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217

Robert Southey's Second Wife.

CAROLINE BOWLES, who, somewhat late in life, became the second wife of Robert Southey, the Poet Laureate, belonged to the same family as Canon Lisle Bowles; from whose works he was wont to say he "had derived even more benefit than from Cowper's." Her mother was sister to General Sir Harry Burrard, who was made a baronet for his services, and died in command of the First Grenadier Guards, at Calshot Castle; of which old fortress on the Solent he was governor.

On an arm of the sea, not very far from Calshot, and opposite the Needles, stands the ancient borough-town of Lymington, which sent two members to Parliament under the patronage of the Burrards of Walhampton, until the passing of the Reform Bill. At that eventful time the senior member was Admiral Sir Harry Burrard-Neale, Bart., K.G.C., who had long been Naval Aide-de-Camp and a Groom of the Bedchamber to George the Third; and it is noteworthy that he was at once re-elected as the Conservative member, by the free electors of Lymington.

A beautiful obelisk which overlooks the town from the opposite side of the river, backed by the Walhampton woods, marks the esteem in which he was held by them, in the navy, and in Parliament, by the royal family, and by all who ever knew him.

A century ago Lymington retained a peculiarly quaint and picturesque character; travellers then rode well armed through the dangerous tracts of the New Forest on their way towards London, and prayers were duly offered in church for their safe arrival there.

The town carried on a good coasting-trade as far as Cornwall, and was famous both for its salterns, and its timber-yards and shipwrights. The principal street ran from the quays on the river, straight up a long hill (as it still does), and was composed of a singular variety of houses and shops, of all heights and sizes. Near St. Thomas' Church many large pleasant old dwellings, with shady walled gardens, and ivied gables, and court-yards, may still be seen. From this upper end of Lymington the road to the right leads to Buckland Rings, a well-defined Roman encampment on the verge of the Forest, and overgrown with trees. At its foot stood an old-fashioned small house, with great elms partly overshadowing its trim garden and mossy lawns, called Buckland Cottage. There, in 1787, Caroline Bowles was born, a first and only child.

Two years afterwards, on the 27th of June, 1789, George the Third, accompanied by the Queen and three elder Princesses, honoured Sir Harry and Lady Neale with a visit; and were received at the Town-hall (then standing in the middle of the High Street) by the Mayor and Cor

poration, who, being introduced by Lord Delawarr, had the honour of kissing their Majesties' hands. At that moment the King's attention was drawn to a gaunt figure draped in a red gown ornamented with yellow braid, who held what looked like a gilt club, and gazed at him with the profoundest veneration from the further end of the hall.

"What is that singular-looking personage ?" asked the King of Lord Delawarr.

"Our mace-bearer, your Majesty, Jedidiah Pike," was the whispered

answer.

But the name caught its owner's ear, and supposing that he had been summoned, he advanced hastily. Overcome, however, by his feelings, and seeing the royal eyes fixed upon him, honest Jedidiah prostrated himself, mace and all, at the foot of the "haut-pas," looking up from the ground with an expression of such passionate loyalty that the King not only burst out laughing, but also told him to get up and kiss his hand, which he was sure so good a subject deserved to do. Long afterwards he spoke of "old Pike," with the same hearty laughter.

This incident illustrates the general feeling of Lymington in those days, when "a Divinity," did indeed, "hedge a king."

Nowhere was loyalty more truly a religion than at Buckland Cottage. The little daughter of the house was educated entirely at home. Her father, who had been in the army, was remarkably silent, and devoted to the quiet art of angling. This taste was easily gratified in a forestcountry abounding in shadowy pools fringed with water-weed, and in rivulets that drained the valleys, and often sparkled in the sunshine. Of these, Royden Stream was the most beautiful; and there he often took her as soon as she was able to trot by his side with her basket. He invariably carried a well-worn copy of Isaac Walton in his pocket, which she read with delight when a mere baby in years. Whether from Kit Marlowe or holy Master Herbert she caught the knack of rhyming, or from the great store of ballads sung by her mother, she began making stories in verse even before she could write. When she had mastered that accomplishment, which she did also very early, she would let no one but her father catch a glimpse of her verses. She never had a very good ear for music, but if she heard poetry repeated, its rhythm haunted her sleeping and waking till she had composed something in the same measure. Mrs. Bowles, alarmed by this precocity, endeavoured to keep books of poetry out of her reach. The most anxious parent could hardly however have feared over-excitement from Gesner's "Death of Abel," and that accordingly she was allowed to read; but it filled her mind with images of pastoral purity and devotion, which all seemed connected with an altar and sacrifices.

And God must still,

So with myself I argued, surely love

Such pure sweet offerings. There can be no harm

In laying them, as Eve was wont each day,

On such an altar: what if I could make

Something resembling that! To work I went

With the strong purpose which is strength and power,
And in a certain unfrequented nook

Of our long rambling garden, fenced about

By thorns and bushes, thick with summer leaves,
And threaded by a little water course
(No substitute contemptible I thought
For Eve's meandering rills), uprose full soon
A mound of mossy turf, that when complete
I called an altar and with simple faith,
Aye, and with feelings of adoring love
Hallowing the childish error, laid thereon
Daily my floral tribute, yet from prayer,
Wherewith I longed to consecrate the act,
Refraining with an undefined fear

(Instinctive) of offence: and there was doubt

Of perfect blamelessness (unconscious doubt)
In the suspicious unrelaxing care

With which I kept my secret.-The Birthday (1836).

Caroline Bowles was an exceedingly pretty child, and old relations of hers and of the writer's, often spoke of her fairy-like appearance when found reading or writing in the hollow trunk of some old tree, or in a mimic cave, with one flat stone for a floor, overhung with ferns and ivy, by the side of Royden Stream.

She spoke French as soon as she did English, for her grandmother, Mrs. George Burrard, or, as she was usually called, Madame Burrard, was a Jersey lady, and always spoke her native language in her own family. She was connected with all the old Norman families of the island, where feudal customs and the manners of la vieille cour long survived their disappearance in France. Her husband was brother to Sir Harry Burrard, warden of the New Forest, and governor of Calshot Castle, who became the first baronet of Walhampton. He had early been betrothed to a handsome and wealthy Jersey heiress by a family compact, and the marriage was to take place when his regiment returned from Flanders. They had seen little of each other, but they parted with the promise of keeping up as constant a correspondence as the uncertain posts of those days allowed. Great was the young soldier's happiness when, as time passed on, each letter from Mademoiselle D—— became more delightful than the last. She had appeared to him rather cold and imperious, and he fancied she had accepted his addresses too much as a matter of course; but her letters undeceived him, and left him no doubt of her affection. They contained the fullest accounts of her daily life at the old chateau, with all the little adventures that befel herself and her friends, described in the most amusing way, and with a child-like zest and womanly grace, that promised delightful companionship in the future.

At last he obtained a short leave of absence, and hurried to Jersey, to assure her better than he could do in writing of the warm affection that had succeeded on his own part to the somewhat chilly ceremonial of

their former intercourse. Mademoiselle D had often alluded to a summer-house at the end of the nut-tree avenue, leading from the garden to the neighbouring woods, as her favourite spot for writing. On hearing, therefore, when he arrived unexpectedly at the chateau, that the Seigneur and Madame were paying visits, but that she and her cousin Mademoiselle Madeleine were in the summer-house, he lost not a moment in seeking her there. Full of hope and joy he stood for a moment on that glowing afternoon near the pretty pavilion, afraid of startling his promised bride by so sudden an appearance. The summer-leaves were thick, and the noisette-roses clustered round it, but he heard a well-known voice exclaim: "Will you never have done, Madeleine, with that tiresome letter? Thank goodness, it is one of the last we need send, for he seems likely to be here before long! It is lucky we write alike, I should hardly have patience to copy all you find to say—"

Perhaps George Burrard took another turn in the nut-tree walk before he presented himself; but when he entered the summer-house he saw his betrothed tying knots of various coloured ribbons that lay on the rustic table, and her young cousin writing, with a shower of golden curls falling over her face, as she held her desk on her lap. There was something in that blushing face which told the story of the letters, no less clearly than Mademoiselle's exclamation, and it fixed his fate and hers.

When at last all obstacles had been overcome, and "la petite Madeleine" was his wife instead of the proud heiress, she brought with her to Lymington a maid, who lived with her and her descendants till extreme old age. She was always called "Ma Bonne," and treated as a friend. She continued, like her mistress, the dress of her youth, and wore her high cap, and long gold earrings, and short jackets, to the last. Madame Burrard, as she also grew old, used to be carried from the porch at Buckland Cottage in a sedan chair to her pew in church. There, I am afraid, she bowed and curtsied to her friends before the service began; but I am quite sure that she stood up in her little high-heeled shoes of black velvet with silver buckles, and that a diamond crescent sparkled just in front of her powdered hair, which was drawn up on a cushion under a lace cap and hood. The rest of her dress was invariably black; but she also wore the lace ruffles, neckerchief, and apron, that had been in fashion when she was exactly like what her little granddaughter afterwards became. She had a delightful manner of telling stories, as well as of writing; and it was always said that Caroline inherited her peculiar vein of conversation. She had the same beautiful hair, dark grey eyes, and finely-formed forehead, with a slight graceful figure, and a hand as deft and light as ever held needle, pen, or pencil, though she never had patience to learn to spin. This was an art in which her charming grandmother excelled, and she always kept with affectionate care the pretty wheel from which Madame Burrard used to draw the finest lace-thread of any lady in Hampshire.

The Rev. William Gilpin was vicar of Boldre (the parish to which

Lymington belongs) during Caroline's childhood. He is still remembered as the author of a work on forest scenery, to the beauties of which he first drew attention, and being an excellent artist, his illustrations were as much admired as his writing. He was very fond of the intelligent little girl, and she always said Mr. Gilpin had first put a pencil into her hand. Her portrait of him in his library, while she stood by to watch him draw, is one of her best pieces of descriptive poetry. Here are a few lines of it-

How holy was the calm of that small room!
How tenderly the evening light stole in
As 'twere in reverence of its sanctity!
Here and there touching with a golden gleam
Book-shelf or picture-frame, or brightening up
The nosegay, set with daily care (love's own)
Upon the study table. Dallying there
Among the books and papers, and with beam
Of softest radiance, starring like a glory
The old man's high bald head and noble brow—
There still I found him, busy with his pen
(Oh, pen of varied power! found faithful ever!
Faithful and fearless in the one great cause !)—
Or some grave tome, or lighter work of taste
(His no ascetic, harsh, soul-narrowing creed).
Or that unrivalled pencil, with few strokes,

And sober tinting slight, that wrought effects

Most magical; the poetry of art !—The Birthday.

Lymington had long been a depôt for English troops, owing to its neighbourhood to Portsmouth and the passage by the Needles to the Channel. During the French Revolution and the subsequent war with France, a large body of Royalists were encamped near the town; the group of trees was long pointed out under which were the tents of those gallant leaders who fell with their little army at Quiberon. A large depôt of foreign troops was afterwards established; and the town and neighbourhood were also full of naval and military officers, who were either stationed there or invalided. Society, therefore, was remarkably varied and animated; German, Dutch, French, and Italian officers, as well as the families of the emigrant noblesse, took their part in it; and the writer has often heard the Lymington balls of those days described as the gayest that ever were known, not excepting those of Bath itself. Oa one occasion Caroline Bowles, who was usually very fond of dancing, let her mother go to a ball without her. She amused herself with making a sketch of the principal groups certain to be seen at it; and though slightly caricatured, they were so like, that people thought, when Mrs. Bowles showed it to her friends, that it must have been taken on the spot. No one could imagine where the artist could have been hidden! This drawing, with some alterations, was afterwards lithographed, with another equally clever. They both had considerable success under the titles of "A Country Ball," and "Packing Up after the Ball."

During these youthful days Caroline paid a visit to some relations in

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