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 MISS AGNES STRICK - ‘ I

“I BEG leave,” said Lady Morgan, “to enter a
protest against dates ! What on earth has a woman
to do with dates ? ” The late Agnes Strickland was
somewhat of the same opinion. She was born
“about” such and such a time, and that was as
much as courteous curiosity was sent away with.
We believe that the “about” may now be inter-
preted the beginning of this century, and that this
:‘ exemplary, industrious lady was just as old as the
century itself. Thus much for matter-of—fact per-
sons. Otherwise, of what importance is it ‘2 A
woman is just as old as she looks. Agnes Strick-
land no doubt was pleased to look young ; for the
portrait of herself, prefixed to the edition of her
‘Queens,’ when the authoress had been known in
literature for many years, is the portrait of a fair,
lady-like, and rather strong-minded woman.

Agnes Strickland’s strength of mind developed
itself early, with her literary tastes, and, indeed,
her literary practices. Like most of us, she began
with an idea of being especially poetic; and her
first attempt, made in conjunction with her sister,
when Agnes was not yet in her teens, combined
poetry with history. It was a rhymed Chronicle
of the Red Rose; and it excited the grave dis-
pleasure of her father. The squire of Roydom
Hall, Suffolk, could not taste poetry, as Queen
Charlotte used to phrase it.

But Agnes Strickland could, and, after a while,
she again united history with poetry, and boldly
stood forth as an epic poet, and her theme was of
the Stuart period. Her poem was entitled ‘Wor—
cester; or, the Cavalier,’ and it was in four
cantos. Campbell’s foolish praise of it has not
given it life, and among the things wrapped in
decent oblivion must be reckoned this respectable
though shortlived ‘Worcester,’ and not only ‘ Wor-
cester,’ but ‘Demetrius,’ a tale, and other works
most creditable to the industry of the sisters from
whose pens they have proceeded.

Industry, untiring, untired, hard industry, was
the great merit of these ladies; and it bore its fruit,
at last, to an extent which, perhaps, surprised
themselves. The ‘Lives of the Queens of Eng-
land,’ a work which bears the name of Agnes
Strickland alone, had a temporary success which
now seems little short of ridiculous. It possessed,
indeed, the merit of novelty. There was some-
thing fresh to be told about royal ladies, many of
whom had hitherto been but pageant Queens in
history. The work, however, has serious defects.
It has too much. of the millinery of history, in-
separable, perhaps, from its subject, and the result
is unsatisfactory.

If Agnes Strickland’s ‘ Queens’ shall be soon as
deservedly forgotten as her ‘ Worcester,’ that will
in no way prove that she was without high and
honourable aspirations. She had a noble ambition,
but she lacked the power to accomplish the object
which she had in view. Yet she was a woman
of high courage. We may all remember how,
in a literary controversy with Lord Campbell,
or rather in an onslaught upon him for stealing
her thunder, she seemed to pummel him on
his own judicial seat, and treat him with scant
measure of restrai_nt in either blows or words.

   
 

  
       
 
      
   
   
   
   
         
     
   
   
   
 
        
    
 

  
    
       
     
     
     
       
 
      
   
 
     
 
 

  
  
      
   
  

      
 
      
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
       
       
     
   
   

It is said that she compared all those evil-c oers
who supplemented her history of Queens by records
of other royal ladies who lived before her own
chronicle began, or after the date of its conclusion, ,
to barnacles hanging on to the old noble ship.
Such rude persons were accounted intruders on
her domain, trespassers in her preserves, and
breakers- down of the sacred fence round her own
more sacred enclosure. That her prejudices were
strong cannot be denied. Her defence of Mary
Stuart in the series of Scottish Queens, marred
where it was intended to heal ; and her ‘ Lives of
the Bachelor Kings of England’ made one smile
at the attempt of a refined woman to write the
details of the life of such a naughty bachelor as
Rufus. The last serious work which Agnes
Strickland wrote was an account of ‘The Seven
Bishops,’ which cannot be said to have been suc-
cessful.