THE GRAVE OF MRS. HOFLAND.

VERYTHING around us has a memory-an associationan idea beyond the present, altogether away from, and yet connected with, the past. There is no end to these keynotes, which set us in right tune, reminding us of the mortality of ourselves and all we love. Pictures appeal as strongly to the eye as music does to the ear; more strongly, perhaps, to the many, whose eyes are better educated than their ears, who are not keenly alive to the sensibilities of sound, but who comprehend those transfers of nature which enter into our homes, and dwell therein-thanks to the magic pencil of artists thoroughly our own. We shall never look from Richmond-hill, or ramble in the lovely valley of the Thames, without remembering one of the most admirable and excellent women England has ever produced-one who lived not only in the exercise of genuine love and charity, but whose life for many years was an example of that quiet, unostentatious, every-day domestic heroism which both sanctifies and glorifies the female character. It must be more than twenty years since we first saw Mrs. Hofland. We had longed most earnestly to meet her. The Son of a Genius,' a story not only of European but of universal popularity, had been one of our first 'story-books; and we could not prevent tears gushing from our eyes when she took us affectionately by the hand, and said she was sure we should be good friends. We walked together the same morning to a private view of the Society of British Artists, and she showed us with wife-like pride a

view from Richmond-hill painted by her husband. One of his very best pictures it certainly was; and well did she know every glade, and avenue, and tree depicted therein. She spoke so eloquently of the beauty and richness of English landscape scenery, and more especially of the loveliness and sunniness of the banks of the Thames, that we forgot the fealty we owed to our native mountains, and thought only of the great English river. At that time Mr. and Mrs. Hofland lived in Newman-street, and her kind augury was amply fulfilled; we became friends; and we only wish that every woman had such a friend, and such an example, as she was to us and to all around her. In her manners she was perfectly natural, and altogether free from the plague-spot that marks so many literary women-affectation. Her accent still flavoured of Yorkshire; but her plainness of countenance was polished by the purest and gentlest benevolence. A ready wit and a keen perception of the ridiculous prompted her sometimes to say what, though true, would have been called severe if uttered by any one else; yet her natural dislike to occasion pain, healed before the reproved was conscious of a wound. Our knowledge of Mrs. Hofland in the domestic relations of life was such as rendered us altogether forgetful of her literary fame. Some there are who find it difficult to live up to their own printed standard of excellence; but she in her own life was an example of patience, forbearance, and devotedness, which if literally recorded would scarcely be believed. Her unselfishness was such as to deserve the term spiritual; and this extended beyond her home. Her friends saw it exercised daily towards themselves; and at one time, when in her literary capacity, she had the power of thwarting those whom a less generous mind might have considered rivals in the race of fame, her pen was ever first and freest in supporting the feeble, and bringing forward obscure merit. This, perhaps, a less honest critic would have done; but Mrs. Hofland did more. She paid an eager tribute to, and aided to augment, the reputation of those whose fame was eclipsing her own-the true test of a noble mind! We once heard this observed to her; and what was her reply? Ay, maybe so; I have had my day, and my sun will set all the happier, from a knowledge that a brighter and a better will rise on the morrow.' Then she was so fond of young people so happy when her husband's health or inclination permitted her to have the innocent enjoyment of surrounding her table with cheerful

faces. Everybody told her everything, secure of her aid and her sympathy -the warm, generous, earnest sympathy that listened and advised. It is ill to write unkindly of the dead; and he whose harshness caused her virtues to shine so brightly, honoured her in his heart; though a long series of years of suffering from internal disease rendered him, despite his talent and his knowledge, so great a penance to so rare a wife. She was so proud of that talent-so eager to prove his excellence-so anxious, even while the flush of outraged feeling was burning on her cheek, to exhibit the bright side of his character to her most intimate friends-so prone to descant upon an artist's trials and an artist's vexations—so wishful to set herself aside, that his value only might appear in a strong light-so perpetually bringing into active work the charity that beareth all things, endureth all things, hopeth all things-that to learn the most exalted duties of woman's life is but to call to remembrance the practice of Barbara Hofland.

Had it not been for her high religious principles, and her buoyant and cheerful nature, Mrs. Hofland might be said to have passed a life of mingled labour and endurance. She chiefly wrote at night; we do not remember finding her more than once at her desk in the morning; and her household affairs were well ordered. It strikes us as a great advantage to a woman not to commence a literary career until her mind is thoroughly established as to her DUTIES: and in this Mrs. Hofland, or at all events her family and friends, were fortunate. She was the daughter of Mr. Robert Weeks, a partner in an extensive manufactory at Sheffield, and was born in 1770. Her father died when she was very young, her mother soon after married again, and therefore she was taken and brought up by an aunt, who had a great opinion of her cleverness, &c. She married, at the age of twenty-six, Mr. T. Bradshaw Hoole, a very worthy young man, connected with a mercantile house in Sheffield. She always spoke of this portion of her life as the happiest. It lasted not long, however; for Mr. Hoole and their eldest child died in little more than two years after their marriage. She was left with an infant son four months old; and the little property that belonged to her was lost by the bankruptcy of a trustee. These misfortunes determined her to publish a volume of poems she had composed from time to time as an amusement; and it was eagerly subscribed for by the people of Sheffield. Two thousand copies were engaged, and the list of

subscribers occupied upwards of forty pages. It appeared in 1805. With the proceeds she established a school at Harrowgate, and continued to write and publish other small works from time to time. Eleven years after the death of her first husband she married Mr. T. C. Hofland, and removed to London the following year, viz., at the end of 1811. In 1812 she wrote five works, amongst which was The Son of a Genius,' and continued writing more or less every succeeding year.

Her son by Mr. Hoole was brought up for the church, became curate of St. Andrews, Holborn, but died in March, 1833. He was a most exemplary character, and his death was ascribed principally to his great exertions in his sacred office. His attentions to his mother were most affectionate, and all her patient resignation was needed to reconcile her to this sad bereavement. She never mentioned him without tears. Mrs. Hofland in her lifetime wrote about seventy different works, (besides contributions to periodicals,) of unequal merit in a literary point of view, but of high moral feeling, the gross sale of which, estimated from returns from the publishers, has been about 300,000 copies: this amount, of course, not including the translations (several of her books were translated into German and French), nor those sold in America, where her writings were and still are very popular.

Mr. Hofland died at Leamington on the 3rd of January, 1843, and his widow returned to Richmond soon after; and in the following summer visited Paris; her last work was, Emily's Reward, or a Trip to Paris.' Those who were constantly with her, and those who seldom enjoyed the pleasure of her society, alike perceived that her days were numbered: her eyes retained their brightness, but her features and form wasted daily, and though the immediate cause of her death was inflammation of the membrane of the brain, brought on, it is supposed, by a fall she had about a fortnight before, yet the oil was exhausted, she had no strength left to struggle against disease. She expired full of faith and hope, on the 9th of November, 1844, and is buried in Richmond Church.

CHERTSEY AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD.

"Come now towards Chertsey."-Richard the Third.

NE of the most pleasurable sensations of life arises from the consciousness of an increasing attachment, not only to the land we live in, but to our own immediate neighbourhood. We confess to the possession of a large organ of inhabitiveness; and can sympathise with the cat, the beaver, even with the crow, who prefers repairing his old rickety nest to building a new one. 'Exile!' has ever seemed to us the most fearful of all punishments; and the power to augment the enjoyments and endear the associations of hope,' one of earth's greatest blessings; but when that 'home' is placed in a locality, where time and its memories sanctify the beauties of nature, and every walk or drive is suggestive of something which recals either history or legend, the interest increases daily, until we seem to claim actual acquaintance with those whom we can summon from amid the shadows of the past. So much has been done, so many scenes have been enacted, such numberless great men have lived and died within this small but mighty England, that every rood of ground, so to say, had its story; and it needs but small imagination to derive profitable instruction from highways and byways in any shire of our island.