How we came gradually to establish, at the office of Household Words, that we knew all about Miss Berwick, I have never discovered. But we settled somehow, to our complete satisfaction, that she was governess in a family; that she went to Italy in that capacity, and returned; and that she had long been in the same family. We really knew nothing whatever of her, except that she was remarkably2 business-like, punctual, self-reliant, and reliable: so I suppose we insensibly invented the rest. For myself, my mother was not a more real personage to me, than Miss Berwick the governess became.
This went on until December, 1854, when the Christmas number, entitled The Seven Poor Travellers, was sent to press. Happening to be going to dine that day with an old and dear friend, distinguished3 in literature as Barry Cornwall, I took with me an early proof of that number, and remarked, as I laid it on the drawing-room table, that it contained a very pretty poem, written by a certain Miss Berwick. Next day brought me the disclosure that I had so spoken of the poem to the mother of its writer, in its writer’s presence; that I had no such correspondent in existence as Miss Berwick; and that the name had been assumed by Barry Cornwall’s eldest5 daughter, Miss Adelaide Anne Procter.
The anecdote6 I have here noted7 down, besides serving to explain why the parents of the late Miss Procter have looked to me for these poor words of remembrance of their lamented8 child, strikingly illustrates9 the honesty, independence, and quiet dignity, of the lady’s character. I had known her when she was very young; I had been honoured with her father’s friendship when I was myself a young aspirant10; and she had said at home, “If I send him, in my own name, verses that he does not honestly like, either it will be very painful to him to return them, or he will print them for papa’s sake, and not for their own. So I have made up my mind to take my chance fairly with the unknown volunteers.”
Perhaps it requires an editor’s experience of the profoundly unreasonable11 grounds on which he is often urged to accept unsuitable articles — such as having been to school with the writer’s husband’s brother-in-law, or having lent an alpenstock in Switzerland to the writer’s wife’s nephew, when that interesting stranger had broken his own — fully12 to appreciate the delicacy13 and the self-respect of this resolution.
Some verses by Miss Procter had been published in the Book of Beauty, ten years before she became Miss Berwick. With the exception of two poems in the Cornhill Magazine, two in Good Words, and others in a little book called A Chaplet of Verses (issued in 1862 for the benefit of a Night Refuge), her published writings first appeared in Household Words, or All the Year Round. The present edition contains the whole of her Legends and Lyrics14, and originates in the great favour with which they have been received by the public.
Miss Procter was born in Bedford Square, London, on the 30th of October, 1825. Her love of poetry was conspicuous15 at so early an age, that I have before me a tiny album made of small note-paper, into which her favourite passages were copied for her by her mother’s hand before she herself could write. It looks as if she had carried it about, as another little girl might have carried a doll. She soon displayed a remarkable16 memory, and great quickness of apprehension17. When she was quite a young child, she learned with facility several of the problems of Euclid. As she grew older, she acquired the French, Italian, and German languages; became a clever pianoforte player; and showed a true taste and sentiment in drawing. But, as soon as she had completely vanquished18 the difficulties of any one branch of study, it was her way to lose interest in it, and pass to another. While her mental resources were being trained, it was not at all suspected in her family that she had any gift of authorship, or any ambition to become a writer. Her father had no idea of her having ever attempted to turn a rhyme, until her first little poem saw the light in print.
When she attained19 to womanhood, she had read an extraordinary number of books, and throughout her life she was always largely adding to the number. In 1853 she went to Turin and its neighbourhood, on a visit to her aunt, a Roman Catholic lady. As Miss Procter had herself professed20 the Roman Catholic Faith two years before, she entered with the greater ardour on the study of the Piedmontese dialect, and the observation of the habits and manners of the peasantry. In the former, she soon became a proficient21. On the latter head, I extract from her familiar letters written home to England at the time, two pleasant pieces of description.
A BETROTHAL22
“We have been to a ball, of which I must give you a description. Last Tuesday we had just done dinner at about seven, and stepped out into the balcony to look at the remains23 of the sunset behind the mountains, when we heard very distinctly a band of music, which rather excited my astonishment24, as a solitary25 organ is the utmost that toils26 up here. I went out of the room for a few minutes, and, on my returning, Emily said, ‘Oh! That band is playing at the farmer’s near here. The daughter is fiancee to-day, and they have a ball.’ I said, ‘I wish I was going!’ ‘Well,’ replied she, ‘the farmer’s wife did call to invite us.’ ‘Then I shall certainly go,’ I exclaimed. I applied27 to Madame B., who said she would like it very much, and we had better go, children and all. Some of the servants were already gone. We rushed away to put on some shawls, and put off any shred28 of black we might have about us (as the people would have been quite annoyed if we had appeared on such an occasion with any black), and we started. When we reached the farmer’s, which is a stone’s throw above our house, we were received with great enthusiasm; the only drawback being, that no one spoke4 French, and we did not yet speak Piedmontese. We were placed on a bench against the wall, and the people went on dancing. The room was a large whitewashed29 kitchen (I suppose), with several large pictures in black frames, and very smoky. I distinguished the Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian, and the others appeared equally lively and appropriate subjects. Whether they were Old Masters or not, and if so, by whom, I could not ascertain30. The band were seated opposite us. Five men, with wind instruments, part of the band of the National Guard, to which the farmer’s sons belong. They played really admirably, and I began to be afraid that some idea of our dignity would prevent me getting a partner; so, by Madame B.‘s advice, I went up to the bride, and offered to dance with her. Such a handsome young woman! Like one of Uwins’s pictures. Very dark, with a quantity of black hair, and on an immense scale. The children were already dancing, as well as the maids. After we came to an end of our dance, which was what they called a Polka-Mazourka, I saw the bride trying to screw up the courage of her fiance to ask me to dance, which after a little hesitation31 he did. And admirably he danced, as indeed they all did — in excellent time, and with a little more spirit than one sees in a ball-room. In fact, they were very like one’s ordinary partners, except that they wore earrings32 and were in their shirt-sleeves, and truth compels me to state that they decidedly smelt33 of garlic. Some of them had been smoking, but threw away their cigars when we came in. The only thing that did not look cheerful was, that the room was only lighted by two or three oil-lamps, and that there seemed to be no preparation for refreshments34. Madame B., seeing this, whispered to her maid, who disengaged herself from her partner, and ran off to the house; she and the kitchenmaid presently returning with a large tray covered with all kinds of cakes (of which we are great consumers and always have a stock), and a large hamper35 full of bottles of wine, with coffee and sugar. This seemed all very acceptable. The fiancee was requested to distribute the eatables, and a bucket of water being produced to wash the glasses in, the wine disappeared very quickly — as fast as they could open the bottles. But, elated, I suppose, by this, the floor was sprinkled with water, and the musicians played a Monferrino, which is a Piedmontese dance. Madame B. danced with the farmer’s son, and Emily with another distinguished member of the company. It was very fatiguing36 — something like a Scotch37 reel. My partner was a little man, like Perrot, and very proud of his dancing. He cut in the air and twisted about, until I was out of breath, though my attempts to imitate him were feeble in the extreme. At last, after seven or eight dances, I was obliged to sit down. We stayed till nine, and I was so dead beat with the heat that I could hardly crawl about the house, and in an agony with the cramp38, it is so long since I have danced.”
A MARRIAGE
The wedding of the farmer’s daughter has taken place. We had hoped it would have been in the little chapel39 of our house, but it seems some special permission was necessary, and they applied for it too late. They all said, “This is the Constitution. There would have been no difficulty before!” the lower classes making the poor Constitution the scapegoat40 for everything they don’t like. So as it was impossible for us to climb up to the church where the wedding was to be, we contented41 ourselves with seeing the procession pass. It was not a very large one, for, it requiring some activity to go up, all the old people remained at home. It is not etiquette42 for the bride’s mother to go, and no unmarried woman can go to a wedding — I suppose for fear of its making her discontented with her own position. The procession stopped at our door, for the bride to receive our congratulations. She was dressed in a shot silk, with a yellow handkerchief, and rows of a large gold chain. In the afternoon they sent to request us to go there. On our arrival we found them dancing out of doors, and a most melancholy43 affair it was. All the bride’s sisters were not to be recognised, they had cried so. The mother sat in the house, and could not appear. And the bride was sobbing44 so, she could hardly stand! The most melancholy spectacle of all to my mind was, that the bridegroom was decidedly tipsy. He seemed rather affronted45 at all the distress46. We danced a Monferrino; I with the bridegroom; and the bride crying the whole time. The company did their utmost to enliven her by firing pistols, but without success, and at last they began a series of yells, which reminded me of a set of savages47. But even this delicate method of consolation48 failed, and the wishing good-bye began. It was altogether so melancholy an affair that Madame B. dropped a few tears, and I was very near it, particularly when the poor mother came out to see the last of her daughter, who was finally dragged off between her brother and uncle, with a last explosion of pistols. As she lives quite near, makes an excellent match, and is one of nine children, it really was a most desirable marriage, in spite of all the show of distress. Albert was so discomfited49 by it, that he forgot to kiss the bride as he had intended to do, and therefore went to call upon her yesterday, and found her very smiling in her new house, and supplied the omission50. The cook came home from the wedding, declaring she was cured of any wish to marry — but I would not recommend any man to act upon that threat and make her an offer. In a couple of days we had some rolls of the bride’s first baking, which they call Madonnas. The musicians, it seems, were in the same state as the bridegroom, for, in escorting her home, they all fell down in the mud. My wrath51 against the bridegroom is somewhat calmed by finding that it is considered bad luck if he does not get tipsy at his wedding.”
Those readers of Miss Procter’s poems who should suppose from their tone that her mind was of a gloomy or despondent52 cast, would be curiously53 mistaken. She was exceedingly humorous, and had a great delight in humour. Cheerfulness was habitual54 with her, she was very ready at a sally or a reply, and in her laugh (as I remember well) there was an unusual vivacity55, enjoyment56, and sense of drollery57. She was perfectly58 unconstrained and unaffected: as modestly silent about her productions, as she was generous with their pecuniary59 results. She was a friend who inspired the strongest attachments60; she was a finely sympathetic woman, with a great accordant heart and a sterling61 noble nature. No claim can be set up for her, thank God, to the possession of any of the conventional poetical62 qualities. She never by any means held the opinion that she was among the greatest of human beings; she never suspected the existence of a conspiracy63 on the part of mankind against her; she never recognised in her best friends, her worst enemies; she never cultivated the luxury of being misunderstood and unappreciated; she would far rather have died without seeing a line of her composition in print, than that I should have maundered about her, here, as “the Poet”, or “the Poetess”.
With the recollection of Miss Procter as a mere64 child and as a woman, fresh upon me, it is natural that I should linger on my way to the close of this brief record, avoiding its end. But, even as the close came upon her, so must it come here.
Always impelled65 by an intense conviction that her life must not be dreamed away, and that her indulgence in her favourite pursuits must be balanced by action in the real world around her, she was indefatigable66 in her endeavours to do some good. Naturally enthusiastic, and conscientiously67 impressed with a deep sense of her Christian68 duty to her neighbour, she devoted69 herself to a variety of benevolent70 objects. Now, it was the visitation of the sick, that had possession of her; now, it was the sheltering of the houseless; now, it was the elementary teaching of the densely71 ignorant; now, it was the raising up of those who had wandered and got trodden under foot; now, it was the wider employment of her own sex in the general business of life; now, it was all these things at once. Perfectly unselfish, swift to sympathise and eager to relieve, she wrought72 at such designs with a flushed earnestness that disregarded season, weather, time of day or night, food, rest. Under such a hurry of the spirits, and such incessant73 occupation, the strongest constitution will commonly go down. Hers, neither of the strongest nor the weakest, yielded to the burden, and began to sink.
To have saved her life, then, by taking action on the warning that shone in her eyes and sounded in her voice, would have been impossible, without changing her nature. As long as the power of moving about in the old way was left to her, she must exercise it, or be killed by the restraint. And so the time came when she could move about no longer, and took to her bed.
All the restlessness gone then, and all the sweet patience of her natural disposition74 purified by the resignation of her soul, she lay upon her bed through the whole round of changes of the seasons. She lay upon her bed through fifteen months. In all that time, her old cheerfulness never quitted her. In all that time, not an impatient or a querulous minute can be remembered.
At length, at midnight on the second of February, 1864, she turned down a leaf of a little book she was reading, and shut it up.
The ministering hand that had copied the verses into the tiny album was soon around her neck, and she quietly asked, as the clock was on the stroke of one:
“Do you think I am dying, mamma?”
“I think you are very, very ill to-night, my dear!”
“Send for my sister. My feet are so cold. Lift me up?”
Her sister entering as they raised her, she said: “It has come at last!” And with a bright and happy smile, looked upward, and departed.
Well had she written:
Why shouldst thou fear the beautiful angel, Death, Who waits thee at the portals of the skies, Ready to kiss away thy struggling breath, Ready with gentle hand to close thine eyes?
Oh what were life, if life were all? Thine eyes Are blinded by their tears, or thou wouldst see Thy treasures wait thee in the far-off skies, And Death, thy friend, will give them all to thee.
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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illustrates
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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aspirant
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| n.热望者；adj.渴望的 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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proficient
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| adj.熟练的，精通的；n.能手，专家 | |
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betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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toils
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| 网 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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hamper
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| vt.妨碍，束缚，限制；n.(有盖的)大篮子 | |
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fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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cramp
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| n.痉挛；[pl.](腹)绞痛；vt.限制，束缚 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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scapegoat
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| n.替罪的羔羊，替人顶罪者；v.使…成为替罪羊 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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drollery
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| n.开玩笑，说笑话；滑稽可笑的图画（或故事、小戏等） | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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68
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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69
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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70
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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71
densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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72
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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73
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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74
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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