Twelve times the moon, that rises red O'er yon tall wood of shadowy pine, Has filled her orb, since low was laid, My Harriet, that sweet form of thine!

No more thy friendship soothes to rest This wearied spirit, tempest-tossed: The cares that weigh upon my breast Are doubly felt since thou art lost.

But, ere that wood of shadowy pine Twelve times shall yon full orb behold, This sickening heart, that bleeds for thine, My Harriet, may like thine be cold!

Anna Seward, considerably admired in her own generation, as a beauty and as a writer, though the great faults of her judgment and style are fast bringing oblivion over her pages, was a devoted friend of that beautiful Honora Sneyd of whom Major Andre was the rejected lover. It was a profound sympathy with both the parties which prompted the composition of her once famous "Monody on Major Andre."

One is sorry to learn, that, on the marriage of Honora with Mr.

Edgeworth, and her removal to Ireland, her friendship for Anna, as often happens in such cases, died of a slow consumption. But, on the other side, the early affection never ceased to glow. Miss Seward writes to one of her lady friends, "When my attachment to Cornet sunk in the snow-drifts of his altered conduct, Honora Sneyd, educated in our family from five years old, was commencing woman, and only eight years younger than myself; more lovely, more amiable, more interesting than any thing I ever saw in the female form. Death had deprived me of my beloved and only sister, who had shared with me in the delightful task of instructing our angelic pupil; and, when disappointed love threw all the energies of my soul into the channel of friendship, Honora was its chief object. The charms of her society, when her advancing youth gave equality to our connection, made Lichfield an Edenic scene to me. Ah, how deeply was I a fellow sufferer with Major Andre on her marriage! We both lost her for ever."

The following verses, written by Anna to Honora, from the seaside, are pleasing in the picture they present and in the sentiment they enshrine. The prophecy they make has also been fulfilled:

I write Honora on the sparkling sand!

The envious waves forbid the trace to stay: Honora's name again adorns the strand, Again the waters bear their prize away!

So Nature wrote her charms upon thy face, The cheek's bright bloom, the lip's envermeilled dye, And every gay and every witching grace That youth's warm hours and beauty's stores supply.

But Time's stern tide, with cold Oblivion's wave, Shall soon dissolve each fair, each fading charm; E'en Nature's self, so powerful, cannot save Her own rich gifts from this o'erwhelming harm.

Love and the Muse can boast superior power; Indelible the letters they shall frame: They yield to no inevitable hour, But on enduring tablets write thy name.

Romney, in his fancy-picture of Serena reading by candle-light, accidentally produced an accurate likeness of this lost friend of Miss Seward's heart. "Drawing his abstract idea of perfect loveliness, the form and the face of Honora Sneyd rose beneath his pencil." This beauteous resemblance Anna hung in her room, and made her constant companion. "It contributes to endear, as the bright reality endeared, in times long past, this pleasant mansion to my affections. Thus are those dear lineaments ever present to my sight, retouching the traits of memory, over which indistinctness is apt to steal." Again she says, "The luxury of mournful delight with which I continually gaze upon that form, is one of the most precious comforts of my life." Years after, in giving to Lady Eleanor Butler and Miss Ponsonby an account of a recent journey she had made, Miss Seward writes, "The stars glimmered in the lake of Weston, as we travelled by its side: but their light did not enable me to distinguish the church, beneath the floor of whose porch rests the mouldered form of my heart, dear Honora. Yet of our approach to that consecrated spot my spirit felt all the mournful consciousness." In her poem on the death of her intimate friend. Andre, Miss Seward had written,

O Washington! I thought thee great and good, Nor knew thy Nero-thirst for guiltless blood, Severe to use the power that Fortune gave, Thou cool, determined Murderer of the Brave!

It is interesting to read in a letter, written by her long afterwards to the Ladies of Llangollen, "A few years after peace was signed between this country and America, an officer introduced himself, commissioned by Washington to call upon me, and to a.s.sure me from the general himself, that no circ.u.mstance of his life had been so mortifying as to be censured in the "Monody on Andre" as the pitiless author of his ignominions fate; that he had labored to save him; that he requested my attention to papers on the subject, which he had sent by this officer for my perusal. On examining them, I found they entirely acquitted the general. They filled me with contrition for the rash injustice of my censure."

An extraordinary instance of feminine friendship, of the courage and sacrifice the affections will prompt in woman, was afforded in the relation of Anna Seward to the Countess of Northesk. The countess, afflicted by a malady which had baffled the most skilful physicians in London, was drawn to Lichfield by the fame of Dr. Darwin. She staid for some time at his house, and awakened the deepest interest in his family and friends. Miss Seward was especially attracted by her engaging manners and disposition, as well as by sympathy for her peril, and for the distress of her husband and children. She was unwearied in efforts to alleviate the sufferings and the weary hours of the countess, whose fervent grat.i.tude re-acted to enhance to enthusiasm the interest of the fair ministrant. One day, Dr. Darwin suggested the possibility of effecting a cure of his patient by transfusing into her veins a supply of vital blood, freshly taken from some healthy person. Anna, then in the full bloom of youth, instantly offered her own veins. The project was abandoned from want of sufficiently delicate instruments. But the countess was deeply affected by the generous offer of her friend, and repaid it with the most affectionate attachment. She was restored to health; and, on returning home, sent Miss Seward the gift of a set of jewels, in token of her love. They continued to correspond with each other until the tragic death of the countess by the accidental burning of her dress.

The most remarkable instance in history, perhaps, of a pair of female friends is the romantic example of the Ladies of Llangollen, whose story, widely renowned two generations ago, is now obliterated from popular knowledge, save in meagre literary allusions.

A little after the middle of the eighteenth century, Lady Eleanor Butler and Miss Sarah Ponsonby, two young women of wealth and high station, formed an extreme mutual attachment, and were possessed with an ardent desire to forsake the world, and devote their lives to each other. Taking measures accordingly, they departed to an obscure retreat in the country. Their relatives frowned on this eccentricity, traced them out in their hiding-place, and, despite their protestations, separated them, and brought them back. But they soon effected a second elopement, which proved a successful and permanent one. Confiding the place of their flight only to a single faithful servant, they sacrificed, in the prime of their lives, the prizes and the glare of the fashionable world, and settled down in a secret nook of beauty and peace. In the romantic Valley of Llangollen, in Wales, one of the sweetest and quietest spots on earth, they bought a charming cottage, fitted it up with every comfort, and adorned it with exquisite taste. Here, in this remote and lovely haunt, amply provided with books, pictures, and other means of culture, giving themselves up to the enjoyment of their own society, they lived together in uninterrupted contentment for nearly threescore years.

For a long period, their neighbors, ignorant of their names, knew them only as the "Ladies of the Vale." For a quarter of a century, it is said, they never spent twenty-four hours at a time out of their happy valley.

They seem never to have fallen out, never to have wearied of each other, never to have repented of their repudiation of public life. By books and correspondence, they kept up a close connection with the brilliant world they had deserted. The romance of their action, penetrating far and wide, through cultivated circles, brought many distinguished visitors to their hospitality, literary and t.i.tular celebrities from all parts of Great Britain, likewise from the continent. Many of these became fast friends to them; and, in letters to other persons, speak of their fine qualities of sentiment and taste, their engaging traits of character and manners. Madame Geniis writes rapturously of her tarry with them, the charms of their residence, and especially of the Aeolian harp, which she there heard for the first time, amid the befitting a.s.sociations of the mystic legends and natural minstrelsy of Welsh landscape. Mrs. Tighe also, the winsome but unfortunate auth.o.r.ess of the "Loves of Psyche and Cupid," on departing from their cottage after a delighted stay, left upon her table a beautiful sonnet addressed to them.

But Miss Anna Seward; between whom and the pair of friends a warm affection was cherished, has given the fullest description known to us of the home and habits of the Ladies of Llangollen. She thought that the compliment Hayley paid to Miers, the miniature painter,

"His magic pencil in its narrow s.p.a.ce Pours the full portion of uninjured grace"

might be transferred to the talents and exertion which converted a cottage in two acres and a half of turnip ground to a fairy palace amid the bowers of Calypso. It consisted of four small apartments; the exquisite cleanliness of the kitchen, its utensils and auxiliary offices, vying with the finished elegance of the light-some little dining-room, as that contrasted with the gloomy grace of the library into which it opened. This room was fitted up in the Gothic style, the door and large sash windows of that form--the latter of painted gla.s.s, shedding a dim religious light. Candles were seldom admitted into this apartment. The ingenious friends had invented a kind of prismatic lantern, which occupied the whole elliptic arch of the Gothic door. This lantern was of cut gla.s.s, variously colored, inclosing two lamps with their reflectors. The light it imparted resembled that of a volcano--sanguine and solemn. It was a.s.sisted by two glowworm lamps, that, in little marble reservoirs, stood on the opposite chimney-piece. These supplied the place of the daylight, when the dusk of evening sabled, or night wholly involved the solitude. A large Aeolian harp was fixed in one of the windows; and, when the weather permitted them to be open, it breathed its deep tones to the gale, swelling and softening as that rose and fell.

Ah me! what hand can touch the strings so fine?

Who up the lofty diapason roll Such sweet, such sad, such solemn airs divine, And let them down again into the soul?

This saloon of the two Minervas, Miss Seward says, contained the finest editions, superbly bound, and arranged in neat wire cases, of the best authors in prose and verse, which the English, French, and Italian languages boast. Over them hung the portraits in miniature, and some in larger ovals, of the favored friends of these celebrated votaries to the sentiment which exalted the characters of Theseus and Peirithous, of David and Jonathan.

The wavy and shaded gravel-walk which encircled this elysium was enriched with curious shrubs and flowers. It was nothing in extent, every thing in grace and beauty and in variety of foliage. In one part of it you turned upon a small knoll, which overhung a deep, hollow glen. At the tangled bottom of this glen, a frothing brook leaped and clamored over the rough stones in its channel. A large spreading beech canopied the knoll, and beneath its boughs a semilunar seat admitted four persons. It had a fine effect to enter the Gothic library at dusk, as Miss Seward says she first entered it.

The prismatic lantern diffused a light gloomily glaring, a.s.sisted by the paler flames of the little lamps on the chimney-piece. Through the open windows was shown a darkling view of the lawn, of the concave shrubbery of tall cypresses, yews, laurels, and lilacs, of the wooded amphitheatre on the opposite hill, and of the gray, barren mountain which forms the background. The evening star had risen above the mountain; and the airy harp rang loudly to the breeze, completing the magic of the scene.

And what of the enchantresses themselves, beneath whose wand these graces arose? Lady Eleanor was of middle height, and somewhat over- plump, her face round and fair, with the glow of luxuriant health.

She had not fine features, but they were agreeable, enthusiasm in her eye, hilarity and benevolence in her smile. She had uncommon strength and fidelity of memory, an exhaustless fund of knowledge, and her taste for works of imagination, particularly for poetry, was very awakened; and she expressed all she felt with an ingenuous ardor, at which cold-spirited beings stared. Both the ladies read and spoke most of the modern languages, and were warm admirers of the Italian poets, especially of Dante. Miss Ponsonby, somewhat taller than her friend, was neither slender nor otherwise, but very graceful. Easy, elegant, yet pensive, was her address; her voice, kind and low. A face rather long than round, a complexion clear, but without bloom, with a countenance whose soft melancholy lent it peculiar interest.

If her features were not beautiful, they were very attractive and feminine. Though the pensive spirit within permitted not her dimples to make her smile mirthful, they increased its sweetness, and, consequently, her power of engaging the affections. We could see, through the veil of shading reserve, that all the talents and accomplishments which enriched the mind of Lady Eleanor, existed with equal power in her charming friend. Such are the portraits drawn by Miss Seward, of the two extraordinary women, who, in the bosom of their deep retirement, were sought by the first characters of the age, both as to rank and talents. To preserve that retirement from too frequent invasion, they were obliged to be somewhat coy of approach. Yet they were generous in a select hospitality; and when, toward the end of their lives, they welcomed a coming guest, Miss Martineau says it was a singular sight to see these ancient ladies, in their riding habits, with their rolled and powdered hair, their beaver hats, and their notions and manners of the last century.

When we consider their intellectual resources, their energy and industry, their interludes of company and correspondence, we need not be surprised at the a.s.sertion they made to one of their most intimate visitors, that neither the long summer's day, nor winter's night, nor weeks of imprisoning snows, had ever inspired one weary sensation, one wish of returning to the world they had abandoned.

Anna Seward had so interested Lady Butler and Miss Ponsonby in the character of her dear friend, Honora Sneyd, by the sonnet addressed to her, which she showed them, by impa.s.sioned descriptions of her loveliness, as well as by the celebrated poem on the fate of Major Andre, that the two ladies were desirous of possessing a portrait of the deceased beauty.

With great pains, Anna succeeded in obtaining for them a copy of what was a perfect image of her, Romney's ideal picture of Serena in the "Triumphs of Temper." Writing on it, "Such was Honora Sneyd," she had it framed and glazed, and sent it as a gift to the Ladies of Llangollen. They received it with delight, and hung it in a prominent position, where the fair giver afterward had the pleasure of gazing on it with romantic emotion.

Miss Seward paid several happy tributes in verse to her admired friends. One of these, written at the close of a prolonged visit, began thus:

Oh, Cambrian Tempe! Oft with transport hailed, I leave thee now, as I did ever leave Thee and thy peerless mistresses, with heart Where lively grat.i.tude and fond regret For mastery strive.

She also published, in a little volume by itself, an enthusiastic poem in praise of the Cambrian Arden, Llangollen Valley, adorned with an engraving of the landscape as seen from the home of its Rosalind and Celia. They fully appreciated her affection, and returned it.

They sent her the gift of a jewel consisting of the head and lyre of Apollo, making a ring and seal in one. In acknowledgment of this, the pleased and grateful poet wrote, "I have to thank you, dearest ladies, for a beautiful but too costly present. It is a fine gem in itself, and a rich and elegant circlet for the finger."

When Lady Butler and Miss Ponsonby left their splendid family residences in Ireland to seek in Wales a retirement where they might spend their days in the culture of letters and friendship, a faithful and affectionate servant who pined for them, after a few months of their absence, set out to search for them in England. She had no clew to direct her pursuit; since, to avoid solicitations to return, they had kept their place of abode secret even from their nearest relatives. Learning, however, of her attempt, they sent for her. She went, and was their fond servitor until her death, thirty years afterward. Miss Seward once writes to Lady Eleanor, "I was concerned to hear that you had lately been distressed by the illness and alarmed for the life of your good Euryclea. That she is recovering, I rejoice. The loss of a domestic, faithful and affectionate as Orlando's Adam, must have cast more than a transient gloom over the Cambrian Arden: the Rosalind and Celia of real life give Llangollen Valley a right to that t.i.tle." When this endeared servant died, her mourning mistresses buried her in the grave which they had prepared for themselves, and inscribed above her a cordial tribute in verse.

Drawn by the pleasing sentiment that invests the story of these ladies, the writer, being then in England, made a pilgrimage from London to Llangollen in the early autumn of 1865.

It was Sat.u.r.day afternoon when I arrived at the little Welsh inn. The next morning I found my way to the cla.s.sic cottage. The fingers of Time had indeed been busy on it. The vestiges of its former glory were still apparent, but the ornaments were crumbled and dim. The prismatic lantern over the door was a mixture of garishness and dust.

The bowers were broken, the vines and plants dead, the walks draggled and uneven, the gates rickety, the fences tottering or prostrate. The numerous tokens of art and care in the past made the present ruinousness and desolation more pathetic. I could not help recalling the final couplet of Miss Seward's poem, prophesying the fame of this place:

While all who honor virtue gently mourn Llangollen's vanished Pair, and wreathe their sacred urn.

Threading the briery dell, and following the brook that prattled down the steep slope, I climbed the hill which directly overhangs the hamlet. It was church-time as I sat down on the top, and slowly drank in the charms of that celebrated landscape. To such a scene, at such an hour, the very heart-strings grow. The fields were clothed with a dense velvety-green. Across the narrow glen, on the strange cone of Dinas Bran, frowned threateningly, in dark ma.s.s, unsoftened by distance, the huge, bare fragments of an old castle, the immemorial type of an iron age when the hearts of men were iron. Beneath my feet, the vapors of the morning floated here and there in the sunshine, like torn folds of a satin gauze. A hundred smokes curled from the village chimneys, and the tones of the sabbath bells were wafted up to me with no mixture of profane toils. The very cattle seemed to know the holy day, and to browse and gaze, or ruminate and look around, with an unusual a.s.surance of repose and satisfaction.

But the spell must be broken, however reluctantly.

Descending into the village, just as the religious service was ended, I went into the churchyard, and copied from the triangular tomb in which the Ladies of Llangollen sleep, with their favorite servant, amid the magical loveliness of the pastoral scenery, these three inscriptions. On the first side:

IN MEMORY OF MRS. MARY CARRYL, Deceased 22 November, 1809, This Monument is erected by Eleanor Butler And Sarah Ponsonby, of Plas Newydd, in this Parish.

Released from earth and all its transient woes, She, whose remains beneath this stone repose, Steadfast in faith resigned her parting breath, Looked up with Christian joy, and smiled in death.

Patient, industrious, faithful, generous, kind, Her conduct left the proudest far behind.

Her virtues dignified her humble birth, And raised her mind above this sordid earth.

Attachment (sacred bond of grateful b.r.e.a.s.t.s) Extinguished but with life, this tomb attests; Reared by two friends who will her loss bemoan, Till with her ashes here shall rest their own.

On the second side:

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF The Right Honorable LADY ELEANOR CHARLOTTE BUTLER, Late of Plas Newydd, in this parish, Deceased 2d June, 1829, Aged Ninety Years, Daughter of the Sixteenth, Sister of the Seventeenth Earls of Ormonde and Ossory, Aunt to the late and to the present Marquess of Ormonde.

Endeared to her many friends by an almost Unequalled excellence of heart, and by manners Worthy of her ill.u.s.trious birth, the admiration And delight of a very numerous acquaintance, From a brilliant vivacity of mind, undiminished To the latest period of a prolonged existence.

Her amiable condescension and benevolence Secured the grateful attachment of those By whom they had been so long and so Extensively experienced: her various perfections, Crowned by the most pious and cheerful Submission to the Divine Will, can only be Appreciated where, it is humbly believed, they are Now enjoying their eternal reward; and by her.

Of whom for more than fifty years they const.i.tuted That happiness which, through our blessed Redeemer, She trusts will be renewed when this Tomb Shall have closed over its Latest Tenant.

On the third side:

SARAH PONSONBY departed this life On the 9th of December, 1831, aged 76.