VIII.

WAVEETEEE.

Wavertree had its advantages, but it certainly had its disadvantages too.  She was brought into a scene where all her precious time might have been absorbed in the trivialities of society.  She was overwhelmed with offers of service and marks of courtesy.  All the gaiety of a large town was open to her.  Gladly would she, as one who had made her mark, have been received on all hands.  But consideration of both time and inclination demanded that her life should be spent in a more retired way.  She had a great distaste to “going out.”  And so the frivolous soon gave her up, and went their own way.  Her dress was not rigorously correct; she seemed to have motives and pursuits unlike theirs.  And so they did not desire her company any more than she found satisfaction in theirs.  In the society of those with whom she had no interest in common she well describes her state as feeling herself more alone than when alone.  There was much to try her in the curiosity which prompted so many to call upon the strange poetess; but she treated this experience in a cheerful manner.  She was pursued by albums, their possessors all anxious to have something written on purpose for themselves.  We can understand her humorous appeal to a friend “to procure her a dragon, to be kept in her courtyard.”

The life at Wavertree was very different from that in Wales in many respects.  She had to face the cares and vexations of domestic life, now that she lived alone in her own house.  She had to bear her part in general society.  The change was not a palatable one.  “How I look back upon the comparative peace and repose of Bronwylfa and Rhyllon—­a walk in the hayfield—­the children playing round me—­my dear mother coming to call me in from the dew—­and you, perhaps, making your appearance just in the ‘gloaming,’ with a great bunch of flowers in your kind hand!  How have these things passed away from me, and how much more was I formed for their quiet happiness than for the weary part of femme celebre which I am now enacting.”

A visit to Scotland in 1829 was a great event in her life.  She seemed to gain fresh energy and vigour.  Edinburgh was ready with a hearty welcome.  Admiration was in danger of degenerating into adulation; as, for example, when a literary man, on his introduction to her, asked “whether a bat might be allowed to appear in the presence of a nightingale.”  On another occasion a man of eminence in the book world was honoured with a visit from her.  Afterwards he was asked whether he had chanced to see the most distinguished English poetess of the day.  “He made no answer,” continued the narrator, “but taking me by the arm, in solemn silence, led me into the back parlour, where stood a chair in the centre of the room, isolated from the rest of the furniture:  and pointing to it, said, with the profoundest reverence, in a low earnest tone.  ’There she sat, sir, on that chair!’” One of the brightest parts of this bright tour was that spent with Sir Walter Scott.  The recollection of her walks and talks with the great man was always a treasured memory.  And so were the words with which he parted from her.  “There are some whom we meet, and should like ever after to claim as kith and kin; and you are one of these.”