And still dispensing kindness round, While fancy views their dear retreat; What though the tender tear shall start Juliet of the poem writes: "In October, 1800, we left Ireland, and determined on seeking out some retired situation in England, in the hope that by strict economy, with the blessing of cheerful, contented minds, we might yet find something like comfort, which the frequent change of quarters with four children, and the then insecure state of Ireland, made it impossible to feel, notwithstanding the kind and genuine attention we invariably received from the hospitable inhabitants of that country." After passing the winter in a cottage at Patterdale, Ulswater, in May, 1801, the Smiths purchased a little farm and hired a house on the small and beautiful lake of Coniston. Twelve months later, in May, 1802, Mrs. Blake and her celebrated sister Elizabeth Hamilton, natives of Belfast, Ireland, but then residing at Edinburgh, went to spend the summer near the lakes, and were introduced to the Smiths by Miss Harriet Bowdler. Mrs. Elizabeth Hamilton, as she was generally called, an early advocate of an enlarged and intellectual system of female education, possessed a warm and genuine piety and natural cheerfulness that made her a favourite in society, and especially with the young. Like the learned ladies of the Bowdler family, she was the authoress of various didactic works now forgotten, whilst she is still remembered by her clever and humorous sketches of Scotch peasant life in her popular tale, The Cottagers of Glenburnie. On August 8, 1802, she writes to Miss Harriet Bowdler from Monk Coniston : "Were it possible for your heart to feel a pang of envy, it would certainly be excited by the date of this letter, which at a glance will convey to you an idea of the happiness I just now enjoy. "I wish I could say that the house is comfortable, but in truth it is not. I cannot help wishing that a more commodious dwelling could be reared; and I am sure that were you to have a sight of this in winter, you would be of my opinion." On September 2 she continues:-" I cannot help reproaching myself for having added to your anxiety about your deservedly dear friends, especially as they seem determined against building at present. While they can enjoy their pursuits out of doors, the house is of little consequence, as by exposure to the air the body is fortified to endure damp, and this it is which has preserved the health of the whole family.' Of Elizabeth Mrs. Smith says:-" The country had many charms for her. She drew correctly from nature, and her enthusiastic admiration of the sublime and beautiful often carried her beyond the bounds of prudent precaution with regard to her health. Frequently in the summer she was out during twelve or fourteen hours, and in that time walked many miles. When she returned at night, she was always more cheerful than usual; never said she was fatigued, and seldom appeared so. It is astonishing how she found time for all she acquired and all she accomplished. Nothing was neglected; there was a scrupulous attention to all the minutiae of her sex. Her translation from the Book of Job was finished in 1803. During the last two years of her life she was engaged in translating from the German letters and papers written by Mr. and Mrs. Klopstock." The author of The Messiah had died at Hamburg in March, 1803, and Miss Harriet Bowdler, having a great admiration for his writings and those of his first wife, and being desirous to spread a knowledge of that gifted Christian couple in England! enlisted the ready services of her young friend Elizabeth Smith. Thus the translations of The Memoirs of Frederick and Margaret Klopstock, with the exception of a few pages, were finished by the latter in the year 1805, and Miss Bowdler's Preface was read and approved of by her. In the summer of the same year, 1805, Elizabeth was seized with a cold that terminated in her death. "One very hot evening in July," she related a very short time before she died, to a faithful and affectionate servant, "I took a book and walked about two miles from home, where I seated myself on a stone beside the lake. Being much engaged by a poem I was reading, I did not perceive that the sun was gone down, and was succeeded by a very heavy dew; till in a moment I felt struck on the chest as if with a sharp knife. I returned home, but said nothing of the pain. The next day being also very hot, and everyone busy in the hay field, I thought I would take a rake, and work very hard to produce perspiration in the hope that it might remove the pain, but it did not." In August, 1806, Elizabeth Smith tranquilly and piously expired, aged 29 years. Likewise Mrs. Elizabeth Carter, the celebrated translator of Epictetus, died in 1806, at the advanced age of 89 years. To both of these distinguished women Mrs. Hannah More refers in her once most popular novel, Caeleb in Search of a Wife. She says: "Let such women as are disposed to be vain of their comparatively petty attainments, look up with admiration to those contemporary shining examples, the venerable Elizabeth Carter, and the blooming Elizabeth Smith. I knew them both, and to know was to revere them. In them let our young ladies contemplate profound and various learning, characterized by true Christian humility. In them let them venerate acquirements which would have been distinguished in an university, meekly softened and beautifully shaded by the gentle exertion of every domestic virtue, the unaffected exercise of every feminine employment." MARGARET HOWITT. APHORISMS OF ELIZABETH SMITH 1. The hand of a friend imparts inestimable value to the most trifling token of remembrance; but a magnificent present from one unloved is like golden fetters, which encumber and restrain not the less for being made of costly materials. 2. As the sun breaking forth in winter, so is joy in the season of affliction. As a shower in the midst of summer, so are the salutary drops of sorrow mingled in our cup of pleasure. 3. In vain do we attempt to fix our thoughts on heaven; the vanities of this world rise like a cloud of dust before the eyes of the traveller, and obscure, if they do not totally conceal, the beautiful and boundless prospect of the glorious country towards which we are tending. 4. If it were the business of man to make a religion for himself, the deist, the philanthropist, the stoic, or even the epicurean, might be approved; but this is not the case. We are to believe what God has taught us, and to do what He has commanded. All other systems are but the reveries of mortals and not religion. 5. An hour well spent condemns a life. When we reflect on the sum of improvement and delight gained in that single hour, how do the multitude of hours already past rise up and say, what good has marked us? Wouldst thou know the true worth of time, employ an hour well. 6. To read a great deal would be a sure preventive of much writing, because almost everyone might find all he has to say already written. 7. A woman must have uncommon sweetness of disposition and manners to be forgiven for possessing superior talents and acquirements. 8. Hope without foundation is an ignis fatuus, and what foundation can we have for any hope but that of heaven? 9. To be good and disagreeable is high treason against virtue.* 10. Reason is the most unreasonable of all things; for, without common sense to guide it, it never knows where to stop. II. Never refuse to give to-day lest you should want to morrow. 12. The greatest misfortune in the world is to have more learning than common sense. THE AFTERGLOW MILD sister to the silvery-vestured Dawn, And all the flamings of his state are gone. Dark dreams the circle of dim shores before And daughters of the wave-enamoured Moon, Dance on the light lake's ever-twinkling floor. Soft on the headlands thievish shadows creep. Ere all the shadowy world is lost in sleep! EDWARD F. GARESCHE, S.J. *We gave this as anonymous in our April Number. The daughter of William and Mary Howitt recognized it as one of the sayings of Miss Elizabeth Smith, whom she thereupon proceeded most kindly to introduce to our readers.-ED. I.M. TERENCE O'NEILL'S HEIRESS A STORY CHAPTER XXI AFTER a tempestuous crossing and a long, fatiguing journey, her weariness increased by want of sleep, made impossible in the boat by the wildness of the wind and waves, in the train by anxiety of mind, Mrs. Arrowsmith at last reached London. Here Sybil Bindon and Charles left her; the one to go to her handsome house in Queen's Gate, the other to his bachelor's rooms in Fitzroy Square, whilst she and Flora hurried on without stopping to Windsor and her fever-stricken child. " " Don't fret, mother. Punch is strong. He will pull through," Flora would say reassuringly from time to time. So don't take this childish illness so much to heart. You have been so spoilt, dear mother, you hardly know what trouble and sorrow are." Poor Flora! 'Tis hard, I know, to be reduced to poverty, as you have been, and to see the husband you love so well go off to a distant land to work and struggle, and I feel for you deeply. But oh! my little Punch, my bonny handsome Bertram, if he should die-and scarlatina is 'We've all had it, remember. The boy will be well taken care of. He's like a little pony. So don't fret; good news awaits us, I feel sure." But alas! Flora's expectations were not fulfilled. The Rector met them with a grave and anxious face. The boy was very ill. Many serious and unlooked-for complications had set in. He was in great danger. Both doctors and nurses were seriously alarmed. But," he went on to say, his heart aching for the sorrowing mother, "we still hope for the best, and I have immense faith in the little lad's constitution. With the help of his doctors and nurses he will pull through and be bright and well again, although even with the most skilled nursing and the greatest care, his restoration to health will take time. So you must be very, very patient, my dear Mrs. Arrowsmith." And sorely indeeed was the poor mother's patience tried. For many weeks the boy's life hung upon a thread. No one dared say or think what the end might be. One day he rallied slightly, and they were full of hope; the next, a serious relapse made them more despondent than ever. |