public life-that if she give nature way it will of the tales of a lady whose reputation, as a novwhisper to her a text that "celebrity never ad- elist, was in its zenith when Walter Scott pubded to the happiness of a true woman." She lished his first novel. We desire to place a must look for her happiness to HOME. We would chaplet upon the grave of a woman once "celehave young women ponder over this, and watch brated" all over the known world; yet who carefully, ere the vail is lifted, and the hard drew all her happiness from the lovingness of cruel eye of public criticism fixed upon them. home and friends, while her life was as pure as No profession is pastime; still less so now than her renown was extensive. 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.* 66 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 Maria Edgeworth. 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 Heman's poetry linger still among all who appreciate the holy sympathies of religion and virtue. We could dwell long and profitably on the enduring patience and life-long 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 Momento 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 In support of this opinion, which we know is opposed to the popular feeling of many in the present day, we venture to quote what Miss Porter herself repeats, as said to her by Madame de Stäcl: "She frequently praised my revered mother for the retired manner in which she maintained her little domestic establishment, "yielding her daughters to society, but not to the world." We pray those we love, to mark the delicate and most true distinction, between "society" and the "world." "I was set on a stage," continued De Stael, "I was set on a stage, at a child's age, to be listened to as a wit and worshiped for my premature judgment. I drank adulation as my soul's nourishment, and I cannot now live without its poison; it has been my bane, never an aliment. My heart ever sigh ed for happiness, and I ever lost it, when I thought it approaching my grasp. I was admired, made an idol, but never beloved. I do not accuse my parents for having made this mistake, but I have not repeated it in my Al bertine" (her daughter.) "She shall not 'Seek for love, and fill her arms with bays.' I bring her up in the best society, yet in the shade." 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 ascendency 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 keynotes to public feeling; the English of that time were thoroughly "awake," the British Lion had | Porter owed her Polish inspirations so peculiarly 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." 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, Newportstreet, 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 that 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 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 of 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 mother's 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 Frith 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 woolen 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 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 on 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 artist's reputation before he was twenty, and attracted the attention of West and Shee* 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 family assures us that two or three of their remember the formal, old-fashioned courtesy of children were born in Ireland, and that certain- the venerable old lady, who was then nearly ly Jane was among the number;* although she eighty-the blue ribbons and good-natured 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 straightened cireumstances, 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 misunderstood-there was neither personal nor beauty of Jane was statuesque, her deportment serious yet cheerful, a seriousness quite as natural as her younger sister's gayety; they both but unless the conversation was forced by labored diligently, but Anna Maria's labor was their friends, they never mentioned their own. sport when compared to her elder sister's care- or each other's works, while they were most ful toil; Jane's mind was of a more lofty order, ready to praise what was excellent in the works she was intense, and felt more than she said, of others; they spoke with pleasure of their while Anna Maria often said more than she sojourns in London; while their mother said, it felt; they were a delightful contrast, and yet was much wiser and better for young ladies the harmony between them was complete; and who were not rich, to live quietly in the counone of the happiest days we ever spent, while try, and escape the temptations of luxury and trembling on the threshold of literature, was display. At that time the "young ladies" with them at their pretty road-side cottage, in seemed to us certainly not young; that was the village of Esher, before the death of their about two-and-twenty years ago, and Jane Porvenerable and dearly-beloved mother, whose ter was seventy-five when she died. They rectitude and prudence had both guided and talked much of their previous dwelling at sheltered their youth, and who lived to reap Thames Ditton, of the pleasant neighborhood with them the harvest of their industry and they enjoyed there, though their mother's health exertion. We remember the drive there, and and their own had much improved since their the anxiety as to how those very "clever ladies" residence on Esher-hill; their little garden was would look, and what they would say; we bounded at the back by the beautiful park of talked over the various letters we had received Claremont, and the front of the house overlooked from Jane, and thought of the cordial invitation the leading roads, broken as they are by the to their cottage-their "mother's cottage" village green, and some noble elms. The view 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 * Miss Porter never told me she was an Irishwoman, but once she questioned me concerning my own parentage and place of birth; and upon my explaining that my mother was an English woman, my father Irish, and that I was born in Ireland, which I quitted early in life, she observed her own circumstances were very similar to mine. For my own part, I have no doubt that she was Irish by birth and by descent on the father's side, but it will be no difficult matter to obtain direct evidence of the facts; and we hope that some Irish patriotic friend will make due inquiries on the subject. During her life, I had no idea of her connection with Ireland, or I should certainly have ascertained if my own country had a claim of which it may be justly proud. family egotism in the Porters; they invariably spoke of each other with the tenderest affection 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 daring 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 *In his early days the President of the Royal Academy painted a very striking portrait of Jane Porter, as “Mi. randa," and Harlowe painted her in the canoness dress of the order of St. Joachim. the affectionate welcome she so well deserved | afflicted with so severe an illness, that we, in in many homes, where friends vied with each common with her other friends, thought it imother to fill the void in her sensitive heart. She possible she could carry out her plan of jourwas of too wise a nature, and too sympathizing neying to St. Petersburgh to visit her brother, a habit, to shut out new interests and affections, Sir Robert Ker Porter, who had been long united but her old ones never withered, nor were they to a Russian princess, and was then a widower; ever replaced; were the love of such a sister- her strength was fearfully reduced; her once friend-the watchful tenderness and uncom- round figure become almost spectral, and little promising love of a mother-ever "replaced," beyond the placid and dignified expression of to a lonely sister or a bereaved daughter! Miss her noble countenance remained to tell of her Porter's pen had been laid aside for some time, former beauty; but her resolve was taken; she when suddenly she came before the world as wished, she said, to see once more her youngest the editor of "Sir Edward Seward's Narrative," and most beloved brother, so distinguished in and set people hunting over old atlases to find several careers, almost deemed incompatibleout the island where he resided. The whole as a painter, an author, a soldier, and a diplowas a clever fiction; yet Miss Porter never matist, and nothing could turn her from her confided its authorship, we believe, beyond her purpose: she reached St. Petersburgh in safety, family circle; perhaps the correspondence and and with apparently improved health, found her documents, which are in the hands of one of brother as much courted and beloved there as her kindest friends (her executor), Mr. Shep- in his own land, and his daughter married to herd, may throw some light upon a subject a Russian of high distinction. Sir Robert 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. After her sister's death Miss Jane Porter was longed to return to England. He did not complain of any illness, and every thing 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, holyminded woman she had ever been, bending with Christian faith to the will of the Almighty"biding her time." 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. "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. We were haunted by the idea that the pretty How differently would she have "watched cottage at Esher, where we spent those happy and waited" had she been tainted by vanity, or hours, had been treated even as "Mrs. Porter's fixed her soul on the mere triumphs of "liter- Arcadia" at Thames Ditton-now altogether ary reputation." While firm to her own creed, removed; and it was with a melancholy pleas she fully enjoyed the success of those who ure we found it the other morning in nothing scramble up where she bore the standard to changed; it was almost impossible to believe the heights of Parnassus; she was never more that so many years had passed since our last happy than when introducing some literary visit. While Mr. Fairholt was sketching the "Tyro" to those who could aid or advise a cottage, we knocked at the door, and were future career. We can speak from experience kindly permitted by two gentle sisters, who of the warm interest she took in the Hospital now inhabit it, to enter the little drawing-room for the cure of Consumption, and the Gover- and walk round the garden; except that the nesses' Benevolent Institution; during the pro- drawing-room has been re-papered and painted, gress of the latter, her health was painfully and that there were no drawings and no flowers, feeble, yet she used personal influence for its the room was not in the least altered; yet to us success, and worked with her own hands for it seemed like a sepulchre, and we rejoiced to its bazaars. She was ever aiding those who breathe the sweet air of the little garden, and could not aid themselves; and all her thoughts, listen to a nightingale, whose melancholy cawords, and deeds, were evidence of her clear, dence harmonized with our feelings. 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 Kensingtonsquare, 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 gen tle 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, 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 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 OBIIT JUNE 18TH, 1831, ÆTAT. 86; THE BELOVED MOTHER OF W. PORTER, M.D., OF SIR ROBERT KER PORTER, left only one descendant-the daughter of Sir WHO MOURN IN HOPE, HUMBLY TRUSTING TO BE BORN Robert Ker Porter and the Russian Princess whom he married, a young Russian lady, whose present name we do not even know. AGAIN WITH HER UNTO THE BLESSED KINGDOM RESPECT HER GRAVE, FOR SHE MINISTERED TO THE POOL |