The frequent observation of foreigners is, that in England we have
few "celebrated women." Perhaps they mean that we have few who are
"notorious;" but let us admit that in either case they are right; and
may we not express our belief in its being better for women and for
the community that such is the case. "Celebrity" rarely adds to the
happiness of a woman, and almost as rarely increases her usefulness.
The time and attention required to attain "celebrity," must, except
under very peculiar circumstances, interfere with the faithful
discharge of those feminine duties upon which the well-doing of
society depends, and which shed so pure a halo around our English
homes. Within these "homes" our heroes, statesmen, philosophers, men
of letters, men of genius, receive their first impressions, and the
_impetus_ to a faithful discharge of their after callings as Christian
subjects of the State.
There are few of such men who do not trace back their resolution,
their patriotism, their wisdom, their learning--the nourishment of
all their higher aspirations--to a wise, hopeful, loving-hearted
and faith-inspired Mother; one who believed in a son's destiny to be
great; it may be, impelled to such belief rather by instinct than by
reason: who cherished (we can find no better word) the "Hero-feeling"
of devotion to what was right; though it might have been unworldly;
and whose deep heart welled up perpetual love and patience toward the
overboiling faults and frequent stumblings of a hot youth, which she
felt would mellow into a fruitful manhood.
The strength and glory of England are in the keeping of the wives
and mothers of its men; and when we are questioned touching our
"celebrated women", we may in general terms refer to those who have
watched over, moulded, and inspired our "celebrated men".
Happy is the country where the laws of God and Nature are held in
reverence--where each sex fulfills its peculiar duties, and renders
its sphere a sanctuary! And surely such harmony is blessed by the
Almighty--for while other nations writhe in anarchy and poverty, our
own spreads wide her arms to receive all who seek protection or need
repose.
But if we have few "celebrated" women, few who, impelled either by
circumstances or the irrepressible restlessness of genius, go forth
amid the pitfalls of publicity, and battle with the world, either as
poets, or dramatists, or moralists, or mere tale-tellers in simple
prose--or, more dangerous still, "hold the mirror up to nature" on
the stage that mimics life--if we have but few, we have, and have
had _some_, of whom we are justly proud; women of such well-balanced
minds, that toil they ever so laboriously in their public and perilous
paths, their domestic and social duties have been fulfilled with as
diligent and faithful love as though the world had never been purified
and enriched by the treasures of their feminine wisdom; yet this
does not shake our belief, that despite the spotless and well-earned
reputations they enjoyed, the homage they received, (and it has its
charm,) and even the blessed consciousness of having contributed to
the healthful recreation, the improved morality, the diffusion of the
best sort of knowledge--the _woman_ would have been happier had she
continued enshrined in the privacy of domestic love and domestic duty.
She may not think this at the commencement of her career; and at its
termination, if she has lived sufficiently long to have descended,
even gracefully, from her pedestal, she may often recall the homage of
the _past_ to make up for its lack in the _present_. But so perfectly
is woman constituted for the cares, the affections, the duties--the
blessed duties of un-public life--that if she give nature way it will
whisper to her a text, that "celebrity never added to the happiness of
a true woman". She must look for her happiness to HOME. We would have
young women ponder over this, and watch carefully, ere the veil is
lifted, and the hard cruel eye of public criticism fixed upon them.
No profession is pastime; still less so now than ever, when so many
people are "clever", though so few are great. We would pray those
especially who direct their thoughts to literature, to think of what
they have to say, and why they wish to say it; and above all, to weigh
what they may expect from a capricious public, against the blessed
shelter and pure harmonies of private life.
But we have had some--and still have some--"celebrated" women, of whom
we have said "we may be justly proud". We have done pilgrimage to the
shrine of Lady Rachel Russell, who was so thoroughly "domestic", that
the Corinthian beauty of her character would never have been matter
of history, but for the wickedness of a bad king. We have recorded
the hours spent with Hannah More; the happy days passed with, and the
years invigorated by, the advice and influence of Maria Edgworth. We
might recall the stern and faithful puritanism of Maria Jane Jewsbury,
and the Old World devotion of the true and high-souled daughter of
Israel--Grace Aguilar. The mellow tones of Felicia Hemans' poetry
lingers still among all who appreciate the holy sympathies of religion
and virtue. We could dwell long and profitably on the enduring
patience and lifelong labor of Barbara Hofland, and steep a diamond in
tears to record the memories of L.E.L. We could,--alas! alas! barely
five and twenty years' acquaintance with literature and its ornaments,
and the brilliant catalogue is but a _Memento Mori_. Perhaps of all
this list, Maria Edgworth's life was the happiest: simply because she
was the most retired, the least exposed to the gaze and observation of
the world, the most occupied by loving duties toward the most united
circle of old and young we ever saw assembled in one happy home.
The very young have never, perhaps, read one of the tales of a lady
whose reputation as a novelist was in its zenith when Walter Scott
published his first novel. We desire to place a chaplet upon the grave
of a woman once "celebrated" all over the known world, yet who drew
all her happiness from the lovingness of home and friends, while her
life was as pure as her renown was extensive.
In our own childhood romance-reading was prohibited, but earnest
entreaty procured an exception in favor of the "Scottish Chiefs". It
was the bright summer, and we read it by moonlight, only disturbed
by the murmur of the distant ocean. We read it, crouched in the deep
recess of the nursery-window; we read it until moonlight and morning
met, and the breakfast-bell ringing out into the soft air from the
old gable, found us at the end of the fourth volume. Dear old times!
when it would have been deemed little less than sacrilege to crush a
respectable romance into a shilling volume, and our mammas considered
_only_ a five-volume story curtailed of its just proportions.
Sir William Wallace has never lost his heroic ascendancy over us,
and we have steadily resisted every temptation to open the "popular
edition" of the long-loved romance, lest what people will call "the
improved state of the human mind", might displace the sweet memory of
the mingled admiration and indignation that chased each other, while
we read and wept, without ever questioning the truth of the absorbing
narrative.
Yet the "Scottish Chiefs" scarcely achieved the popularity of
"Thaddeus of Warsaw"--the first romance originated by the active
brain and singularly constructive power of Jane Porter--produced at an
almost girlish age.
The hero of "Thaddeus of Warsaw" was really Kosciuszko, the beloved
pupil of George Washington, the grandest and purest patriot the modern
world has known. The enthusiastic girl was moved to its composition by
the stirring times in which she lived, and a personal observation
of and acquaintance with some of those brave men whose struggles for
liberty only ceased with their exile or their existence.
Miss Porter placed her standard of excellence on high ground, and--all
gentle-spirited as was her nature--it was firm and unflinching toward
what she believed the right and true. We must not therefore judge
her by the depressed state of "feeling" in these times, when its
demonstration is looked upon as artificial or affected. Toward the
termination of the last, and the commencement of the present century,
the world was roused into an interest and enthusiasm, which now we
can scarcely appreciate or account for; the sympathies of England were
awakened by the terrible revolutions of France and the desolation of
Poland; as a principle, we hated Napoleon, though he had neither act
nor part in the doings of the democrats; and the sea-songs of Dibdin,
which our youth _now_ would call uncouth and ungraceful rhymes, were
key-notes to public feeling; the English of that time were thoroughly
"awake"--the British Lion had not slumbered through a thirty years'
peace. We were a nation of soldiers, and sailors, and patriots;
not of mingled cotton-spinners, and railway speculators, and angry
protectionists. We do not say which state of things is best or worst,
we desire merely to account for what may be called the taste for
_heroic_ literature at that time, and the taste for--we really hardly
know what to call it--literature of the present, made up, as it
too generally is, of shreds and patches--bits of gold and bits of
tinsel--things written in a hurry, to be read in a hurry, and never
thought of afterward--suggestive rather than reflective, at the best:
and we must plead guilty to a too great proneness to underrate what
our fathers probably overrated.
At all events we must bear in mind, while reading or thinking over
Miss Porter's novels, that in her day, even the exaggeration
of enthusiasm was considered good tone and good taste. How this
enthusiasm was _fostered_, not subdued, can be gathered by the
author's ingenious preface to the, we believe, tenth edition of
"Thaddeus of Warsaw."
[Illustration]
This story brought her abundant honors, and rendered her society,
as well as the society of her sister and brother, sought for by all
who aimed at a reputation for taste and talent. Mrs. Porter, on her
husband's death, (he was the younger son of a well-connected Irish
family, born in Ireland, in or near Coleraine, we believe, and a major
in the Enniskillen Dragoons,) sought a residence for her family in
Edinburgh, where education and good society are attainable to persons
of moderate fortunes, if they are "well-born;" but the extraordinary
artistic skill of her son Robert required a wider field, and she
brought her children to London sooner than she had intended, that his
promising talents might be cultivated. We believe the greater part
of "Thaddeus of Warsaw" was written in London, either in St. Martin's
Lane, Newport Street, or Gerard Street, Soho, (for in these three
streets the family lived after their arrival in the metropolis);
though, as soon as Robert Ker Porter's abilities floated him on the
stream, his mother and sisters retired, in the brightness of their
fame and beauty, to the village of Thames Ditton, a residence they
loved to speak of as their "home." The actual labor of "Thaddeus"--her
first novel--must have been considerable: for testimony was frequently
borne to the fidelity of its localities, and Poles refused to believe
the author had not visited Poland; indeed, she had a happy power in
describing localities. It was on the publication of Miss Porter's two
first works in the German language that their author was honored by
being made a Lady of the Chapter of St. Joachim, and received the
gold cross of the order from Wurtemberg; but "The Scottish Chiefs" was
never so popular on the Continent as "Thaddeus of Warsaw", although
Napoleon honored it with an interdict, to prevent its circulation in
France. If Jane Porter owed her Polish inspirations so peculiarly
to the tone of the times in which she lived, she traces back, in
her introduction to the latest edition of "The Scottish Chiefs." her
enthusiasm in the cause of Sir William Wallace to the influence an
old "Scotch wife's" tales and ballads produced upon her mind while in
early childhood. She wandered amid what she describes as "beautiful
green banks," which rose in natural terraces behind her mothers house,
and where a cow and a few sheep occasionally fed. This house stood
alone, at the head of a little square, near the high school; the
distinguished Lord Elchies formerly lived in the house, which was very
ancient, and from those green banks it commanded a fine view of the
Firth of Forth. While gathering "_gowans_" or other wild-flowers for
her infant sister, (whom she loved more dearly than her life, during
the years they lived in most tender and affectionate companionship),
she frequently encountered this aged woman, with her knitting in her
hand; and she would speak to the eager and intelligent child of the
blessed quiet of the land, where the cattle were browsing without fear
of an enemy; and then she would talk of the awful times of the brave
Sir William Wallace, when he fought for Scotland, "against a cruel
tyrant; like unto them whom Abraham overcame when he recovered Lot,
with all his herds and flocks, from the proud foray of the robber
kings of the South," who, she never failed to add, "were all rightly
punished for oppressing the stranger in a foreign land! for the Lord
careth for the stranger." Miss Porter says that this woman never
omitted mingling pious allusions with her narrative. "Yet she was a
person of low degree, dressed in a coarse woollen gown, and a plain
_Mutch_ cap, clasped under the chin with a silver brooch, which her
father had worn at the battle of Culloden." Of course she filled with
tales of Sir William Wallace and the Bruce the listening ears of the
lovely Saxon child, who treasured them in her heart and brain, until
they fructified in after years into "The Scottish Chiefs." To these
two were added "The Pastor's Fireside," and a number of other tales
and romances. She contributed to several annuals and magazines, and
always took pains to keep up the reputation she had won, achieving
a large share of the popularity, to which, as an author, she never
looked for happiness. No one could be more alive to praise or more
grateful for attention, but the heart of a genuine, pure, loving
woman, beat within Jane Porter's bosom, and she was never drawn out of
her domestic circle by the flattery that has spoiled so many, men as
well as women. Her mind was admirably balanced by her home affections,
which remained unsullied and unshaken to the end of her days. She
had, in common with her three brothers and her charming sister, the
advantage of a wise and loving mother--a woman pious without cant, and
worldly-wise without being worldly. Mrs. Porter was born at Durham,
and when very young bestowed her hand and heart on Major Porter.
An old friend of the family assures us that two or three of their
children were born in Ireland, and that certainly Jane was amongst the
number. Although she left Ireland when in early youth, perhaps almost
an infant, she certainly must be considered Irish, as her father was
so both by birth and descent, and esteemed during his brief life as a
brave and generous gentleman. He died young, leaving his lovely widow
in straitened circumstances, having only her widow's pension to depend
on. The eldest son--afterward Colonel Porter--was sent to school by
his grandfather.
We have glanced briefly at Sir Robert Ker Porter's wonderful
talents, and Anna Maria, when in her twelfth year, rushed, as
Jane acknowledged, "prematurely into print." Of Anna Maria we knew
personally but very little, enough however to recall with a pleasant
memory her readiness in conversation and her bland and cheerful
manners. No two sisters could have been more different in bearing and
appearance; Maria was a delicate blonde, with a _riant_ face, and
an animated manner--we had said almost _peculiarly Irish_--rushing
at conclusions, where her more thoughtful and careful sister paused
to consider and calculate. The beauty of Jane was statuesque, her
deportment serious yet cheerful, a seriousness quite as natural as
her younger sister's gaiety; they both labored diligently, but Anna
Maria's labor was sport when compared to her eldest sister's careful
toil; Jane's mind was of a more lofty order, she was intense, and felt
more than she said, while Anna Maria often said more than she felt;
they were a delightful contrast, and yet the harmony between them was
complete; and one of the happiest days we ever spent, while trembling
on the threshold of literature, was with them at their pretty
road-side cottage in the village of Esher before the death of their
venerable and dearly beloved mother, whose rectitude and prudence had
both guided and sheltered their youth, and who lived to reap with
them the harvest of their industry and exertion. We remember the drive
there, and the anxiety as to how those very "clever ladies" would
look, and what they would say; we talked over the various letters
we had received from Jane, and thought of the cordial invitation to
their cottage--their "mother's cottage"--as they always called it. We
remember the old white friendly spaniel who looked at us with blinking
eyes, and preceded us up stairs; we remember the formal old-fashioned
courtesy of the venerable old lady, who was then nearly eighty--the
blue ribands and good-natured frankness of Anna Maria, and the noble
courtesy of Jane, who received visitors as if she granted an audience;
this manner was natural to her; it was only the manner of one whose
thoughts have dwelt more upon heroic deeds, and lived more with heroes
than with actual living men and women; the effect of this, however,
soon passed away, but not so the fascination which was in all she
said and did. Her voice was soft and musical, and her conversation
addressed to one person rather than to the company at large, while
Maria talked rapidly to every one, or _for_ every one who chose to
listen. How happily the hours passed!--we were shown some of those
extraordinary drawings of Sir Robert, who gained an artists reputation
before he was twenty, and attracted the attention of West and Shee[2]
in his mere boyhood. We heard all the interesting particulars of his
panoramic picture of the Storming of Seringapatam, which, the first
of its class, was known half over the world. We must not, however,
be misunderstood--there was neither personal nor family egotism in
the Porters; they invariably spoke of each other with the tenderest
affection--but unless the conversation was _forced_ by their
friends--they never mentioned their own, or each other's works, while
they were most ready to praise what was excellent in the works of
others; they spoke with pleasure of their sojourns in London; while
their mother said, it was much wiser and better for young ladies
who were not rich, to live quietly in the country, and escape the
temptations of luxury and display. At that time the "young ladies"
seemed to us certainly _not_ young: that was about two-and-twenty
years ago, and Jane Porter was seventy-five when she died. They talked
much of their previous dwelling at Thames Ditton, of the pleasant
neighborhood they enjoyed there, though their mother's health and
their own had much improved since their residence on Esher hill;
their little garden was bounded at the back by the beautiful park of
Claremont, and the front of the house overlooked the leading roads,
broken as they are by the village green, and some noble elms. The view
is crowned by the high trees of Esher Place; opening from the village
on that side of the brow of the hill. Jane pointed out the _locale_
of the proud Cardinal Wolsey's domain, inhabited during the days: of
his power over Henry VIII., and in their cloudy evening, when that
capricious monarch's favor changed to bitterest hate. It was the very
spot to foster her high romance, while she could at the same time
enjoy the sweets of that domestic converse she loved best of all.
We were prevented by the occupations and heart-beatings of our own
literary labors from repeating this visit; and in 1831, four years
after these well-remembered hours, the venerable mother of a family
so distinguished in literature and art, rendering their names known
and honored wherever art and letters flourish, was called HOME. The
sisters, who had resided ten years at Esher, left it, intending to
sojourn for a time with their second brother, Doctor Porter, (who
commenced his career as a surgeon in the navy) in Bristol; but within
a year the youngest, the light-spirited, bright-hearted Anna Maria
died; her sister was dreadfully shaken by her loss, and the letters
we received from her after this bereavement, though containing the
outpourings of a sorrowing spirit, were full of the certainty of
that re-union hereafter which became the hope of her life. She soon
resigned her cottage home at Esher, and found the affectionate welcome
she so well deserved in many homes, where friends vied with each
other to fill the void in her sensitive heart. She was of too wise
a nature, and too sympathizing a habit, to shut out new interests
and affections, but her _old ones_ never withered, nor were they
ever replaced; were the love of such a sister-friend--the watchful
tenderness and uncompromising love of a mother--ever "replaced," to a
lonely sister _or_ a bereaved daughter! Miss Porters pen had been laid
aside for some time, when suddenly she came before the world as the
editor of "Sir Edward Seward's Narrative", and set people hunting over
old atlases to find out the island where he resided. The whole was
a clever fiction; yet Miss Porter never confided its authorship, we
believe, beyond her family circle; perhaps the correspondence and
documents, which are in the hands of one of her kindest friends (her
executor), Mr. Shepherd, may throw some light upon a subject which the
"Quarterly" honored by an article. We think the editor certainly used
her pen as well as her judgment in the work, and we have imagined that
it might have been written by the family circle, more in sport than in
earnest, and then produced to serve a double purpose.
[Footnote 2: In his early days the President of the Royal Academy
painted a very striking portrait of Jane Porter, as "Miranda,"
and Harlowe painted her in the canoness dress of the order of St.
Joachim.]
After her sister's death Miss Jane Porter was afflicted with so
severe an illness, that we, in common with her other friends, thought
it impossible she could carry out her plan of journeying to St.
Petersburgh to visit her brother, Sir Robert Ker Porter, who had
been long united to a Russian princess, and was then a widower; her
strength was fearfully reduced; her once round figure become almost
spectral, and little beyond the placid and dignified expression of
her noble countenance remained to tell of her former beauty; but her
resolve was taken; she wished, she said, to see once more her youngest
and most beloved brother, so distinguished in several careers, almost
deemed incompatible,--as a painter, an author, a soldier, and a
diplomatist, and nothing could turn her from her purpose: she reached
St. Petersburgh in safety, and with apparently improved health, found
her brother as much courted and beloved there as in his own land,
and his daughter married to a Russian of high distinction. Sir Robert
longed to return to England. He did not complain of any illness, and
everything was arranged for their departure; his final visits were
paid, all but one to the Emperor, who had ever treated him as a
friend; the day before his intended journey he went to the palace, was
graciously received, and then drove home, but when the servant opened
the carriage-door at his own residence he was dead! One sorrow after
another pressed heavily upon her; yet she was still the same sweet,
gentle, holy-minded woman she had ever been, bending with Christian
faith to the will of the Almighty,--"biding her time".
How differently would she have "watched and waited" had she been
tainted by vanity, or fixed her soul on the mere triumphs of "literary
reputation". While firm to her own creed, she fully enjoyed the
success of those who scramble up--where she bore the standard to the
heights of Parnassus; she was never more happy than when introducing
some literary "Tyro" to those who could aid or advise a future career.
We can speak from experience of the warm interest she took in the
Hospital for the cure of Consumption, and the Governesses' Benevolent
Institution; during the progress of the latter, her health was
painfully feeble, yet she used her personal influence for its success,
and worked with her own hands for its bazaars. She was ever aiding
those who could not aid themselves; and all her thoughts, words, and
deeds, were evidence of her clear, powerful mind and kindly loving
heart; her appearance in the London _coteries_ was always hailed with
interest and pleasure; to the young she was especially affectionate;
but it was in the quiet mornings, or in the long twilight evenings
of summer, when visiting her cherished friends at Shirley Park, in
Kensington Square, or wherever she might be located for the time--it
was then that her former spirit revived, and she poured forth anecdote
and illustration, and the store of many years' observation, filtered
by experience and purified by that delightful faith to which she
held,--that "all things work together for good to them that love the
Lord". She held this in practice, even more than in theory; you saw
her chastened yet hopeful spirit beaming forth from her gentle eyes,
and her sweet smile can never be forgotten. The last time we saw her,
was about two years ago--in Bristol--at her brother's, Dr. Porter's,
house in Portland Square: then she could hardly stand without
assistance, yet she never complained of her own suffering or
feebleness, all her anxiety was about the brother--then dangerously
ill, and now the last of "his race." Major Porter, it will be
remembered, left five children, and these have left only one
descendant--the daughter of Sir Robert Ker Porter and the Russian
Princess whom he married, a young Russian lady, whose present name we
do not even know.
We did not think at our last leave-taking that Miss Porter's fragile
frame could have so long withstood the Power that takes away all we
hold most dear; but her spirit was at length summoned, after a few
days' total insensibility, on the 24th of May.
We were haunted by the idea that the pretty cottage at Esher, where
we spent those happy hours, had been treated even as "Mrs. Porter's
Arcadia" at Thames Ditton--now altogether removed; and it was with a
melancholy pleasure we found it the other morning in nothing changed;
and it was almost impossible to believe that so many years had passed
since our last visit. While Mr. Fairholt was sketching the cottage, we
knocked at the door, and were kindly permitted by two gentle sisters,
who now inhabit it, to enter the little drawing-room and walk round
the garden: except that the drawing-room has been re-papered and
painted, and that there were no drawings and no flowers the room was
not in the least altered; yet to us it seemed like a sepulcher, and we
rejoiced to breathe the sweet air of the little garden, and listen to
a nightingale, whose melancholy cadence harmonized with our feelings.
"Whenever you are at Esher," said the devoted daughter, the last
time we conversed with her, "do visit my mother's tomb." We did so.
A cypress flourishes at the head of the grave; and the following
touching inscription is carved on the stone:--
Here sleeps in Jesus a Christian widow, JANE PORTER. Obiit
June 18th, 1831, ætat. 86; the beloved mother of W. Porter,
M.D., of Sir Robert Ker Porter, and of Jane and Anna Maria
Porter, who mourn in hope, humbly trusting to be born again
with her unto the blessed kingdom of their Lord and Savior.
Respect her grave, for she ministered to the poor.
* * * * *