Section V Felicia Dorothea Hemans
“As a female writer, influencing the female mind, she has undoubtedly stood, for some by-past years, the very first in the first rank; and this pre-eminence has been acknowledged, not only in her own land, but wherever the English tongue is spoken, whether on the banks of the eastern Ganges or the western Mississippi.”
David Macbeth Moir. [Δ.]
LYRIC POETRY.
This species of poetry sets forth the inward occurrences of the writer’s or speaker’s own mind—concerns itself with the thoughts and emotions. It is called lyric, because it was originally accompanied by the music of that instrument. Purely lyrical pieces are from their nature short, and fall into several divisions, which are again subdivided into psalms and songs. Passion, genius, a teeming brain, a palpitating heart, and a soul on fire, are necessary to lyrical composition. The poetry that lives among the people, must indeed be simple—but the simplest feelings are the deepest, and when adequately expressed, are immortal. The song-writer and the psalmist are equally divine; and the rich and noble melodies which they send abroad from their resounding lyres, the world claims as an inheritance. True lyrics themselves may be weak and wandering, but the children of their brains are strong and immortal. Empires may pass away, but the ecstatic ether which they breathe on the world, shall remain. That sweet psalm, “The Lord is my Shepherd,” was drawn by David from the strings of a well-tuned instrument, and it expresses the feelings of Christians in the nineteenth century, just as well as it did those of the devout in the long ages before Christ. The child commits it to memory, and the dying believer sings it with a heart empty of care and full of gladness. In “Auld Robin Gray,” Lady Anne Barnard spoke from her inmost heart. It instantly became popular, and has come down to us entire, as if all things had conspired that such a perfect, tender, and affecting song of humble life should never perish; but must be sung and wept over while the earth endureth. The lyric poetry of a country is characteristic of its manners.
BIOGRAPHY.
In the year 1786, George Browne, Esq., an eminent Liverpool merchant, married Miss Wagner, daughter of the Imperial and Tuscan consul. All the offspring of this marriage were distinguished by superior gifts, cultivated talents, and refined taste. Felicia Dorothea, the fifth child, was born in Duke Street, on the 25th of September, 1793, and was early found to be endowed with the two most coveted of earthly gifts—beauty and genius.
The first six years of her life, were passed in wealth and ease, but at the close of the century, in consequence of commercial difficulties, her father broke up his establishment at Liverpool, and removed to the sea-coast of Denbighshire, in North Wales, near the little town of Abergele, and shortly afterwards emigrated to America, where he died. The education of Felicia Browne thus devolved exclusively on her mother; and under her judicious instruction, she learned with facility the elements of general knowledge—evinced peculiar aptness for the acquisition of languages, drawing, and music—and derived information with extraordinary ease, quickness, and clearness, from all things visible, audible, and tangible. The air at Gwrych is salubrious, and the scenery around beautiful; and often in after-years did the gifted poetess recall those happy hours spent by the sea-shore, listening to the cadence of the waves; or passed in the old house, gazing across the intervening meadows on a range of magnificent mountains; or consumed in the vale of Clwyd, searching for primroses.
Mountains, the sea, and London, have been pronounced important points in education. Felicia Browne had long enjoyed the first and the second, and at the age of eleven completed the mind-enlarging triad, by paying a visit to the great metropolis. But despite the attractions of music, the drama, and works of art, the contrast between the hard pavement, crowded streets, and social constraint of London, and the glory, freshness, and freedom of her mountain home, made her more anxious to get away than ever she had been to come. Soon after she appeared in print, and the harsh animadversions of reviewers probably ignorant of the years of the authoress, so distressed the sensitive aspirant as to bring on an illness. In 1809, the family left Gwrych, and went to reside at Bronwylfa, near St. Asaph, in Flintshire. Here the work of intellectual development progressed steadily; and Miss Browne, already mistress of French and Italian, acquired the Spanish and Portuguese, with the rudiments of German.
In 1812, she was married to Captain Hemans, of the 4th foot, lately returned from Spanish service; and removed to Daventry with her husband, who was appointed adjutant to the Northamptonshire militia. The union was not a happy one. Mrs. Hemans had a splendid imagination, generous and active feelings, and a fine frank nature, which made her popular wherever she went. Captain Hemans was a handsome well-bred soldier, but of a cold methodical constitution, as destitute of the romantic element as the branches of trees in winter of all the green, soft luxury of foliage. There never has been a true marriage in this world without sympathy between the husband and the wife. A man of Captain Hemans’ temper was incapable of making a woman constituted like Mrs. Hemans permanently happy. In 1818, after the birth of five children, all sons, a separation took place, ostensibly because the captain, whose health was failing, was advised to try the effect of a warmer climate. He went to Italy, and she remained in England. They never saw each other afterwards.
Subsequently to a step which virtually amounted to a divorce, Mrs. Hemans and her children remained under her mother’s roof at Bronwylfa till the spring of 1825, when Mrs. Browne, with her daughter and grand-children, removed to Rhyllon, a comfortable house about a quarter of a mile distant, on the opposite side of the river Clwyd, with Bronwylfa in full sight. While domiciled at Rhyllon, Miss Jewsbury, with whom she had previously been in correspondence, frequently visited her and soothed her perturbed feelings. Mrs. Hemans took great delight in the company of Miss Jewsbury, and always expressed her sense of obligation to her for leading her more fully into the spirit of Wordsworth’s poetry, and for making her acquainted with many of his compositions. One autumn, on his return from exploring Snowdon, James Montgomery, like a true poet, came to Rhyllon, to offer honest homage to Mrs. Hemans.
Her pious and excellent mother died on the 11th of January, 1827, and soon after Mrs. Hemans removed to Wavertree, near Liverpool. Writing to a friend concerning the sorrows and conflicts of this period, she exclaims: “Oh, that I could lift up my heart, and sustain it at that height where alone the calm sunshine is!” Yet there were many alleviating circumstances connected with this migration. She was returning to the great seaport in which she was born, whose streets she had occasionally trodden, whose spires she had often seen, and which the inhabitants of Denbighshire and Flintshire had taught her to regard as a North Welsh metropolis. But the leaving of Wales was a great trial, and greatly augmented by the affectionate regrets and enthusiastic blessings of the Welsh peasants, who kissed the very gate-hinges through which she had passed. In her first letter from Wavertree to St. Asaph, she writes: “Oh, that Tuesday morning! I literally covered my face all the way from Bronwylfa, until the boys told me we had passed the Clwyd range of hills. Then something of the bitterness was over.” For the first time in her life she now took upon herself the sole responsibility of household management, became liable to the harassing cares of practical life, and subject to the formal restraints belonging to a great commercial town and its suburbs. In exchanging the ranges of the great hills, for long rows of houses—the blue seas and fresh breezes, for dirty wharves and dingy warehouses—familiar and loving faces, for the rude stare of strangers, and the simper of affected courtesy—her feelings experienced a series of shocks; and she held back from the gay world, and sought social pleasure in the company of a few chosen friends.
In 1829, having accepted an invitation to visit Scotland, where her writings had raised up for her a host of admirers, accompanied by her two elder sons and her maid, she embarked for the Firth of Forth. On their arrival in Edinburgh, her name won general homage, and all kinds of attention were lavished upon her, by the flower of its literature. Remaining a few days, with a keen but mournful interest, she wandered through the antique streets, wynds, and closes of the romantic capital; examined the castle, whose huge battlements command a panorama to which there are few, if any, parallels on earth; visited the Calton Hill, broken with cliffs, enamelled with golden furze, feathered with trees, and studded with monuments for the mighty dead; spent some time at Holyrood Palace, where the young, brilliant, and beautiful Mary reigned in queenly splendour; and having become acquainted with the principal objects of local interest, proceeded to Roxburghshire. At Abbotsford—that “romance of stone and mortar,” as it has been termed—Sir Walter Scott received her and her boys, and treated them with princely hospitality. On leaving Abbotsford, she remarks, “I shall not forget the kindness of Sir Walter’s farewell, so frank, and simple, and heartfelt, as he said to me, ‘There are some whom we meet, and should like ever after to claim as kith and kin; and you are one of those.’” During this sojourn, she became acquainted with many eminent persons, and when on the point of leaving, was persuaded to sit for a bust. The necessary process having been gone through, she returned to England.
In 1830, longing again for rural quiet, she visited the lakes and Mr. Wordsworth. In walking and riding, in boating on Windermere, in sketching woody mountains, in conversing with the meditative poet, and in writing poetry to absent friends, time glided rapidly away.
At the earnest and repeated solicitations of her northern friends, she revisited Scotland, and had the severity of the climate not threatened to be fatal to her, she would have gladly fixed her future home in Dunedin. She made a voyage to Dublin, to ascertain its suitablility as a place of residence. From Dublin she crossed the channel to Holyhead, and travelled through the Island of Anglesea, to her old home Bronwylfa. Her old Welsh neighbours flocked around her, entreating her to come back and live among them again. She returned to Wavertree with agitated spirits, and an exhausted frame.
In 1831, Mrs. Hemans finally quitted Liverpool for Dublin. After spending several weeks among kind friends, she passed on to the residence of her second brother and his wife, and then visited all the remarkable places around Kilkenny. In the spring and summer of 1832, when cholera was devastating the city, her letters express the solemn composure of her soul, her childlike dependence upon the care of God, and her unreserved submission to His will. In the autumn of 1833, the Rev. Mr. and Mrs. Hughes, the brother-in-law and sister of Mrs. Hemans, whom she had not seen for five years, came to Dublin. Her sister saw with pain the worn and altered looks which time, care, and sickness had wrought. In 1834, referring to the brightening of heart and soul into the perfect day of Christian excellence, she remarks; “When the weary struggle with wrong and injustice leads to such results, I then feel that the fearful mystery of life is solved for me.” Reading one evening in the gardens of the Dublin Society, a chill fog imperceptibly came on, and she was seized with a violent fit of shivering. For many weeks she had periodic attacks of ague. Aware that her time was short, she sedulously employed her genius and talents for the glory of God.
On Sunday the 10th of May, 1835, she was able, for the last time, to read to herself the appointed Collect, Epistle, and Gospel. During that week a heavy languor oppressed her, and sometimes her mind wandered, but always in sunny scenes. On the evening of Saturday the 16th, at nine o’clock, while asleep, her happy spirit passed away. Life, and this admirable woman, had not been long together; she was only in her forty-second year.
Her remains were interred in St. Anne’s church, Dawson Street, Dublin; and over her grave were inscribed eight lines from one of her own dirges:—
“Calm on the bosom of thy God,
Fair spirit, rest thee now!
E’en while with us thy footsteps trod,
His seal was on thy brow.
Dust to its narrow house beneath!
Soul to its place on high!
They that have seen thy look in death,
No more may fear to die.”
The memorial erected by her nearest relations in the cathedral of St. Asaph, is very expressive, and records that—
“This Tablet,
Placed here by her Brothers,
IS IN MEMORY OF
FELICIA HEMANS;
Whose Character is best Portrayed
IN HER WRITINGS.
She died in Dublin, May 16, 1835.
Aged 41.”
REVIEW OF HER WORKS.
An eminent living critic has said that Mrs. Hemans’ poetry is silent to all effective utterance of original truth. We do not adopt that sentiment, but we believe had her mind been directed in youth to the works of Lord Bacon and Bishop Butler, or even the elementary propositions of Euclid, it would probably have gained both as to intellectual and moral strength. Her poetical life divides itself into four periods. The juvenile, the classic, the romantic, and the mature. Her mind precociously expanded to a keen sense of the beautiful, and a warm appreciation of nature and poetry. Some pieces found in her works date their composition as far back as 1803 and 1804; but it was not till 1808 that her first volume was ushered into the world. In 1812, she gave to the press “The Domestic Affections.” In 1819, appeared “Tales and Historic Scenes.” In 1823, a tragedy entitled “The Vespers of Palermo.” In 1826, she published “The Forest Sanctuary.” In 1828, “Records of Woman.” In 1830, she brought out “Songs of the Affections.” In 1834, appeared her little volume of “Hymns for Childhood,” “National Lyrics and Songs for Music,” “Scenes and Hymns of Life,” and sonnets, under the title of “Thoughts during Sickness.”
These are her principal works. She obtained a prize from a patriotic Scotsman for the best poem on Sir William Wallace, and a prize was also awarded her by the Royal Society of Literature for the best poem on Dartmoor. Like all authors who have written much, her poetry is of various excellence; but for pathos, sentiment, and gorgeous richness of language, we know no lyrics superior to her little pieces. She was, as Lord Jeffrey well remarked, an admirable writer of occasional verses. Mrs. Hemans never left the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, but her imagination visited and realized every place of which she read, or heard, or saw a picture. How minute, eloquent and exciting, are her descriptions of “The Better Land.”
“‘Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange, bright birds on their starry wings
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?’
—‘Not there, not there, my child!’
“‘Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o’er sands of gold?—
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?—
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?’
—‘Not there, not there, my child!’”
Mrs. Hemans has the most perfect skill in her science; nothing can be more polished, glowing, and harmonious, than her versification. We give an illustration, “The Voice of Spring.”
“I come! I come!—Ye have called me long:
I come o’er the mountains with light and song!
Ye may trace my steps o’er the wakening earth,
By the winds that tell of the violet’s birth,
By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.”
There is diffused over all her poetry a yearning desire to associate the name of England with every sentiment and feeling of freedom and patriotism. “The Homes of England” shows that she knew wherein consisted the glory and strength of kingdoms.
“The stately homes of England,
How beautiful they stand
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O’er all the pleasant land.
The deer across their greensward bound
Through shade and sunny gleam
And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.”
Her “Graves of a Household” illustrates how well the graphic and pathetic may be made to set off each other.
“They grew in beauty, side by side,
They filled one home with glee;
Their graves are severed, far and wide,
By mount and stream and sea.”
With what exquisite tenderness and beautiful imagery does she express in “The Hour of Death” the emotions of every heart.
“Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north wind’s breath,
And stars to set—but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!”
Mrs. Hemans’ poetry has four characteristics, viz., the ideal, the picturesque, the harmonious, and the moral. There may be “too many flowers for the fruit;” yet a large portion of it possesses perennial vitality.
The best edition extant of the works of Mrs. Hemans has been published recently by Messrs. Blackwood. The poems are chronologically arranged, with illustrative notes and a selection of contemporary criticisms. Besides an ample table of contents, there is a general index, and an index of first lines.
CHARACTER OF MRS. HEMANS.
Her personal appearance was highly attractive. The writer of her memoir describes her in early womanhood as radiant with beauty. The mantling bloom of her cheeks was shaded by a profusion of natural ringlets of a rich golden brown; and the ever-varying expression of her brilliant eyes gave a changeful play to her countenance, which would have made it impossible for any painter to do justice to it. She was of middle stature and slight of figure. Her air was graceful, and her manner fascinating in its artlessness. From the crown of the head to the sole of the foot she was touched with elegance.
In dramatic conception, depth of thought, and variety of fancy, we could name several women who excelled her; but in the use of language, in the employment of rich, chaste, and glowing imagery, and in the perfect music of her versification, she stands alone and superior. In the words of Miss Jewsbury, “The genius with which she was gifted, combined to inspire a passion for the ethereal, the tender, the imaginative, the heroic,—in one word, the beautiful. It was in her a faculty Divine, and yet of daily life, it touched all things; but like a sunbeam, touched them with a golden finger.”
She was a genuine woman, and therefore imbued with a Christian spirit. To borrow again from Miss Jewsbury: “Her strength and her weakness alike lay in her affections: these would sometimes make her weep at a word, at others imbue her with courage, so that she was alternately a falcon-hearted dove, and a reed shaken with the wind. Her voice was a sad melody; her spirits reminded me of an old poet’s description of the orange-tree with its
‘Golden lamps hid in a night of green,’
or of those Spanish gardens, where the pomegranate grows beside the cypress. Her gladness was like a burst of sunlight; and if in her depression she resembled night, it was night wearing her stars.”