"Thou, while thou stand'st beneath this tree,
While by thy foot this earth is press'd,
Think, here the wanderer's ashes be--
And wilt thou say, sweet be thy rest!
"'Twould add even to a seraph's bliss,
Whose sacred charge thou then may be,
To guide--to guard--yes, Byron! yes,
That glory is reserved for me."
"If woes below may plead above
A frail heart's errors, mine forgiven,
To that 'high world' I soar, where 'love
Surviving' forms the bliss of Heaven.
"O wheresoe'er, in realms above,
Assign'd my spirit's new abode,
'Twill watch thee with a seraph's love,
Till thou too soar'st to meet thy God.
"And here, beneath this lonely tree--
Beneath the earth thy feet have press'd,
My dust shall sleep--once dear to thee
These scenes--here may the wanderer rest!"
In the midst of her reveries and rhapsodies, tidings reached Newstead
of the untimely death of Lord Byron. How they were received by this
humble but passionate devotee I could not ascertain; her life was too
obscure and lonely to furnish much personal anecdote, but among her
poetical effusions are several written in a broken and irregular
manner, and evidently under great agitation.
The following sonnet is the most coherent and most descriptive of her
peculiar state of mind:
"Well, thou art gone--but what wert thou to me?
I never saw thee--never heard thy voice,
Yet my soul seemed to claim affiance with thee.
The Roman bard has sung of fields Elysian,
Where the soul sojourns ere she visits earth;
Sure it was there my spirit knew thee, Byron!
Thine image haunted me like a past vision;
It hath enshrined itself in my heart's core;
'Tis my soul's soul--it fills the whole creation.
For I do live but in that world ideal
Which the muse peopled with her bright fancies,
And of that world thou art a monarch real,
Nor ever earthly sceptre ruled a kingdom,
With sway so potent as thy lyre, the mind's dominion."
Taking all the circumstances here adduced into consideration, it is
evident that this strong excitement and exclusive occupation of the
mind upon one subject, operating upon a system in a high state of
morbid irritability, was in danger of producing that species of mental
derangement called monomania. The poor little being was aware, herself,
of the dangers of her case, and alluded to it in the following passage
of a letter to Colonel Wildman, which presents one of the most
lamentable pictures of anticipated evil ever conjured up by the human
mind.
"I have long," writes she, "too sensibly felt the decay of my mental
faculties, which I consider as the certain indication of that dreaded
calamity which I anticipate with such terror. A strange idea has long
haunted my mind, that Swift's dreadful fate will be mine. It is not
ordinary insanity I so much apprehend, but something worse--absolute
idiotism!
"O sir! think what I must suffer from such an idea, without an earthly
friend to look up to for protection in such a wretched state--exposed
to the indecent insults which such spectacles always excite. But I dare
not dwell upon the thought: it would facilitate the event I so much
dread, and contemplate with horror. Yet I cannot help thinking from
people's behavior to me at times, and from after reflections upon my
conduct, that symptoms of the disease are already apparent."
Five months passed away, but the letters written by her, and forwarded
by Colonel Wildman to America relative to her brother's affairs,
remained unanswered; the inquiries instituted by the Colonel had as yet
proved equally fruitless. A deeper gloom and despondency now seemed to
gather upon her mind. She began to talk of leaving Newstead, and
repairing to London, in the vague hope of obtaining relief or redress
by instituting some legal process to ascertain and enforce the will of
her deceased brother. Weeks elapsed, however, before she could summon
up sufficient resolution to tear herself away from the scene of
poetical fascination. The following simple stanzas, selected from a
number written about the time, express, in humble rhymes, the
melancholy that preyed upon her spirits:
"Farewell to thee, Newstead, thy time-riven towers,
Shall meet the fond gaze of the pilgrim no more;
No more may she roam through thy walks and thy bowers.
Nor muse in thy cloisters at eve's pensive hour.
"Oh, how shall I leave you, ye hills and ye dales,
When lost in sad musing, though sad not unblest,
A lone pilgrim I stray--Ah! in these lonely vales,
I hoped, vainly hoped, that the pilgrim might rest.
"Yet rest is far distant--in the dark vale of death,
Alone I shall find it, an outcast forlorn--
But hence vain complaints, though by fortune bereft
Of all that could solace in life's early morn.
Is not man from his birth doomed a pilgrim to roam
O'er the world's dreary wilds, whence by fortune's rude gust.
In his path, if some flowret of joy chanced to bloom,
It is torn and its foliage laid low in the dust."
At length she fixed upon a day for her departure. On the day previous,
she paid a farewell visit to the Abbey; wandering over every part of
the grounds and garden; pausing and lingering at every place
particularly associated with the recollection of Lord Byron; and
passing a long time seated at the foot of the monument, which she used
to call "her altar." Seeking Mrs. Wildman, she placed in her hands a
sealed packet, with an earnest request that she would not open it until
after her departure from the neighborhood. This done she took an
affectionate leave of her, and with many bitter tears bade farewell to
the Abbey.
On retiring to her room that evening, Mrs. Wildman could not refrain
from inspecting the legacy of this singular being. On opening the
packet, she found a number of fugitive poems, written in a most
delicate and minute hand, and evidently the fruits of her reveries and
meditations during her lonely rambles; from these the foregoing
extracts have been made. These were accompanied by a voluminous letter,
written with the pathos and eloquence of genuine feeling, and depicting
her peculiar situation and singular state of mind in dark but painful
colors.
"The last time," says she, "that I had the pleasure of seeing you, in
the garden, you asked me why I leave Newstead; when I told you my
circumstances obliged me, the expression of concern which I fancied I
observed in your look and manner would have encouraged me to have been
explicit at the time, but from my inability of expressing myself
verbally."
She then goes on to detail precisely her pecuniary circumstances, by
which it appears that her whole dependence for subsistence was on an
allowance of thirteen pounds a year from her cousin, who bestowed it
through a feeling of pride, lest his relative should come upon the
parish. During two years this pittance had been augmented from other
sources, to twenty-three pounds, but the last year it had shrunk within
its original bounds, and was yielded so grudgingly, that she could not
feel sure of its continuance from one quarter to another. More than
once it had been withheld on slight pretences, and she was in constant
dread lest it should be entirely withdrawn.
"It is with extreme reluctance," observed she, "that I have so far
exposed my unfortunate situation; but I thought you expected to know
something more of it, and I feared that Colonel Wildman, deceived by
appearances, might think that I am in no immediate want, and that the
delay of a few weeks, or months, respecting the inquiry, can be of no
material consequence. It is absolutely necessary to the success of the
business that Colonel Wildman should know the exact state of my
circumstances without reserve, that he may be enabled to make a correct
representation of them to any gentleman whom he intends to interest,
who, I presume, if they are not of America themselves, have some
connections there, through whom my friends may be convinced of the
reality of my distress, if they pretend to doubt it, as I suppose they
do. But to be more explicit is impossible; it would be too humiliating
to particularize the circumstances of the embarrassment in which I am
unhappily involved--my utter destitution. To disclose all might, too,
be liable to an inference which I hope I am not so void of delicacy, of
natural pride, as to endure the thought of. Pardon me, madam, for thus
giving trouble, where I have no right to do--compelled to throw myself
upon Colonel Wildman's humanity, to entreat his earnest exertions in my
behalf, for it is now my only resource. Yet do not too much despise me
for thus submitting to imperious necessity--it is not love of life,
believe me it is not, nor anxiety for its preservation. I cannot say,
'There are things that make the world dear to me,'--for in the world
there is not an object to make me wish to linger here another hour,
could I find that rest and peace in the grave which I have never found
on earth, and I fear will be denied me there."
Another part of her letter develops more completely the dark
despondency hinted at in the conclusion of the foregoing extract--and
presents a lamentable instance of a mind diseased, which sought in
vain, amidst sorrow and calamity, the sweet consolations of religious
faith.
"That my existence has hitherto been prolonged," says she, "often
beyond what I have thought to have been its destined period, is
astonishing to myself. Often when my situation has been as desperate,
as hopeless, or more so, if possible, than it is at present, some
unexpected interposition of Providence has rescued me from a fate that
has appeared inevitable. I do not particularly allude to recent
circumstances or latter years, for from my earlier years I have been
the child of Providence--then why should I distrust its care now? I do
not _dis_trust it--neither do I trust it. I feel perfectly
unanxious, unconcerned, and indifferent as to the future; but this is
not trust in Providence--not that trust which alone claims it
protections. I know this is a blamable indifference--it is more--for it
reaches to the interminable future. It turns almost with disgust from
the bright prospects which religion offers for the consolation and
support of the wretched, and to which I was early taught, by an almost
adored mother, to look forward with hope and joy; but to me they can
afford no consolation. Not that I doubt the sacred truths that religion
inculcates. I cannot doubt--though I confess I have sometimes tried to
do so, because I no longer wish for that immortality of which it
assures us. My only wish now is for rest and peace--endless rest. 'For
rest--but not to feel 'tis rest,' but I cannot delude myself with the
hope that such rest will be my lot. I feel an internal evidence,
stronger than any arguments that reason or religion can enforce, that I
have that within me which is imperishable; that drew not its origin
from the 'clod of the valley.' With this conviction, but without a hope
to brighten the prospect of that dread future:
"'I dare not look beyond the tomb, Yet cannot hope for peace before.'
Such an unhappy frame of mind, I am sure, madam, must excite your
commiseration. It is perhaps owing, in part at least, to the solitude
in which I have lived, I may say, even in the midst of society; when I
have mixed in it; as my infirmities entirely exclude me from that sweet
intercourse of kindred spirits--that sweet solace of refined
conversation; the little intercourse I have at any time with those
around me cannot be termed conversation--they are not kindred spirits--and
even where circumstances have associated me (but rarely indeed)
with superior and cultivated minds, who have not disdained to admit me
to their society, they could not by all their generous efforts, even in
early youth, lure from my dark soul the thoughts that loved to lie
buried there, nor inspire me with the courage to attempt their
disclosure; and yet of all the pleasures of polished life which fancy
has often pictured to me in such vivid colors, there is not one that I
have so ardently coveted as that sweep reciprocation of ideas, the
supreme bliss of enlightened minds in the hour of social converse. But
this I knew was not decreed for me--
"'Yet this was in my nature--'
but since the loss of my hearing I have always been incapable of verbal
conversation. I need not, however, inform you, madam, of this. At the
first interview with which you favored me, you quickly discovered my
peculiar unhappiness in this respect; you perceived from my manner that
any attempt to draw me into conversation would be in vain--had it been
otherwise, perhaps you would not have disdained now and then to have
soothed the lonely wanderer with yours. I have sometimes fancied when I
have seen you in the walk, that you seemed to wish to encourage me to
throw myself in your way. Pardon me if my imagination, too apt to
beguile me with such dear illusions, has deceived me into too
presumptuous an idea here. You must have observed that I generally
endeavored to avoid both you and Colonel Wildman. It was to spare your
generous hearts the pain of witnessing distress you could not
alleviate. Thus cut off, as it were, from all human society, I have
been compelled to live in a world of my own, and certainly with the
beings with which my world is peopled, I am at no loss to converse.
But, though I love solitude and am never in want of subjects to amuse
my fancy, yet solitude too much indulged in must necessarily have an
unhappy effect upon the mind, which, when left to seek for resources
wholly within itself will, unavoidably, in hours of gloom and
despondency, brood over corroding thoughts that prey upon the spirits,
and sometimes terminate in confirmed misanthropy--especially with those
who, from constitution, or early misfortunes, are inclined to
melancholy, and to view human nature in its dark shades. And have I not
cause for gloomy reflections? The utter loneliness of my lot would
alone have rendered existence a curse to one whom nature has formed
glowing with all the warmth of social affection, yet without an object
on which to place it--without one natural connection, one earthly
friend to appeal to, to shield me from the contempt, indignities, and
insults, to which my deserted situation continually exposed me."
I am giving long extracts from this letter, yet I cannot refrain from
subjoining another letter, which depicts her feelings with respect to
Newstead.
"Permit me, madame, again to request your and Colonel Wildman's
acceptance of these acknowledgments which I cannot too often repeat,
for your unexampled goodness to a rude stranger. I know I ought not to
have taken advantage of your extreme good nature so frequently as I
have. I should have absented myself from your garden during the stay of
the company at the Abbey, but, as I knew I must be gone long before
they would leave it, I could not deny myself the indulgence, as you so
freely gave me your permission to continue my walks, but now they are
at an end. I have taken my last farewell of every dear and interesting
spot, which I now never hope to see again, unless my disembodied spirit
may be permitted to revisit them.--Yet O! if Providence should enable
me again to support myself with any degree of respectability, and you
should grant me some little humble shed, with what joy shall I return
and renew my delightful rambles. But dear as Newstead is to me, I will
never again come under the same unhappy circumstances as I have this
last time--never without the means of at least securing myself from
contempt. How dear, how very dear Newstead is to me, how unconquerable
the infatuation that possesses me, I am now going to give a too
convincing proof. In offering to your acceptance the worthless trifles
that will accompany this, I hope you will believe that I have no view
to your amusement. I dare not hope that the consideration of their
being the products of your own garden, and most of them written there,
in my little tablet, while sitting at the foot of _my Altar_--I
could not, I cannot resist the earnest desire of leaving this memorial
of the many happy hours I have there enjoyed. Oh! do not reject them,
madam; suffer them to remain with you, and if you should deign to honor
them with a perusal, when you read them repress, if you can, the smile
that I know will too naturally arise, when you recollect the appearance
of the wretched being who has dared to devote her whole soul to the
contemplation of such more than human excellence. Yet, ridiculous as
such devotion may appear to some, I must take leave to say, that if the
sentiments which I have entertained for that exalted being could be
duly appreciated, I trust they would be found to be of such a nature as
is no dishonor even for him to have inspired."...
"I am now coming to take a last, last view of scenes too deeply
impressed upon my memory ever to be effaced even by madness itself. O
madam! may you never know, nor be able to conceive the agony I endure
in tearing myself from all that the world contains of dear and sacred
to me: the only spot on earth where I can ever hope for peace or
comfort. May every blessing the world has to bestow attend you, or
rather, may you long, long live in the enjoyment of the delights of
your own paradise, in secret seclusion from a world that has no real
blessings to bestow. Now I go--but O might I dare to hope that when you
are enjoying these blissful scenes, a thought of the unhappy wanderer
might sometimes cross your mind, how soothing would such an idea be, if
I dared to indulge it--could you see my heart at this moment, how
needless would it be to assure you of the respectful gratitude, the
affectionate esteem, this heart must ever bear you both."
The effect of this letter upon the sensitive heart of Mrs. Wildman may
be more readily conceived than expressed. Her first impulse was to give
a home to this poor homeless being, and to fix her in the midst of
those scenes which formed her earthly paradise. She communicated her
wishes to Colonel Wildman, and they met with an immediate response in
his generous bosom. It was settled on the spot, that an apartment
should be fitted up for the Little White Lady in one of the new
farmhouses, and every arrangement made for her comfortable and
permanent maintenance on the estate. With a woman's prompt benevolence,
Mrs. Wildman, before she laid her head upon her pillow, wrote the
following letter to the destitute stranger:
"NEWSTEAD ABBEY,
"Tuesday night, September 20, 1825.
"On retiring to my bedchamber this evening I have opened your letter,
and cannot lose a moment in expressing to you the strong interest which
it has excited both in Colonel Wildman and myself, from the details of
your peculiar situation, and the delicate, and, let me add, elegant
language in which they are conveyed. I am anxious that my note should
reach you previous to your departure from this neighborhood, and should
be truly happy if, by any arrangement for your accommodation, I could
prevent the necessity of your undertaking the journey. Colonel Wildman
begs me to assure you that he will use his best exertions in the
investigation of those matters which you have confided to him, and
should you remain here at present, or return again after a short
absence, I trust we shall find means to become better acquainted, and
to convince you of the interest I feel, and the real satisfaction it
would afford me to contribute in any way to your comfort and happiness.
I will only now add my thanks for the little packet which I received
with your letter, and I must confess that the letter has so entirely
engaged my attention, that I have not as yet had time for the attentive
perusal of its companion.
Believe me, dear madam, with sincere good wishes,
"Yours truly,
"LOUISA WILDMAN."
Early the next morning a servant was dispatched with the letter to the
Weir Mill farm, but returned with the information that the Little White
Lady had set off, before his arrival, in company with the farmer's
wife, in a cart for Nottingham, to take her place in the coach for
London. Mrs. Wildman ordered him to mount horse instantly, follow with
all speed, and deliver the letter into her hand before the departure of
the coach.
The bearer of good tidings spared neither whip nor spur, and arrived at
Nottingham on a gallop. On entering the town, a crowd obstructed him in
the principal street. He checked his horse to make his way through it
quietly. As the crowd opened to the right and left, he beheld a human
body lying on the pavement.--It was the corpse of the Little White
Lady!
It seems that on arriving in town and dismounting from the cart, the
farmer's wife had parted with her to go on an errand, and the White
Lady continued on toward the coach-office. In crossing a street a cart
came along, driven at a rapid rate. The driver called out to her, but
she was too deaf to hear his voice or the rattling of his cart. In an
instant she was knocked down by the horse, and the wheels passed over
her body, and she died without a groan.