Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey

in a note to her verses, her sense of this gentle courtesy. “The benevolent condescension,” says she, “of that amiable and interesting young lady, to the unfortunate writer of these simple lines will remain engraved upon a grateful memory, till the vital spark that now animates 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 isolated 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 dependence was upon her brother, who allowed her a small annuity 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 vessel, 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 disastrous circumstances, her annuity suddenly ceased; she had in vain tried to obtain a renewal 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 abject want, but for a pittance quarterly doled out to her by her cousin in England.
    Colonel Wildman entered with characteristic benevolence 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 prosecute 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 inquiry 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 delicacy 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 meditations 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 miseries which beset her in her mortal state.
    One of her rhapsodies is, however, of a very melancholy 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 interred (if I should die in Newstead).”
    I subjoin a few of the stanzas: 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 wilt 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 woes below may plead above
A frail 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 abode,
‘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