MRS. JAMESON.

BORN 1794; DIED MARCH 17TH, 1860.

(From a Bust at the National Portrait Gallery, 70, Mortimer Street, London, W.)

HIDING IN A CLOCK-CASE.

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Martineau's Autobiography, resolved to vindicate her aunt's memory and to write her memoirs. This she accordingly did, but while the work was passing through the press, Gerardine MacPherson herself died. Thus an additional interest is given to it. From its very interesting pages we learn that Anna Brownell Murphy was the eldest daughter of a young miniature-painter of considerable talent and popularity. She was born in 1794 in Dublin. Her father was a patriot and an adherent of the United Irishmen, whose desperate attempts at revolution met with such an untimely end. Fortunately the young artist was called to England by professional engagements, and thus escaped the tragical fate of Lord Edward Fitzgerald and the Sheareses. Brownell Murphy had an English wife and three small daughters; before the last struggle began in '98 he came over to Whitehaven with his wife and their eldest child, Anna, leaving the two younger behind at nurse near Dublin. The young artist and his wife remained four years at the quiet Cumberland watering-place, and here a fourth little daughter was born. An anecdote is told of Anna that when the bedroom in which she slept beside her mother and baby sister took fire in the night she fled to her usual hiding-place, an antiquated clock-case, and there fell asleep with a sense of perfect safety.

"In memory," says Mrs. Jameson, "I can go back to a very early age. I perfectly remember being sung to sleep, and can remember even the tune which was sung to me-blessings on the voice that sang it! I was an affectionate, but not, as I now think, a lovable or an attractive child; I did not, like the little Mozart, ask of everybody around me, 'Can you love me?' The instinctive question was rather 'Can I love you?' With a good temper there was the capacity of strong, deep, silent resentment, and a vindictive spirit of rather a peculiar kind. When my governess inflicted what then appeared a most horrible

injury and injustice, the thought of vengeance haunted my fancy for months, but it was an inverted sort of vengeance. I imagined the house of my enemy on fire, and I rushed through the flames to rescue her. She was drowning, and I leaped into the deep water to draw her forth. She was pining in prison, and I forced bars and bolts to deliver her. If this was magnanimity it was not the less vengeance, for I always fancied evil and shame and humiliation to my adversary, to myself the rôle of superiority and gratified pride. There was in my childish mind another cause of suffering; it was fear-fear of darkness and supernatural influences. I had heard other children ridiculed for such

fears, and I held my peace. At first these haunting, stifling, thrilling terrors were vague, afterwards the form varied, but one of the most permanent was the Ghost in Hamlet. There was a volume of Shakespeare lying about, in which was an engraving I have not seen since, but it remains distinct in my mind as a picture. On one side stood Hamlet, with hair on end, literally like 'quills on a fretful porcupine,' and one hand with all the fingers outspread. On the other strode the Ghost, encased in armour with nodding plumes, one finger pointing forwards, and all surrounded with supernatural light. Oh, that spectre! for three years it followed me up and down the dark staircase, or stood by my bed-only the blessed light had power to exorcise it. How it was that I knew, while I trembled and quaked, that it was unreal, but never cried out, never expostulated, never confessed, I do not know. In daylight I was not only fearless but audacious, inclined to defy all power and brave all danger that I could see. I remember volunteering to lead the way through a herd of cattle (among which was a dangerous bull, the terror of the neighbourhood), armed only with a little stick, but first I said the Lord's Prayer fervently. In the ghastly night I never prayed. These visionary sufferings pursued me till I was nearly twelve years old."

RUNNING AWAY.

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In 1802 the family went to the more important town of Newcastle-on-Tyne; here the young painter's prospects became more secure, for the little girls left in Ireland were sent for, and the family was reunited. The two children, still very young, came from Dublin under the charge of Miss Yokely, the daughter of one of the Duke of Leinster's secretaries; she was clever, accomplished, and an efficient if an over-strict teacher. She gained her eldest pupil's (Anna's) respect and esteem, but never won her love. The miniature-painter and his belongings settled down in a modest set of rooms over the shop of the chief bookseller of the place, a Mr. Miller.

An incident belongs to this period of Anna's life dimly recollected by her youngest sister. Anna was the leader of the little troop of girls, and evidently used her power with unquestioned sway. They had all gone with their governess to a village called Kenton, while their father and mother were absent in Scotland. Miss Yokely also accepted an invitation to visit some friends, and the little girls were left alone for two or three days. Their temporary guardian interfered to prevent some delightful composition of mudpies on which the younger children had set their hearts. The wail that followed came to Anna's ears. Without a moment's hesitation she proposed a plan of escape from the landlady's tyranny. The plan was that all four should instantly start to join their father and mother in Scotland. They must eat all the bread-and-butter they could at tea, and stow away as much as possible in their pockets. As the eldest and strongest, Anna arrayed herself in a manycaped gig-cloak belonging to Miss Yokely, under cover of which the little party could, she said, sleep at night under the hedges. As for food, when their own slices of breadand-butter gave out, they need only knock at some cottage door and announce that they were on their way to Scotland to find their father and mother, and they would be sure to get a crust of bread and a drink of milk. Each provided