In the course of a morning's ride with Colonel Wildman, about the Abbey lands, we found ourselves in one of the prettiest little wild woods imaginable. The road to it had led us among rocky ravines overhung with thickets2, and now wound through birchen dingles and among beautiful groves3 and clumps4 of elms and beeches5. A limpid6 rill of sparkling water, winding7 and doubling in perplexed8 mazes9, crossed our path repeatedly, so as to give the wood the appearance of being watered by numerous rivulets10. The solitary11 and romantic look of this piece of woodland, and the frequent recurrence12 of its mazy stream, put him in mind, Colonel Wildman said, of the little German fairy tale of Undine, in which is recorded the adventures of a knight13 who had married a water-nymph. As he rode with his bride through her native woods, every stream claimed her as a relative; one was a brother, another an uncle, another a cousin. We rode on amusing ourselves with applying this fanciful tale to the charming scenery around us, until we came to a lowly gray-stone farmhouse15, of ancient date, situated16 in a solitary glen, on the margin17 of the brook18, and overshadowed by venerable trees. It went by the name, as I was told, of the Weir19 Mill farmhouse. With this rustic20 mansion21 was connected a little tale of real life, some circumstances of which were related to me on the spot, and others I collected in the course of my sojourn22 at the Abbey.
Not long after Colonel Wildman had purchased the estate of Newstead, he made it a visit for the purpose of planning repairs and alterations23. As he was rambling24 one evening, about dusk, in company with his architect, through this little piece of woodland, he was struck with its peculiar25 characteristics, and then, for the first time, compared it to the haunted wood of Undine. While he was making the remark, a small female figure in white, flitted by without speaking a word, or indeed appearing to notice them. Her step was scarcely heard as she passed, and her form was indistinct in the twilight26.
"What a figure for a fairy or sprite!" exclaimed Colonel Wildman. "How much a poet or a romance writer would make of such an apparition27, at such a time and in such a place!"
He began to congratulate himself upon having some elfin inhabitant for his haunted wood, when, on proceeding28 a few paces, he found a white frill lying in the path, which had evidently fallen from the figure that had just passed.
"Well," said he, "after all, this is neither sprite nor fairy, but a being of flesh, and blood, and muslin."
Continuing on, he came to where the road passed by an old mill in front of the Abbey. The people of the mill were at the door. He paused and inquired whether any visitor had been at the Abbey, but was answered in the negative.
"Has nobody passed by here?"
"No one, sir."
"That's strange! Surely I met a female in white, who must have passed along this path."
"Oh, sir, you mean the Little White Lady—oh, yes, she passed by here not long since."
"The Little White Lady! And pray who is the Little White Lady?"
"Why, sir, that nobody knows; she lives in the Weir Mill farmhouse, down in the skirts of the wood. She comes to the Abbey every morning, keeps about it all day, and goes away at night. She speaks to nobody, and we are rather shy of her, for we don't know what to make of her."
Colonel Wildman now concluded that it was some artist or amateur employed in making sketches29 of the Abbey, and thought no more about the matter. He went to London, and was absent for some time. In the interim30, his sister, who was newly married, came with her husband to pass the honeymoon31 at the Abbey. The Little White Lady still resided in the Weir Mill farmhouse, on the border of the haunted wood, and continued her visits daily to the Abbey. Her dress was always the same, a white gown with a little black spencer or bodice, and a white hat with a short veil that screened the upper part of her countenance32. Her habits were shy, lonely, and silent; she spoke33 to no one, and sought no companionship, excepting with the Newfoundland dog that had belonged to Lord Byron. His friendship she secured by caressing34 him and occasionally bringing him food, and he became the companion of her solitary walks. She avoided all strangers, and wandered about the retired35 parts of the garden; sometimes sitting for hours by the tree on which Lord Byron had carved his name, or at the foot of the monument which he had erected36 among the ruins of the chapel37. Sometimes she read, sometimes she wrote with a pencil on a small slate38 which she carried with her, but much of her time was passed in a kind of reverie.
The people about the place gradually became accustomed to her, and suffered her to wander about unmolested; their distrust of her subsided39 on discovering that most of her peculiar and lonely habits arose from the misfortune of being deaf and dumb. Still she was regarded with some degree of shyness, for it was the common opinion that she was not exactly in her right mind.
Colonel Wildman's sister was informed of all these circumstances by the servants of the Abbey, among whom the Little White Lady was a theme of frequent discussion. The Abbey and its monastic environs being haunted ground, it was natural that a mysterious visitant of the kind, and one supposed to be under the influence of mental hallucination, should inspire awe40 in a person unaccustomed to the place. As Colonel Wildman's sister was one day walking along abroad terrace of the garden, she suddenly beheld41 the Little White Lady coming toward her, and, in the surprise and agitation42 of the moment, turned and ran into the house. Day after day now elapsed, and nothing more was seen of this singular personage. Colonel Wildman at length arrived at the Abbey, and his sister mentioned to him her encounter and fright in the garden. It brought to mind his own adventure with the Little White Lady in the wood of Undine, and he was surprised to find that she still continued her mysterious wanderings about the Abbey. The mystery was soon explained. Immediately after his arrival he received a letter written in the most minute and delicate female hand, and in elegant and even eloquent44 language. It was from the Little White Lady. She had noticed and been shocked by the abrupt45 retreat of Colonel Wildman's sister on seeing her in the garden walk, and expressed her unhappiness at being an object of alarm to any of his family. She explained the motives46 of her frequent and long visits to the Abbey, which proved to be a singularly enthusiastic idolatry of the genius of Lord Byron, and a solitary and passionate48 delight in haunting the scenes he had once inhabited. She hinted at the infirmities which cut her off from all social communion with her fellow beings, and at her situation in life as desolate49 and bereaved50; and concluded by hoping that he would not deprive her of her only comfort, the permission of visiting the Abbey occasionally, and lingering about the walks and gardens.
Colonel Wildman now made further inquiries51 concerning her, and found that she was a great favorite with the people of the farmhouse where she boarded, from the gentleness, quietude, and innocence52 of her manners. When at home, she passed the greater part of her time in a small sitting-room53, reading and writing. Colonel Wildman immediately called on her at the farmhouse. She received him with some agitation and embarrassment54, but his frankness and urbanity soon put her at her ease. She was past the bloom of youth, a pale, nervous little being, and apparently55 deficient56 in most of her physical organs, for in addition to being deaf and dumb, she saw but imperfectly. They carried on a communication by means of a small slate, which she drew out of her reticule, and on which they wrote their questions and replies. In writing or reading she always approached her eyes close to the written characters.
This defective58 organization was accompanied by a morbid59 sensibility almost amounting to disease. She had not been born deaf and dumb; but had lost her hearing in a fit of sickness, and with it the power of distinct articulation60. Her life had evidently been checkered61 and unhappy; she was apparently without family or friend, a lonely, desolate being, cut off from society by her infirmities.
"I am always among strangers," she said, "as much so in my native country as I could be in the remotest parts of the world. By all I am considered as a stranger and an alien; no one will acknowledge any connection with me. I seem not to belong to the human species."
Such were the circumstances that Colonel Wildman was able to draw forth62 in the course of his conversation, and they strongly interested him in favor of this poor enthusiast47. He was too devout63 an admirer of Lord Byron himself, not to sympathize in this extraordinary zeal64 of one of his votaries65, and he entreated67 her to renew her visits at the Abbey, assuring her that the edifice68 and its grounds should always be open to her.
The Little White Lady now resumed her daily walks in the Monk's Garden, and her occasional seat at the foot of the monument; she was shy and diffident, however, and evidently fearful of intruding69. If any persons were walking in the garden she would avoid them, and seek the most remote parts; and was seen like a sprite, only by gleams and glimpses, as she glided70 among the groves and thickets. Many of her feelings and fancies, during these lonely rambles71, were embodied72 in verse, noted73 down on her tablet, and transferred to paper in the evening on her return to the farmhouse. Some of these verses now lie before me, written with considerable harmony of versification, but chiefly curious as being illustrative of that singular and enthusiastic idolatry with which she almost worshipped the genius of Byron, or rather, the romantic image of him formed by her imagination.
Two or three extracts may not be unacceptable. The following are from a long rhapsody addressed to Lord Byron:
"By what dread74 charm thou rulest the mind
It is not given for us to know;
We glow with feelings undefined,
Nor can explain from whence they flow.
"Not that fond love which passion breathes
And youthful hearts inflame75;
The soul a nobler homage76 gives,
And bows to thy great name.
"Oft have we own'd the muses78' skill,
And proved the power of song,
But sweeter notes ne'er woke the thrill
That solely79 to thy verse belong.
"This—but far more, for thee we prove,
Something that bears a holier name,
Than the pure dream of early love,
Or friendship's nobler flame.
"Something divine—Oh! what it is
Thy muse77 alone can tell,
So sweet, but so profound the bliss80
We dread to break the spell."
This singular and romantic infatuation, for such it might truly be called, was entirely81 spiritual and ideal, for, as she herself declares in another of her rhapsodies, she had never beheld Lord Byron; he was, to her, a mere82 phantom83 of the brain.
"I ne'er have drunk thy glance—thy form
My earthly eye has never seen,
Though oft when fancy's visions warm,
It greets me in some blissful dream.
"Greets me, as greets the sainted seer
Some radiant visitant from high,
When heaven's own strains break on his ear,
And wrap his soul in ecstasy84."
Her poetical85 wanderings and musings were not confined to the Abbey grounds, but extended to all parts of the neighborhood connected with the memory of Lord Byron, and among the rest to the groves and gardens of Annesley Hall, the seat of his early passion for Miss Chaworth. One of her poetical effusions mentions her having seen from Howet's Hill in Annesley Park, a "sylph-like form," in a car drawn86 by milk-white horses, passing by the foot of the hill, who proved to be the "favorite child," seen by Lord Byron, in his memorable87 interview with Miss Chaworth after her marriage. That favorite child was now a blooming girl approaching to womanhood, and seems to have understood something of the character and story of this singular visitant, and to have treated her with gentle sympathy. The Little White Lady expresses, in touching88 terms, in a note to her verses, her sense of this gentle courtesy. "The benevolent89 condescension," says she, "of that amiable90 and interesting young lady, to the unfortunate writer of these simple lines will remain engraved91 upon a grateful memory, till the vital spark that now animates92 a heart that too sensibly feels, and too seldom experiences such kindness, is forever extinct."
In the mean time, Colonel Wildman, in occasional interviews, had obtained further particulars of the story of the stranger, and found that poverty was added to the other evils of her forlorn and isolated93 state. Her name was Sophia Hyatt. She was the daughter of a country bookseller, but both her parents had died several years before. At their death, her sole dependence94 was upon her brother, who allowed her a small annuity95 on her share of the property left by their father, and which remained in his hands. Her brother, who was a captain of a merchant vessel96, removed with his family to America, leaving her almost alone in the world, for she had no other relative in England but a cousin, of whom she knew almost nothing. She received her annuity regularly for a time, but unfortunately her brother died in the West Indies, leaving his affairs in confusion, and his estate overhung by several commercial claims, which threatened to swallow up the whole. Under these disastrous97 circumstances, her annuity suddenly ceased; she had in vain tried to obtain a renewal98 of it from the widow, or even an account of the state of her brother's affairs. Her letters for three years past had remained unanswered, and she would have been exposed to the horrors of the most abject99 want, but for a pittance100 quarterly doled101 out to her by her cousin in England.
Colonel Wildman entered with characteristic benevolence102 into the story of her troubles. He saw that she was a helpless, unprotected being, unable, from her infirmities and her ignorance of the world, to prosecute103 her just claims. He obtained from her the address of her relations in America, and of the commercial connection of her brother; promised, through the medium of his own agents in Liverpool, to institute an inquiry104 into the situation of her brother's affairs, and to forward any letters she might write, so as to insure their reaching their place of destination.
Inspired with some faint hopes, the Little White Lady continued her wanderings about the Abbey and its neighborhood. The delicacy105 and timidity of her deportment increased the interest already felt for her by Mrs. Wildman. That lady, with her wonted kindness, sought to make acquaintance with her, and inspire her with confidence. She invited her into the Abbey; treated her with the most delicate attention, and, seeing that she had a great turn for reading, offered her the loan of any books in her possession. She borrowed a few, particularly the works of Sir Walter Scott, but soon returned them; the writings of Lord Byron seemed to form the only study in which she delighted, and when not occupied in reading those, her time was passed in passionate meditations106 on his genius. Her enthusiasm spread an ideal world around her in which she moved and existed as in a dream, forgetful at times of the real miseries107 which beset108 her in her mortal state.
One of her rhapsodies is, however, of a very melancholy109 cast; anticipating her own death, which her fragile frame and growing infirmities rendered but too probable. It is headed by the following paragraph.
"Written beneath the tree on Crowholt Hill, where it is my wish to be interred110 (if I should die in Newstead)."
I subjoin a few of the stanzas111: they are addressed to Lord Byron:
"Thou, while thou stand'st beneath this tree,
While by thy foot this earth is press'd,
Think, here the wanderer's ashes be—
And wilt112 thou say, sweet be thy rest!
"'Twould add even to a seraph's bliss,
Whose sacred charge thou then may be,
To guide—to guard—yes, Byron! yes,
That glory is reserved for me."
"If woes113 below may plead above
A frail114 heart's errors, mine forgiven,
To that 'high world' I soar, where 'love
Surviving' forms the bliss of Heaven.
"O wheresoe'er, in realms above,
Assign'd my spirit's new abode115,
'Twill watch thee with a seraph's love,
Till thou too soar'st to meet thy God.
"And here, beneath this lonely tree—
Beneath the earth thy feet have press'd,
My dust shall sleep—once dear to thee
These scenes—here may the wanderer rest!"
In the midst of her reveries and rhapsodies, tidings reached Newstead of the untimely death of Lord Byron. How they were received by this humble116 but passionate devotee I could not ascertain117; her life was too obscure and lonely to furnish much personal anecdote118, but among her poetical effusions are several written in a broken and irregular manner, and evidently under great agitation.
The following sonnet119 is the most coherent and most descriptive of her peculiar state of mind:
"Well, thou art gone—but what wert thou to me?
I never saw thee—never heard thy voice,
Yet my soul seemed to claim affiance with thee.
The Roman bard120 has sung of fields Elysian,
Where the soul sojourns121 ere she visits earth;
Sure it was there my spirit knew thee, Byron!
Thine image haunted me like a past vision;
It hath enshrined itself in my heart's core;
'Tis my soul's soul—it fills the whole creation.
For I do live but in that world ideal
Which the muse peopled with her bright fancies,
And of that world thou art a monarch122 real,
Nor ever earthly sceptre ruled a kingdom,
With sway so potent123 as thy lyre, the mind's dominion124."
Taking all the circumstances here adduced into consideration, it is evident that this strong excitement and exclusive occupation of the mind upon one subject, operating upon a system in a high state of morbid irritability125, was in danger of producing that species of mental derangement126 called monomania. The poor little being was aware, herself, of the dangers of her case, and alluded127 to it in the following passage of a letter to Colonel Wildman, which presents one of the most lamentable129 pictures of anticipated evil ever conjured130 up by the human mind.
"I have long," writes she, "too sensibly felt the decay of my mental faculties131, which I consider as the certain indication of that dreaded132 calamity133 which I anticipate with such terror. A strange idea has long haunted my mind, that Swift's dreadful fate will be mine. It is not ordinary insanity134 I so much apprehend135, but something worse—absolute idiotism!
"O sir! think what I must suffer from such an idea, without an earthly friend to look up to for protection in such a wretched state—exposed to the indecent insults which such spectacles always excite. But I dare not dwell upon the thought: it would facilitate the event I so much dread, and contemplate136 with horror. Yet I cannot help thinking from people's behavior to me at times, and from after reflections upon my conduct, that symptoms of the disease are already apparent."
Five months passed away, but the letters written by her, and forwarded by Colonel Wildman to America relative to her brother's affairs, remained unanswered; the inquiries instituted by the Colonel had as yet proved equally fruitless. A deeper gloom and despondency now seemed to gather upon her mind. She began to talk of leaving Newstead, and repairing to London, in the vague hope of obtaining relief or redress137 by instituting some legal process to ascertain and enforce the will of her deceased brother. Weeks elapsed, however, before she could summon up sufficient resolution to tear herself away from the scene of poetical fascination138. The following simple stanzas, selected from a number written about the time, express, in humble rhymes, the melancholy that preyed139 upon her spirits:
"Farewell to thee, Newstead, thy time-riven towers,
Shall meet the fond gaze of the pilgrim no more;
No more may she roam through thy walks and thy bowers141.
Nor muse in thy cloisters142 at eve's pensive143 hour.
"Oh, how shall I leave you, ye hills and ye dales,
When lost in sad musing14, though sad not unblest,
A lone1 pilgrim I stray—Ah! in these lonely vales,
I hoped, vainly hoped, that the pilgrim might rest.
"Yet rest is far distant—in the dark vale of death,
Alone I shall find it, an outcast forlorn—
But hence vain complaints, though by fortune bereft144
Of all that could solace145 in life's early morn.
Is not man from his birth doomed146 a pilgrim to roam
O'er the world's dreary147 wilds, whence by fortune's rude gust148.
In his path, if some flowret of joy chanced to bloom,
It is torn and its foliage149 laid low in the dust."
At length she fixed150 upon a day for her departure. On the day previous, she paid a farewell visit to the Abbey; wandering over every part of the grounds and garden; pausing and lingering at every place particularly associated with the recollection of Lord Byron; and passing a long time seated at the foot of the monument, which she used to call "her altar." Seeking Mrs. Wildman, she placed in her hands a sealed packet, with an earnest request that she would not open it until after her departure from the neighborhood. This done she took an affectionate leave of her, and with many bitter tears bade farewell to the Abbey.
On retiring to her room that evening, Mrs. Wildman could not refrain from inspecting the legacy152 of this singular being. On opening the packet, she found a number of fugitive153 poems, written in a most delicate and minute hand, and evidently the fruits of her reveries and meditations during her lonely rambles; from these the foregoing extracts have been made. These were accompanied by a voluminous letter, written with the pathos154 and eloquence155 of genuine feeling, and depicting156 her peculiar situation and singular state of mind in dark but painful colors.
"The last time," says she, "that I had the pleasure of seeing you, in the garden, you asked me why I leave Newstead; when I told you my circumstances obliged me, the expression of concern which I fancied I observed in your look and manner would have encouraged me to have been explicit157 at the time, but from my inability of expressing myself verbally."
She then goes on to detail precisely158 her pecuniary159 circumstances, by which it appears that her whole dependence for subsistence was on an allowance of thirteen pounds a year from her cousin, who bestowed161 it through a feeling of pride, lest his relative should come upon the parish. During two years this pittance had been augmented162 from other sources, to twenty-three pounds, but the last year it had shrunk within its original bounds, and was yielded so grudgingly163, that she could not feel sure of its continuance from one quarter to another. More than once it had been withheld164 on slight pretences165, and she was in constant dread lest it should be entirely withdrawn166.
"It is with extreme reluctance," observed she, "that I have so far exposed my unfortunate situation; but I thought you expected to know something more of it, and I feared that Colonel Wildman, deceived by appearances, might think that I am in no immediate43 want, and that the delay of a few weeks, or months, respecting the inquiry, can be of no material consequence. It is absolutely necessary to the success of the business that Colonel Wildman should know the exact state of my circumstances without reserve, that he may be enabled to make a correct representation of them to any gentleman whom he intends to interest, who, I presume, if they are not of America themselves, have some connections there, through whom my friends may be convinced of the reality of my distress167, if they pretend to doubt it, as I suppose they do. But to be more explicit is impossible; it would be too humiliating to particularize the circumstances of the embarrassment in which I am unhappily involved—my utter destitution168. To disclose all might, too, be liable to an inference which I hope I am not so void of delicacy, of natural pride, as to endure the thought of. Pardon me, madam, for thus giving trouble, where I have no right to do—compelled to throw myself upon Colonel Wildman's humanity, to entreat66 his earnest exertions169 in my behalf, for it is now my only resource. Yet do not too much despise me for thus submitting to imperious necessity—it is not love of life, believe me it is not, nor anxiety for its preservation170. I cannot say, 'There are things that make the world dear to me,'—for in the world there is not an object to make me wish to linger here another hour, could I find that rest and peace in the grave which I have never found on earth, and I fear will be denied me there."
Another part of her letter develops more completely the dark despondency hinted at in the conclusion of the foregoing extract—and presents a lamentable instance of a mind diseased, which sought in vain, amidst sorrow and calamity, the sweet consolations171 of religious faith.
"That my existence has hitherto been prolonged," says she, "often beyond what I have thought to have been its destined173 period, is astonishing to myself. Often when my situation has been as desperate, as hopeless, or more so, if possible, than it is at present, some unexpected interposition of Providence174 has rescued me from a fate that has appeared inevitable175. I do not particularly allude128 to recent circumstances or latter years, for from my earlier years I have been the child of Providence—then why should I distrust its care now? I do not _dis_trust it—neither do I trust it. I feel perfectly57 unanxious, unconcerned, and indifferent as to the future; but this is not trust in Providence—not that trust which alone claims it protections. I know this is a blamable indifference—it is more—for it reaches to the interminable future. It turns almost with disgust from the bright prospects176 which religion offers for the consolation172 and support of the wretched, and to which I was early taught, by an almost adored mother, to look forward with hope and joy; but to me they can afford no consolation. Not that I doubt the sacred truths that religion inculcates. I cannot doubt—though I confess I have sometimes tried to do so, because I no longer wish for that immortality178 of which it assures us. My only wish now is for rest and peace—endless rest. 'For rest—but not to feel 'tis rest,' but I cannot delude179 myself with the hope that such rest will be my lot. I feel an internal evidence, stronger than any arguments that reason or religion can enforce, that I have that within me which is imperishable; that drew not its origin from the 'clod of the valley.' With this conviction, but without a hope to brighten the prospect177 of that dread future:
"'I dare not look beyond the tomb, Yet cannot hope for peace before.' Such an unhappy frame of mind, I am sure, madam, must excite your commiseration180. It is perhaps owing, in part at least, to the solitude181 in which I have lived, I may say, even in the midst of society; when I have mixed in it; as my infirmities entirely exclude me from that sweet intercourse182 of kindred spirits—that sweet solace of refined conversation; the little intercourse I have at any time with those around me cannot be termed conversation—they are not kindred spirits—and even where circumstances have associated me (but rarely indeed) with superior and cultivated minds, who have not disdained183 to admit me to their society, they could not by all their generous efforts, even in early youth, lure184 from my dark soul the thoughts that loved to lie buried there, nor inspire me with the courage to attempt their disclosure; and yet of all the pleasures of polished life which fancy has often pictured to me in such vivid colors, there is not one that I have so ardently185 coveted186 as that sweep reciprocation187 of ideas, the supreme188 bliss of enlightened minds in the hour of social converse189. But this I knew was not decreed for me—
"'Yet this was in my nature—'
but since the loss of my hearing I have always been incapable190 of verbal conversation. I need not, however, inform you, madam, of this. At the first interview with which you favored me, you quickly discovered my peculiar unhappiness in this respect; you perceived from my manner that any attempt to draw me into conversation would be in vain—had it been otherwise, perhaps you would not have disdained now and then to have soothed191 the lonely wanderer with yours. I have sometimes fancied when I have seen you in the walk, that you seemed to wish to encourage me to throw myself in your way. Pardon me if my imagination, too apt to beguile192 me with such dear illusions, has deceived me into too presumptuous193 an idea here. You must have observed that I generally endeavored to avoid both you and Colonel Wildman. It was to spare your generous hearts the pain of witnessing distress you could not alleviate194. Thus cut off, as it were, from all human society, I have been compelled to live in a world of my own, and certainly with the beings with which my world is peopled, I am at no loss to converse. But, though I love solitude and am never in want of subjects to amuse my fancy, yet solitude too much indulged in must necessarily have an unhappy effect upon the mind, which, when left to seek for resources wholly within itself will, unavoidably, in hours of gloom and despondency, brood over corroding195 thoughts that prey140 upon the spirits, and sometimes terminate in confirmed misanthropy—especially with those who, from constitution, or early misfortunes, are inclined to melancholy, and to view human nature in its dark shades. And have I not cause for gloomy reflections? The utter loneliness of my lot would alone have rendered existence a curse to one whom nature has formed glowing with all the warmth of social affection, yet without an object on which to place it—without one natural connection, one earthly friend to appeal to, to shield me from the contempt, indignities196, and insults, to which my deserted197 situation continually exposed me."
I am giving long extracts from this letter, yet I cannot refrain from subjoining another letter, which depicts198 her feelings with respect to Newstead.
"Permit me, madame, again to request your and Colonel Wildman's acceptance of these acknowledgments which I cannot too often repeat, for your unexampled goodness to a rude stranger. I know I ought not to have taken advantage of your extreme good nature so frequently as I have. I should have absented myself from your garden during the stay of the company at the Abbey, but, as I knew I must be gone long before they would leave it, I could not deny myself the indulgence, as you so freely gave me your permission to continue my walks, but now they are at an end. I have taken my last farewell of every dear and interesting spot, which I now never hope to see again, unless my disembodied spirit may be permitted to revisit them.—Yet O! if Providence should enable me again to support myself with any degree of respectability, and you should grant me some little humble shed, with what joy shall I return and renew my delightful199 rambles. But dear as Newstead is to me, I will never again come under the same unhappy circumstances as I have this last time—never without the means of at least securing myself from contempt. How dear, how very dear Newstead is to me, how unconquerable the infatuation that possesses me, I am now going to give a too convincing proof. In offering to your acceptance the worthless trifles that will accompany this, I hope you will believe that I have no view to your amusement. I dare not hope that the consideration of their being the products of your own garden, and most of them written there, in my little tablet, while sitting at the foot of my Altar—I could not, I cannot resist the earnest desire of leaving this memorial of the many happy hours I have there enjoyed. Oh! do not reject them, madam; suffer them to remain with you, and if you should deign200 to honor them with a perusal201, when you read them repress, if you can, the smile that I know will too naturally arise, when you recollect151 the appearance of the wretched being who has dared to devote her whole soul to the contemplation of such more than human excellence202. Yet, ridiculous as such devotion may appear to some, I must take leave to say, that if the sentiments which I have entertained for that exalted203 being could be duly appreciated, I trust they would be found to be of such a nature as is no dishonor even for him to have inspired."…
"I am now coming to take a last, last view of scenes too deeply impressed upon my memory ever to be effaced204 even by madness itself. O madam! may you never know, nor be able to conceive the agony I endure in tearing myself from all that the world contains of dear and sacred to me: the only spot on earth where I can ever hope for peace or comfort. May every blessing205 the world has to bestow160 attend you, or rather, may you long, long live in the enjoyment206 of the delights of your own paradise, in secret seclusion207 from a world that has no real blessings208 to bestow. Now I go—but O might I dare to hope that when you are enjoying these blissful scenes, a thought of the unhappy wanderer might sometimes cross your mind, how soothing209 would such an idea be, if I dared to indulge it—could you see my heart at this moment, how needless would it be to assure you of the respectful gratitude210, the affectionate esteem211, this heart must ever bear you both."
The effect of this letter upon the sensitive heart of Mrs. Wildman may be more readily conceived than expressed. Her first impulse was to give a home to this poor homeless being, and to fix her in the midst of those scenes which formed her earthly paradise. She communicated her wishes to Colonel Wildman, and they met with an immediate response in his generous bosom212. It was settled on the spot, that an apartment should be fitted up for the Little White Lady in one of the new farmhouses213, and every arrangement made for her comfortable and permanent maintenance on the estate. With a woman's prompt benevolence, Mrs. Wildman, before she laid her head upon her pillow, wrote the following letter to the destitute214 stranger:
"NEWSTEAD ABBEY,
"Tuesday night, September 20, 1825.
"On retiring to my bedchamber this evening I have opened your letter, and cannot lose a moment in expressing to you the strong interest which it has excited both in Colonel Wildman and myself, from the details of your peculiar situation, and the delicate, and, let me add, elegant language in which they are conveyed. I am anxious that my note should reach you previous to your departure from this neighborhood, and should be truly happy if, by any arrangement for your accommodation, I could prevent the necessity of your undertaking215 the journey. Colonel Wildman begs me to assure you that he will use his best exertions in the investigation216 of those matters which you have confided217 to him, and should you remain here at present, or return again after a short absence, I trust we shall find means to become better acquainted, and to convince you of the interest I feel, and the real satisfaction it would afford me to contribute in any way to your comfort and happiness. I will only now add my thanks for the little packet which I received with your letter, and I must confess that the letter has so entirely engaged my attention, that I have not as yet had time for the attentive218 perusal of its companion.
Believe me, dear madam, with sincere good wishes,
"Yours truly,
"LOUISA WILDMAN."
Early the next morning a servant was dispatched with the letter to the Weir Mill farm, but returned with the information that the Little White Lady had set off, before his arrival, in company with the farmer's wife, in a cart for Nottingham, to take her place in the coach for London. Mrs. Wildman ordered him to mount horse instantly, follow with all speed, and deliver the letter into her hand before the departure of the coach.
The bearer of good tidings spared neither whip nor spur, and arrived at Nottingham on a gallop219. On entering the town, a crowd obstructed220 him in the principal street. He checked his horse to make his way through it quietly. As the crowd opened to the right and left, he beheld a human body lying on the pavement.—It was the corpse221 of the Little White Lady!
It seems that on arriving in town and dismounting from the cart, the farmer's wife had parted with her to go on an errand, and the White Lady continued on toward the coach-office. In crossing a street a cart came along, driven at a rapid rate. The driver called out to her, but she was too deaf to hear his voice or the rattling222 of his cart. In an instant she was knocked down by the horse, and the wheels passed over her body, and she died without a groan223.
The End
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1
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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2
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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3
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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4
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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5
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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6
limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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7
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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8
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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9
mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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10
rivulets
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| n.小河，小溪( rivulet的名词复数 ) | |
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11
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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12
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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13
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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14
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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15
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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16
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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17
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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18
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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19
weir
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| n.堰堤，拦河坝 | |
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20
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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21
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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22
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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23
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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24
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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25
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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26
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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27
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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28
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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29
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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30
interim
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| adj.暂时的，临时的；n.间歇，过渡期间 | |
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31
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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32
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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33
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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34
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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35
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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36
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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37
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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38
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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39
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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40
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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41
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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42
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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43
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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44
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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45
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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46
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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47
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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48
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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49
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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50
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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51
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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52
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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53
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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54
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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55
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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56
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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57
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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58
defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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59
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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60
articulation
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| n.（清楚的）发音；清晰度，咬合 | |
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61
checkered
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| adj.有方格图案的 | |
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62
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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63
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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64
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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65
votaries
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| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
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66
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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67
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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69
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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70
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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71
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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72
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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73
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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74
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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75
inflame
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| v.使燃烧；使极度激动；使发炎 | |
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76
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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77
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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78
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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79
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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80
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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81
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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82
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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83
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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84
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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85
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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86
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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87
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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88
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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89
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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90
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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91
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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92
animates
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| v.使有生气( animate的第三人称单数 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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93
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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94
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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95
annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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96
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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97
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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98
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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99
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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100
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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101
doled
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| 救济物( dole的过去式和过去分词 )； 失业救济金 | |
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102
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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103
prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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104
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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105
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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106
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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107
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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108
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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109
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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110
interred
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| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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112
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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113
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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114
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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115
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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116
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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117
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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118
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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119
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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120
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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121
sojourns
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| n.逗留，旅居( sojourn的名词复数 ) | |
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122
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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123
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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124
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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125
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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126
derangement
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| n.精神错乱 | |
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127
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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129
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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130
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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131
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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132
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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133
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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134
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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135
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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136
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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137
redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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138
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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139
preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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140
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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141
bowers
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| n.（女子的）卧室( bower的名词复数 )；船首锚；阴凉处；鞠躬的人 | |
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142
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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143
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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144
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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145
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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146
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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147
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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148
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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149
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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150
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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151
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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152
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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153
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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154
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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155
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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156
depicting
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| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
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157
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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158
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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159
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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160
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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161
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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162
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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163
grudgingly
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164
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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165
pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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166
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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167
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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168
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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169
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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170
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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171
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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172
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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173
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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174
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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175
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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176
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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177
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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178
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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179
delude
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| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
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180
commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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181
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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182
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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183
disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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184
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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185
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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186
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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187
reciprocation
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| n.互换 | |
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188
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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189
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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190
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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191
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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192
beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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193
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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194
alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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195
corroding
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| 使腐蚀，侵蚀( corrode的现在分词 ) | |
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196
indignities
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| n.侮辱，轻蔑( indignity的名词复数 ) | |
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197
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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198
depicts
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| 描绘，描画( depict的第三人称单数 )； 描述 | |
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199
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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200
deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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201
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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202
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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203
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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204
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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205
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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206
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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207
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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208
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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209
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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210
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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211
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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212
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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213
farmhouses
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| n.农舍，农场的主要住房( farmhouse的名词复数 ) | |
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214
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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215
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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216
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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217
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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218
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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219
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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220
obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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221
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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222
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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223
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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