language it used was symbolic rather than plainly interpretative. Mrs. Barbauld writes genteelly of the behavior of young girls "to the other half of their species," as though she could not bear to say, simply and coarsely, men. So full of content were the little circles who listened to the "elegant lyric poetess," Mrs. Hemans, or to "the female Shakespeare of her age," Miss Joanna Baillie (we owe both these phrases to the poet Campbell), that when Crabb Robinson was asked by Miss Wakefield whether he would like to know Mrs. Barbauld, he cried enthusiastically, "You might as well ask me whether I should like to know the Angel Gabriel!"
In the midst of these sentimentalities and raptures, we catch now and then forlorn glimpses of the Immortals,—of Wordsworth at a literary entertainment in the house of Mr. Hoare of Hampstead, sitting mute and miserable all evening in a corner—which, as Miss Aikin truly remarked, was "disappointing and provoking"; of Lamb carried by the indefatigable Crabb Robinson to call on Mrs. Barbauld. This visit appears to have been a distinct failure. Lamb's one recorded observation was that Gilbert Wakefield had a peevish face,—an awkward remark, as Wakefield's daughter sat close at hand and listening. "Lamb," writes Mr. Robinson, "was vexed, but got out of the scrape tolerably well,"—having, indeed, plenty of former experiences to help him on the way.
There is a delightful passage in Miss Jane Porter's diary which describes at length an evening spent at the house of Mrs. Fenwick, "the amiable authoress of Secrecy." (Everybody was the amiable authoress of something. It was a day, like our own, given over to the worship of ink.) The company consisted of Miss Porter and her sister Maria, Miss Benger and her brother, Mr. Campbell the poet, and his nephew, a young man barely twenty years of age. The lion of the little party was of course the poet, who endeared himself to Mrs. Fenwick's heart by his attentions to her son, "a beautiful boy of six."
"This child's innocence and caresses," writes Miss Porter, gushingly, "seemed to unbend the lovely feelings of Campbell's heart. Every restraint but those which the guardian angels of tender infancy acknowledge was thrown aside. I never saw Man in a more interesting point of view. I felt how much I esteemed the author of the 'Pleasures of Hope.' When we returned home, we walked. It was a charming summer night. The moon shone brightly. Maria leaned on Campbell's arm. I did the same by Benger's. Campbell made some observations on pedantic women. I did not like it, being anxious for the respect of this man. I was jealous about how nearly he might think we resembled that character. When the Bengers parted from us, Campbell observed my abstraction, and with sincerity I confessed the cause. I know not what were his replies; but they were so gratifying, so endearing, so marked with truth, that when we arrived at the door, and he shook us by the hand, as a sign of adieu immediately prior to his next day's journey to Scotland, we parted with evident marks of being all in tears."
It is rather disappointing after this outburst to find Campbell, in a letter to his sister, describing Miss Porter in language of chilling moderation: "Among the company was Miss Jane Porter, whose talents my nephew adores. She is a pleasing woman, and made quite a conquest of him."
Miss Benger was only one of the many aspirants to literary honors whose futile endeavors vexed and affronted Charles Lamb. In reality she burdened him far less than others who, like Miss Betham and Mrs. Stoddart, succeeded in sending him their verses for criticism, or who begged him to forward the effusions to Southey,—an office he gladly fulfilled. Perhaps Miss Benger's vivacity jarred upon his taste. He was fastidious about the gayety of women. Madame de Staël considered her one of the most interesting persons she had met in England; but the approval of this "impudent clever" Frenchwoman would have been the least possible recommendation to Lamb. If he had known how hard had been Miss Benger's struggles, and how scanty her rewards, he might have forgiven her that sad perversity which kept her toiling in the field of letters. She had had the misfortune to be a precocious child, and had written at the age
