
recollection of this domestic loss, Miss Seward made her sister’s death
the subject of an elegy, which forms the first article in this
collection of her poetry. The blank in her domestic society was supplied
by the attachment of Miss Honora Sneyd, then residing in her family, and
often mentioned in the ensuing volumes. This young lady was afterwards
married to the ingenious Mr Edgeworth.
After the death of Miss Sarah Seward, her sister’s society became
indispensable to her parents, and she was never separated from them.
Offers of matrimonial establishments occurred, and were rejected, in one
instance entirely, and in others chiefly, from a sense of filial duty.
As she was now of an age to select her own society and studies, Miss
Seward’s love of literature was indulged; and the sphere in which she
moved was such as to increase her taste for its pursuits. Dr Darwin, Mr
Day, whose opinions formed singular specimens of English philosophy, Mr
Edgeworth, Sir Brooke Boothby, and other names well known in the
literary world, then formed part of the Lichfield society. The
celebrated Dr Johnson was an occasional visiter of their circles; but he
seems, in some respects, to have shared the fate of a prophet in his own
country. Neither Dr Darwin nor Miss Seward were partial to the great
moralist. There was, perhaps, some aristocratic prejudice in their
dislike, for the despotic manners of Dr Johnson were least likely to be
tolerated where the lowness of his origin was in fresh recollection. At
the same time, Miss Seward was always willing to do justice to his
native benevolence, and to the powerful grasp of his intellectual
powers, and possessed many anecdotes of his conversation, which had
escaped his most vigilant recorders. These she used to tell with great
humour, and with a very striking imitation of the sage’s peculiar voice,
gesture, and manner of delivery.
Miss Seward’s poetical powers appear to have lain dormant, or to have
been only sparingly exercised, until her acquaintance with Lady Miller,
whose fanciful and romantic institution at Bath Easton, was then the
subject of public attention. A concise account of this poetical
association, which was graced by the names of Anstey and of Hayley,
forms the preface to a poem which Miss Seward afterwards dedicated to
the memory of its accomplished foundress. The applause of this selected
circle gave Miss Seward courage to commit some of her essays to the
press; and the public received with great favour the elegiac
commemorations of André and of Cook. The first of these subjects was
dictated by Miss Seward’s personal friendship for the brave and
unfortunate sufferer, who had sought to drown in the duties of his
dangerous profession, the recollection of an ill-fated attachment to her
friend, Miss Sneyd. The Elegy on Captain Cook was dictated by those
feelings of admiration and gratitude, which, in common with Europe at
large, Miss Seward felt for the firm and benevolent character of the
dauntless navigator, and for his tragical destiny. It would be too much
to claim for these productions, the warm interest which they excited
while the melancholy events which they celebrated were glowing in the
general recollection; but, even when the advantage which they derived
from their being suited to “the form and pressure of the time” has
passed away, they convey a high impression of the original powers of
their author.
While Miss Seward’s fame increased, it had the advantage, which she
highly prized, of extending her acquaintance among those who were
candidates for literary reputation. Many of the most distinguished she
added to the circle of her friends. I need barely mention Mr Hayley, Mr
Mundy, the author of two most beautiful poems on Needwood Forest; Mr
Crowe, author of the descriptive poem called Lewesdone-Hill; Dr Whaley,
Mr Fellowes, and many other persons of acknowledged talent and learning,
with whom she maintained, through life, a constant correspondence. Miss
Seward was an entire stranger to that paltry jealousy which too often
disturbs the harmony of the literary world. She gave, with her whole
soul, her applause to contemporary merit, and was not easily daunted in
its defence. A love and admiration for existing genius was a leading
feature in her character. She was at all times ready with her advice,
her encouragement, her purse, if necessary, to assist those whom
timidity or indigence prevented from asserting their right to public
notice. Nor would she readily admit the preference claimed for more
ancient poets over those of her own century. “Many,” she says, in a
letter now before me, “excel me in the power of writing verse; perhaps
scarcely one in the vivid and strong sensibility of its excellence, or
in the ability to estimate its claims--ability arising from a fifty
years sedulous and discriminating study of the best English poets, and
of the best translations from the Greek, Roman, and Italian. A masculine
education cannot spare from professional study, and the necessary
acquisition of languages, the time and attention which I have bestowed
on the compositions of my countrymen. When the accumulating suffrage of
centuries shall have mellowed the growing fame of the authors of this
age, their equals, perhaps their superiors, at a future period, will be
contrasting the superiority of this and the last century, with the
littleness of recent and contemporary merit.”
It cannot be denied, that Miss Seward’s friendships and partialities
fortified her in the persuasion thus expressed. In friendship, indeed,
she was an enthusiast, of which she gave, in 1778, an example too
remarkable to be passed over, even in these brief biographical notices.
In the summer of that year, the Countess of Northesk visited Lichfield,
to consult Dr Darwin for the benefit of her health, then sinking rapidly
by hemorrhage. The poetical physician became deeply interested in the
fate of a lovely and amiable young woman, distinguished by her
sufferings and her patience; and the same circumstances produced a
strong attachment on the part of Miss Seward. Of this interest and
attachment, a proof was nearly made, of a kind so very remarkable, that
I will tell it in Miss Seward’s own words.
“One evening, after a long and intense reverie, he said,--‘Lady
Northesk, an art was practised in former years, which the medical world
has very long disused; that of injecting blood into the veins by a
syringe, and thus repairing the waste of diseases like yours. Human
blood, and that of calves and sheep, were used promiscuously.
Superstition attached impiety to the practice. It was put a stop to in
England by a bull of excommunication from some of our popish princes,
against the practitioners of sanguinary injection. That it had been
practised with success, we may, from this interdiction, fairly conclude,
else restraint upon its continuance must have been superfluous. We have
a very ingenious watch-maker here, whom I think I could instruct to form
a proper instrument for that purpose, if you chose to submit to the
experiment.’ She replied cheerfully, that she had not the least
objection, if he thought it eligible.
“Miss Seward then said, ‘If the trial should be determined upon, perhaps
Lady Northesk would prefer a supply from an healthy human subject,
rather than from an animal. My health is perfect, neither am I conscious
of any lurking disease, hereditary or accidental. I have no dread of the
lancet, and will gladly spare, from time to time, such a portion from my
veins to Lady Northesk, as Dr Darwin shall think proper to inject.’
“He seemed much pleased with the proposal, and this amiable patient
expressed gratitude far above the just claim of the circumstance. Dr
Darwin said he would consult his pillow about it.
“The next day, when Miss S. called upon Lady N., the doctor took her
previously into his study, telling her, that he had resigned all
thoughts of trying the experiment upon Lady Northesk; that it had
occurred to him as a last resource to save an excellent woman, whose
disorder, he feared, was beyond the reach of medicine; “but,” added he,
“the construction of a proper machine is so nice an affair, the least
failure in its power of acting so hazardous, the chance, at least from
the experiment, so precarious, that I do not choose to stake my
reputation upon the risque. If she die, the world will say I killed Lady
Northesk, though the London and Bath physicians have pronounced her case
hopeless, and sent her home to expire. They have given her a great deal
too much medicine. I shall give her very little. Their system of
nutritious food, their gravy jellies, and strong wines, I have already
changed for milk, vegetables, and fruit. No wines ever; no meat, no
strong broth, at present. If this alteration of diet prove unavailing,
her family and friends must lose her.”
“It was not unavailing; she gathered strength under the change from day
to day. The disease abated, and in three weeks she pursued her journey
to Scotland, a convalescent, full of hope for herself, of grateful
veneration towards her physician, whose skill had saved her from the
grave; and full also of over-rating thankfulness to Miss S. for the
offer she had made. With her Lady Northesk regularly corresponded, from
that time till her sudden and deplorable death.”--_Memoirs of Dr
Darwin_, by ANNA SEWARD. Lond. 1804, pp. 110-114.
In the year 1780, Mrs Seward died, and the care of attending her
surviving parent devolved entirely upon his daughter. This was soon
embittered by a frequent recurrence of paralytic and apoplectic
affections, which broke Mr Seward’s health, and gradually impaired the
tone of his mind. His frame resisted these repeated assaults for ten
years, during which, Miss Seward had the melancholy satisfaction to
see, that, even when he had lost consciousness of every thing else, her
father retained a sense of her constant and unremitting attentions.
There is, in one of her poems, some verses expressive of his situation,
while claiming for him a rank among the bards of her favourite city:
Source of my life, it will not prove
A vain essay of filial love,
Here, if a right thy daughter claim
To rank with theirs thy honour’d name,
Whose silver lyre’s harmonious sound
Made lovely Lichfield classic ground,
Though now thy vital lamp’s faint light
Gleams on the verge of its long night,
Dull, dim, and weak its social blaze,
And pale its intellectual rays.
While duteous love, with anxious aim,
Guards from rude blasts its quivering flame,
Through yet a few more quiet years,
That bring to thee nor pains nor fears,
O! be it mine to cheer and warm
Thy drooping heart, thy helpless form!
In 1790 this scene closed, by the death of Mr Seward. His daughter
remained mistress of an easy and independent fortune, and continued to
inhabit the Bishop’s Palace at Lichfield, which had been long her
father’s residence, and was her’s until her death.
While engaged in attendance upon her father, Miss Seward, besides other
occasional pieces, published, in 1782, her poetical novel, entitled
Louisa, which was favourably received, and passed rapidly through
several editions. Other pieces, chiefly on occasional topics, fell from
her pen; some of which found their way to the public, and others are
now, for the first time, printed from manuscripts. The beauties of
Llangollen Vale, with the talents, virtues, and accomplishments of the
ladies who have so long honoured it with their residence, claimed and
obtained commemoration. Its inmates were among those whom Miss Seward
valued most highly, and the regard was reciprocal.
Without pausing to trace the progress of her less important works, it is
proper to mention the Collection of Original Sonnets published in 1799.
They were intended to restore the strict rules of the legitimate sonnet,
and contain some beautiful examples of that species of composition. Less
praise is due to the Translations from Horace, in the same publication,
which, being rather paraphrases than translations, can hardly be
expected to gratify those whose early admiration has been tamed to the
original.
In 1804, the death of Dr Darwin, who had encouraged the first notes of
her lyre, and from whom, perhaps, it had borrowed some of its peculiar
intonations, induced Miss Seward to give the public a biographical
sketch of her early friend. Her Life of Dr Darwin ought, however, rather
to have been entitled, anecdotes of the early part of his life, and of
the society of Lichfield, while it was the place of his residence.
Although written upon a desultory plan, and in a style disfigured by the
use of frequent inversions and compounded epithets, the Memoir has
preserved much curious and interesting literary anecdote. The history of
Mr Day is told with a liveliness which these defects have not obscured,
and contains a useful lesson, though humbling to the pride of human
wisdom, since no prejudices of bigotry, or of fashion, ever led a votary
into so many absurdities as this gentleman successfully achieved, while
professing to be guided only by the pure light of reason and philosophy.
In this publication also, Miss Seward laid her claim to the first fifty
verses in the Botanic Garden, which she had written in compliment to Dr
Darwin, and which he had inserted in his poem without any
acknowledgement. The correctness of Miss Seward’s statement is proved by
the publication of the verses with her name, in some periodical
publications, previous to the appearance of Dr Darwin’s poem; and the
disingenuous suppression of the aid of which he availed himself, must
remain a considerable stain upon the character of the poet of Flora.
After the publication of the Sonnets, Miss Seward did not undertake any
large poem. Yet she continued to pour forth her poetical effusions upon
such occasions as interested her feelings, or excited her imagination.
These efforts were, however, unequal to those of her earlier muse. Age
was now approaching with its usual attendants, declining health, and the
loss of friends summoned from the stage before her. Yet her interest in
literature and poetry continued unabated; and she maintained an
unrelaxed correspondence, not only with her former friends, but with
those later candidates for poetical distinction, whose exertions she
approved of. Among these, she distinguished with her highest regard, Mr
Robert Southey, and used to mention, as the most decided symptom of
degenerate taste, the inadequate success of his sublime epic, Madoc. On
this subject she used to quote, as a parallel instance of rash judgment,
a passage from Waller’s Letters. “The old blind school-master, John
Milton, hath published a tedious poem On the Fall of Man--if its length
be not considered as merit, it has no other.”
In summer 1807, the editor, upon his return from London, visited Miss
Seward, with whom he had corresponded occasionally for some years.
Robertson observes, that, in a female reign, the queen’s personal charms
are a subject of importance; and, as the same rule may apply to the case
of a female author, this may be no improper place to mention the
impression which her appearance and conversation were calculated to make
upon a stranger.--They were, indeed, well worth a longer pilgrimage.
Miss Seward, when young, must have been exquisitely beautiful; for, in
advanced age, the regularity of her features, the fire and expression of
her countenance, gave her the appearance of beauty, and almost of youth.
Her eyes were auburn, of the precise shade and hue of her hair, and
possessed great expression. In reciting, or in speaking with animation,
they appeared to become darker; and, as it were, to flash fire. I should
have hesitated to state the impression which this peculiarity made upon
me at the time, had not my observation been confirmed by that of the
first actress of this or any other age, with whom I lately happened to
converse on our deceased friend’s expressive powers of
countenance.--Miss Seward’s tone of voice was melodious, guided by
excellent taste, and well suited to reading and recitation, in which she
willingly exercised it. She did not sing, nor was she a great proficient
in music, though very fond of it, having studied it later in life than
is now usual. Her stature was tall, and her form was originally elegant;
but having broken the _patella_ of the knee by a fall in the year 1768,
she walked with pain and difficulty, which increased with the pressure
of years.
The great command of literary anecdote which Miss Seward possessed, her
ready perception both of the serious and ludicrous, and her just
observation and original taste, rendered her society delightful. She
entered into every topic with the keenness and vivacity of youth, and
it was difficult to associate the idea of advanced years either with her
countenance or conversation. The possessor of such quick feelings seldom
escapes the portion of pain with which all earthly good is alloyed and
tempered. With the warmest heart for her friends, and an unbounded
enthusiasm in their service, Miss Seward united a sensibility to
coldness, or to injuries real or supposed, which she permitted to
disturb her more than was consistent with prudence or with happiness.
The same tone of mind rendered her jealous of critical authority, when
exercised over her own productions, or those of her friends. Her
prepossessions upon literary points were also very strong.--She admired
the lofty and energetic tone of Milton; and the passages of Shakespeare
to which she gave the preference, were those which partook of the same
character. But although she admitted the superiority of these masters of
the lyre, her taste for ornament exceeded the simplicity of their
models, and was chiefly gratified, in modern poetry at least, by a more
laboured and ornate style of composition. For Darwin, her early friend,
and perhaps her preceptor in the art of poetry, she claimed a higher
rank among the poets of Britain than the judges of literature are at
present inclined to allow him. There is a fashion in poetry, which,
without increasing or diminishing the real value of the materials
moulded upon it, does wonders in facilitating its currency, while it has
novelty, and is often found to impede its reception when the mode has
passed away. It is with such verses as with the ancient defensive
armour:
-------- The fashion of the fight
Has thrown its gilt, and gaudy plumes aside,
For modern fopperies.
Miss Seward was in practice trained and attached to that school of
picturesque and florid description, of lofty metaphor and bold
personification, of a diction which inversion and the use of compound
epithets rendered as remote as possible from the tone of ordinary
language, which was introduced, or at least rendered fashionable, by
Darwin, but which was too remote from common life, and natural
expression, to retain its popularity. Yet her taste, though perhaps
over-dazzled by the splendour which she adopted in her own
compositions, readily admitted the claims of Pope, Collins, Gray, Mason,
and of all those bards who have condescended to add the graces of style
and expression to poetical thought and imagery. But she particularly
demanded beauty, elegance, or splendour of language; and was unwilling
to allow that sublimity or truth of conception could atone for poverty,
rudeness, or even simplicity, of expression. To Spenser, and the poets
of his school, she lent a very unwilling ear; and what will, perhaps,
best explain my meaning, she greatly preferred the flowing numbers and
expanded descriptions of Pope’s Iliad to Cowper’s translation, which
approaches nearer to the simply dignity of Homer. These peculiarities of
taste, Miss Seward was always ready to defend; nor was it easy for the
professors of an opposite faith to sustain either the art of her
arguments, or the authorities which her extensive acquaintance with the
best British classics readily supplied. She has left, among other
manuscripts, a Defence of Pope’s Odyssey against Spence, in which she
displays much critical acumen, and has decidedly the better of the
Professor. I ought, however, to add, that two circumstances qualified
Miss Seward’s taste for the picturesque. When she wrote upon subjects in
which her feelings were deeply interested, she forgot the “tiara and
glittering zone” of the priestess of Apollo, in the more natural
effusions of real passion. The song which begins,
“To thy rocks, stormy Lannow, adieu,”
seems to have been composed under such influence. The partiality with
which Miss Seward regarded the poetical attempts of her friends, formed
another class of exceptions to her peculiar taste for the magnificent in
poetry. She found, with an ingenuity which the subject sometimes
rendered wonderful, reasons for liking what her prejudices in favour of
the author had previously determined her to admire. Her literary
enthusiasm, ardent as it was, became in such cases tempered and
qualified by the yet keener interest she felt in those friends whom she
valued; and, if this caused an occasional anomaly in her critical
system, those who have experienced its benefit, may be pardoned for
quoting it as an illustration of the kindly warmth of her heart.
That warmth was not alone displayed in regard for friends in the same
rank of life, and cultivating similar studies. Her benevolence was
universally felt among those to whom it afforded active and important
support, as well as those whose pursuits it aided, and whose feelings it
gratified. But it is not the purpose of this slight sketch either to
enter into the merits of Miss Seward’s poetry, or to descend minutely
into her personal character. The reader has, in these volumes, enough
for forming an opinion upon the first point, and many passages from
which he may ground his own authentic, conclusions concerning the energy
of the talents and worth of the heart by which they were dictated. I
return to the narrative, which these cursory observations have
interrupted.
For a year or two preceding 1807, Miss Seward had been occasionally
engaged in arranging and preparing for the press the edition of her
poems which is now given to the public. She had reconsidered them
individually, and made such additions and corrections as she conceived
necessary. This subject was repeatedly mentioned in her correspondence,
and the publication would have taken place during Miss Seward’s
life-time, if some difficulties had not occurred to delay it. These were
in the course of being removed; and it is probable the volumes would
soon have gone to the press, had the state of Miss Seward’s health
permitted her to superintend their progress. But her constitution,
infirm for several years, was now rapidly declining. In harvest, 1807,
she was assailed by a scorbutic disorder, which affected her blood and
whole system in a degree most painfully irritating, banishing sleep, and
rendering waking hours almost intolerable.--Her spirit continued,
however, to struggle against its assaults, and she entered, by advice of
her physicians, upon a course of alternative medicine, which, it was
supposed, might alleviate or remove her complaint. But the disorder
proved invincible; and, in March 1809, the editor had the pain of
receiving the last farewell of his honoured friend. It is written at
intervals, and the hand-writing gradually degenerates from the distinct
and beautiful manuscript which Miss Seward used to write, into a scrawl
so feebly traced, as to be nearly illegible.
“You may believe, dear and admired friend, it was no trivial cause, no
idle procrastination, that kept me silent four months and a week to a
letter of yours, the humour, wit, and kindness of which recompensed its
delay. Early in our late Siberian December, I was proposing to address
you, when a violent fever, with alarming hæmorrhage, seized my weak
frame. During five nights and days, it put my life into peril. In all
that time, I was unable to swallow the least atom of solids, whilst my
thirst was raging and unquenchable. On the 6th day, the fever abated,
and some degree of appetite returned; but the disease has shook my weak
frame to its foundation. The fever abated, but is not yet subdued.
Sometimes I have a few hours intermission, but my pulse remaining at 90,
and 60 is my pulse of health, the medical people will not consent to my
taking the bark. Much writing is forbid me; indeed, its effect is
sufficiently forewarning, since, the moment I begin to think intensely,
the pen falls from my hand, a lethargic sensation creeps over me, and I
doze. Not more than by a page a day shall I attempt to proceed with this
snail of an epistle. I had two reasons for wishing to have written to
you sooner; gratitude, and the desire of presenting you with one of the
three copies which my poetic friend, Mr Mundy, has sent me to present to
three chosen friends. Though printed, it is not published, and
consequently unpurchaseable.”
“_Monday, 13th of March._
“So far was written Monday the 6th of this month, when again the
lethargy crept on. I fell asleep, and awoke in a raging fever and high
delirium. Next day, after a dreadful night, the physician ordered me to
lose six ounces of blood, and that not in the slightest degree abating
the fever, he took six ounces more on the eve, and all without effect. I
feel all the props of my life giving way; and probably this is the last
time I shall ever write any thing in the shape of a letter; but I have
procured a frank, and am unwilling it should be useless. It is for
Thursday next. Considering my pains, my raging thirst, my utter
debility, it would be a mercy if I should not be in existence on that
day.
“If I knew where to find you, I would send the copy of Mundy’s Poems,
but I am loth to put you to the expence of its carriage, except I
should send it to you in London. I am not able to add more than what I
think will be my last benediction on you and yours. O! what a blessing
is a sudden death! I always prayed for it, but am not worthy to have my
prayer granted.
“I thank you for all your kindness, and for the delightful hours your
talents have given me.
“Affectionately your friend,
“A. SEWARD.”
“It is Thursday, and each intervening day since I closed my letter has
taken large death-strides upon me.”
This melancholy letter was too true an augury of the event which it
anticipated. Upon Thursday the 23d of March, 1809, Miss Seward was
seized with an universal stupor, which continued until the 25th, at six
o’clock in the evening, when she expired. Her friends, a term which
comprehends many names distinguished in British literature, must long
lament this accomplished woman. The poems in which she survives to the
public, although containing vivid traces of genius, will serve but to
remind those who were honoured with her acquaintance, of the loss which
they have sustained of her ardent love of literature, her disinterested
and candid defence of its best interests, of the amiable and
enthusiastic warmth of her friendship, and the innate benevolence of her
heart.
The arrangement of Miss Seward’s fortune was left under the charge of
her residuary legatee, Thomas White, Esq. residing in the Close of
Lichfield, and Charles Simpson, Esq. of the same city; the former
connected with her by relationship, and both still more by kindness and
intimacy. To the present editor she bequeathed her literary
performances, and particularly the works she had so long intended for
the press, with the instructions, as well as under the exception,
contained in the following posthumous letter:
“DEAR SIR,
“In my last and lately-executed will, I have bequeathed to you the
exclusive copy-right of those compositions in verse and prose which I
mean shall constitute a miscellaneous edition of my works. This bequest
consists of my writings in verse which have passed the press, together
with those that are yet unpublished; also a collection of juvenile
letters from the year 1762, to June 1768, together with four sermons,
and a critical dissertation.
“The verse consists of two half-bound volumes quarto, full of manuscript
compositions; and, at this time, of six manuscript books, sewn together
in the form of quarto volumes. With these I desire may be blended my
poems which have already been regularly and separately published;
printed copies of which will be found tied up with the manuscript verse,
and from those printed copies I desire the press for this edition may be
struck. Some slight alterations in the printed copies are inserted in my
own hand-writing, to which I request you will have the goodness to
attend in your survey of the proof sheets. I wish the printed and
manuscript poems may succeed each other in the miscellany according to
the successive periods at which they were written; to which end there
are specified directions to the printer through their whole course. With
these you will find, and to these I desire may succeed in the
miscellany, the three first books of an epic poem raised on the basis of
Fenelon’s Telemachus, but in very excursive paraphrase, harmonizing, as
I flattered myself, with the style of Pope’s Homer. I once hoped to have
compleated the poem, and that, in such a completion, it might have
formed no unacceptable conclusion to the adventures of the young and
royal hero left unfinished in the Odyssey. More indispensable claims
upon my attention frustrated that purpose. Abortive as it proved, those
of my classical friends who have examined the three books, assure me
that their contents are, poetically, equal to any thing I have written.
“With the above-named compositions, you will meet with a little
collection of my late dear father’s poetry, with references to more of
it published anonymously in Dodsley’s Miscellany. I wish you to admit
this collection, together with his poems in Dodsley, into the edition I
have bequeathed to you, and that it may succeed to my own poems.
“To these metrical volumes, I wish the juvenile letters may be added,
succeeding the poetic volumes as in Warburton’s edition of Pope’s works.
I refer the critical dissertation, defending Pope’s Odyssey against the
erroneous criticisms of Spence, to your judgement, that, when you have
read the tract, you may publish or suppress it, as you think best. If
the former be your choice, it should follow the juvenile letters, being,
as it was, the production of my youthful years. Last, the four sermons,
unless you think it better to publish them by themselves at a different
period, rather than that they should form a part of this collective
edition. I wish it to be printed in small octavo.
“Twelve quarto and manuscript volumes of my letters, from the year 1784,
to the present day, I have bequeathed to Mr A. Constable. They are
copies of such letters, or parts of letters, as, after they were
written, appeared to me worth the attention of the public. Large as the
collection is, it does not include a twelfth part of the letters I have
written from the said period.[1]
“To Mr Constable, rather than to yourself, have they been bequeathed, on
account of the political principles which, during many past years, they
breathed. Fervent indeed, and uniform, was my abhorrence of the
dreadful system in our cabinet, which has reduced the continent to utter
vassalage, and endangered the independence of Great Britain. Yet I know
these opinions are too hostile to your friendships and connections with
the belligerent party, for the possibility of it being agreeable to you
to become the editor of those twelve epistolary volumes.
“I shall address a posthumous letter to Mr Constable on their subject,
expressing my desire that he publish two volumes annually, not classing
them to separate correspondents, but allowing them to succeed each other
in the order of time as they stand in the collection.
“This letter has been written beneath the pressure of much pain and
illness. I am in a state which induces me to believe you will, ere long,
receive this testimony of my regard, confidence, and gratitude, for all
the attention with which you have honoured me; above all, for your kind
visit. May health and length of days be yours, with leisure to employ,
from time to time, your illustrious muse. And now, dear sir, a long, a
last adieu!
“ANNA SEWARD.”
I have, in every material respect, punctually complied with the wishes
of my deceased friend. I have exercised the latitude indulged to me of
omitting the prose compositions, and also the poems of the late Mr
Seward, as it was judged adviseable to limit the size of this
publication to three volumes. The imitation of Telemachus is also
omitted; and, in publishing the correspondence, every thing is
retrenched which has reference to personal anecdote. I am aware that, in
this particular, I have not consulted the taste of the age; but, in my
opinion, nothing less important than the ascertainment of historical
fact justifies withdrawing the veil from the incidents of private life.
I would not willingly have this suppression misconstrued. There is not a
line in my possession but might be published with honour to her who
bequeathed me the manuscripts, and with justice to those named in them;
and those in Mr Constable’s possession, being more generally of a
literary nature, are still less liable to exception. But few can
remember the feelings, passions, and prejudices of their earlier career,
without feeling reluctance to their being brought before the public;
and, in some late instances, the parties concerned might have
remonstrated with the editor, like the dethroned monarch with his
insulting accuser:
---- And must I ravel out
My weaved-up follies----
If thy offences were upon record,
Would it not shame thee in so fair a troop
To read a lecture of them?
The poetry has been published precisely according to Miss Seward’s
directions. To the numerous friends of Miss Seward, these volumes will
form an acceptable present; for, besides their poetical merit, they form
a pleasing register of her sentiments, her feelings, and her affections.
The general reception they may meet with is more dubious, since
collections of occasional and detached poems have rarely been honoured
with a large share of public favour. Should Miss Seward’s poetry be
admitted as an exception, it will add much to the satisfaction which I
feel in the faithful discharge of the task entrusted to me by the
bequest of the amiable and highly-accomplished author.
EXTRACTS
FROM
MISS SEWARD’S
LITERARY CORRESPONDENCE.
LICHFIELD, OCT. 1762.
There is surely, my dear friend, a certain magnetism which attracts
dispositions to those which resemble them, and, in some sort, supplies
the place of long experienced good qualities. Let us recollect our first
conversations with people whose age and situation in life had parity
with ours. It is, perhaps, not often that any of them shall be found to
have passed in absolute indifference, though the degree of attraction or
repulsion in each might be widely different.
I am strongly tempted to rely upon this involuntary bias. Young as I am,
my experience must be very limited; but hitherto I have not often found
these first-sight impressions deceive me. On the contrary, the
disappointments I have met with in my friendships generally resulted
from people with whom circumstances of mutual convenience had united me
in a slow progressive regard, which had gradually subdued the force of
primary impressions that were not in their favour.
Yet I must not permit you to suppose that my youthful, perhaps
enthusiastic credulity, extends so far as to adopt the idea, either in
friendship or love, of the one only kindred spirit destined to subdue
our hearts, if of the other sex, or to engross our whole stock of amity,
if of our own; but I do religiously believe that Nature, or rather the
God of Nature, has formed the human mind into different classes, and
that there can be no enduring happiness in any connection for
dispositions which are not of the same order of mind.
In love, the impermanent pleasures of the eye eternally mislead
uncongenial spirits into bands which are legally indissoluble. Hence
that matrimonial infelicity which we often see exist between persons,
neither of whom are unamiable; where each, in a better-suited
connection, might have found that comfort which they lost, by not
attending to the dissimilarity of their tastes and pursuits; a
dissimilarity which ought to have shewn them the impossibility of
finding it in each other’s society, and have restrained them from
wandering out of their own class.
Friendship, less influenced than love by the intoxication of the eye, is
less apt to lead the soul out of her bounds; yet sometimes, in the
choice of friends, even thinking minds are dazzled by the glitter of
superficial attractions, and caught by the fascination of a smile; and
oftener still, as I before observed, circumstances of convenience,
consciousness of obligation, or reverence for imputed virtues, shall
over-rule the want of native sympathy in the formation of friendship.
Such friendship, however, is mighty apt to be suddenly dissolved. Their
acquaintance wonder, and the parties themselves wonder at the ease with
which they had mutually renounced communication, that, from its
frequency, might well be supposed to have been important to their
happiness. But, in reality, there is little marvel in the matter.
Friendship not having, like marriage, a legal indissolubility, the
connection which convenience or accident had formed, we are not to
wonder if convenience or accident dissolves.
Still less ought we to wonder that attachments quickly vanish which were
founded upon the airy nothings of superficial attractions. They are,
indeed, but as “the baseless fabric of a vision.” Yet it were well, if,
like a vision, they left no wreck behind.--Alas! they are too apt to
leave wrecks, most properly so called, which shall prove, through life,
the long-repented folly of ill-placed confidence.
And now, dear Emma, are you not ready to ask your friend wherefore she
moralizes thus sententiously, at an age when it is more natural, perhaps
more pleasing, to feel lively impressions, than to annalyze them? There
is a wherefore. I have been called romantic. It is my wish that you
should better know the heart in which you possess so lively an interest.
My sensibilities are poignant;--my credulity has all the warmth of
youthful ingenuousness; but, in truth, the romance of your friend’s
disposition did not survive her last robe-coat above a couple of years.
That fervent inclination, which, in our first interview, seemed to
attach us mutually, has, I flatter myself, a very different foundation
from the giddy violence of novel-reading misses, who plight their
first-sight friendships with solemn earnestness, because they think it
pretty and becoming to have plighted friendships, and because their
vanity pants to impart the conquests of the preceding ball. Such nymphs
should have this motto on their samplers:
“We swear eternal truth--but say, my friend,
“What day, next week, th’ eternity shall end?”