If the lives of our poets had been written with the same attention to
the placing of their abodes as clearly before you as that of Mrs.
Hemans has been, both by Mr. Chorley and by her own sister, it might
have saved me some thousand of miles of travel to visit and see them
for myself.
Felicia Dorothea Browne, the future poetess, bearing the familiar name
of Mrs. Hemans, was born in Duke-street, Liverpool, on the 25th of
September, 1793. The house is still pointed out to strangers, but has
nothing beside this event to give it a distinction from other
town-houses. Her father was a considerable merchant, a native of
Ireland. There seems to have been a particular connection with the
state of Venice, for her mother was descended from an old Italian
family. Her father was the Imperial and Tuscan Consul at Liverpool.
The old name of Mrs. Hemans's maternal ancestry is said to have been
Veniero, but had got corrupted to the German name of Wagner. Mrs.
Hemans was the fifth of seven children, one of whom died in infancy.
Before she was seven years old, her father, having suffered losses in
trade, retired from business, and settled at Gwrych, near Abergele, in
Denbighshire, close to the sea, in a large, old, solitary mansion,
shut in by a range of rocky mountains. Here the family resided nine
years, so that the greater and more sensitive part of her girlhood was
passed here. She was sixteen when they removed. Here, then, the
intense love of nature and of poetry, which distinguished her, grew
and took its full possession of her. How strong this attachment to the
beauty and fresh liberty of nature had become by her eleventh year,
was shown by the restraint which she felt in passing a winter in
London at that age, with her father and mother, and her intense
longing to be back. Her rambles on the shore, and among the hills; her
wide range through that old house, with a good library, and the
companionship of her brothers and sisters, were all deeply calculated
to call forth the spirit of poetry in any heart in which it lay. Her
elder sister died; and she turned for companionship to her younger
sister, since her biographer, and her younger brother, Claude Scott
Browne, who also died young. Her two elder brothers, who with her
younger sister only remain, became officers in the army; and this
added a strong martial tendency to the spirit of her genius. Her
mother, who was a very noble-minded and accomplished woman, bestowed
great care on her education, and her access to books filled her mind
with all the food that the young and poetical heart craves for. The
Bible and Shakspeare were her two great books; and the traces of their
influence are conspicuous enough in the genuine piety and the lofty
imagery of her writing. She used to read Shakspeare among the branches
of an old apple-tree. In this secret retreat, and in the nut-wood, the
old arbor and its swing, the post-office tree--a hollow tree, where
the family put letters for each other, the pool where they launched
their little ships, used to be referred to by her as belonging to a
perfect elysium of childhood. She was fond of dwelling on "the strange
creeping awe with which the solitude and stillness of Gwrych inspired
her." It had the reputation of being haunted--another spur to the
imaginative faculty. There was a tradition of a fairy grayhound, which
kept watch at the end of the avenue, and she used to sally forth by
moonlight to get a sight of it. The seashore was, however, her
favorite resort; and one of her biographers states, that it was a
favorite freak of hers, when quite a child, to get up of a summer
night, when the servants fancied her safe in bed, and, making her way
to the water side, indulge in a stolen bathe. The sound of the ocean,
and the melancholy sights of wreck and ruin which follow a storm, are
said to have made an indelible impression upon her mind, and gave
their coloring and imagery--
"A sound and a gleam of the moaning sea,"
to many of her lyrics. In short, a situation can not be imagined, more
certain to call forth and foster all the elements of poetry than this
of the girlhood of Mrs. Hemans. To the forms of nature, wild, lonely,
and awful, the people, with their traditions, their music, and their
interesting characteristics, added a crowning spell. The young poetess
was rapidly springing in this delightful wilderness into the woman.
She is described by her sister, at fifteen, as "in the full glow of
that radiant beauty which was destined to fade so early. 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."
According to all accounts, at this period she was one of the most
lovely and fascinating creatures imaginable; she was at once
beautiful, warm-hearted, and enthusiastic. Her days had been spent in
wandering through mountain and glen, and along the sea-shore, with her
brothers and sister, or in brooding over the pages of Froissart and
Shakspeare. Her mind was full of visions of romance, her heart of
thrilling sensibilities; and at this moment the feeling of martial
glory came to add a new enthusiasm to her character. Her two elder
brothers were in the army, and one was fighting in Spain. There were
many poetic and chivalrous associations with this country, which now
were felt by her with double force, and which turned all her heart and
imagination in this direction. In this critical hour a young officer,
who was visiting in the neighborhood, was introduced to the family,
and her fate was decided. It was Captain Hemans. The hero of the hour,
he became completely so when he also set sail for Spain. It was
natural for so enthusiastic and poetic a damsel to contemplate him as
a warrior doing battle for the deliverance of that land of Gothic and
of Moorish romance, in the most delusive coloring. When he returned,
it was to become her husband in an ill-fated marriage.
In the mean time, in 1809, and when she was about seventeen, her
family quitted Gwrych, so long her happy home. Since then the greater
part of the house has been pulled down, and a baronial-looking castle
has arisen in its stead, the seat of Mr. Lloyd Bamford Hesketh.
Bronwylfa, near St. Asaph, in Flintshire, became the residence of her
family. Here she lived for about three years, or till 1812, when
Captain Hemans returned, and they were married. For a short time she
lived with her husband at Daventry, when they returned to Bronwylfa,
where they lived till 1818, or about six years, the whole period of
their married life that they lived together. From that time till the
death of Mrs. Hemans, seventeen years more, they lived apart--she in
Wales, England, and Ireland, he in Italy.
At the time of Captain Hemans's first acquaintance with her, or in
1808, she was already an avowed poetess, having not only written much
verse, but having already published a volume. While they lived
together, though called upon to care for a rapidly increasing
family--for at the time of Captain Hemans's departure for Italy he was
the father of five boys--she still pursued her studies, and wrote and
published her poems. In 1812 appeared, Domestic Affections and other
Poems; and soon after, Tales and Historic Scenes. After her husband's
departure she continued her writing with undaunted fortitude. In 1819
she contended for the prize for a poem on Sir William Wallace, and
bore it away from a host of competitors. In 1820 she published The
Skeptic; and the following year she won another prize from the Royal
Society of Literature, for the best poem on Dartmoor. From this time
Mrs. Hemans may be said to be fairly before the public; and her fame,
from year to year, continued steadily to advance. There is something
admirable in the manner in which Mrs. Hemans, as a deserted wife, her
father also now being dead, and at such a distance from the literary
world, marched on her way, and at every step won some fresh ground of
honor. During this period she made a firm and fatherly friend of Dr.
Luxmore, the Bishop of St. Asaph, and, at his house, became acquainted
with Reginald Heber. Her sister returning from a visit to Germany,
where one of her brothers then was, brought with her a store of German
books, and a great enthusiasm about German literature. This opened up
to her a new field of intellectual life, and produced a decided effect
on her poetic tone and style. From the hour of Mrs. Hemans's
acquaintance with the German literature you perceive that she had
discovered her own _forte_, and a new life of tenderness and
feeling was manifest in all she wrote. She became an almost constant
writer in Blackwood's and Colburn's Magazines. Schiller, Goethe,
Körner, and Tieck--how sensibly is the influence of their spirit felt
in The Forest Sanctuary; how different was the tone of this to all
which had gone before! The cold classical model was abandoned, the
heart and the fancy spoke out in every line, warm, free, solemn, and
tenderly thoughtful. She dared the stage, in The Vespers of Palermo;
and though the tragedy was cruelly used in London, she bore up bravely
against the unkindness, and was afterward rewarded by a reception of
it in Edinburgh, as cordially rapturous, and which brought her the
friendship of Sir Walter Scott.
In 1825, Mrs. Hemans made another remove, though but a short one. The
house in which she lived at Bronwylfa had been purchased by her elder
brother, who came to live in it; and she, with her mother, sister, and
her children, removed about a quarter of a mile, to Rhyllon, yet in
full view of the old house. This house at Rhyllon is described as
being a tall, staring, brick building, almost destitute of trees, of
creepers on the walls, or of shrubbery; while Bronwylfa, on the
contrary, was a perfect bower of roses, peeping, says her sister, like
a bird's nest out of the foliage in which it was embosomed. "In spite,
however," continues the same sisterly biographer, "of the unromantic
exterior of her new abode, the earlier part of Mrs. Hemans's residence
at Rhyllon may, perhaps, be considered as the happiest of her life; as
far, at least, as the term happiness could ever be fitly applied to
any period of it later than childhood. The house, with all its
ugliness, was large and convenient; the view from the windows
beautiful and extensive; and its situation, on a fine green slope,
terminating in a pretty woodland dingle, peculiarly healthy and
cheerful. Never, perhaps, had she more thorough enjoyment of her boys
than in witnessing and often joining in their sports, in those
pleasant, breezy fields, where the kites soared so triumphantly, and
the hoops trundled so merrily, and where the cowslips grew as cowslips
never grew before. An atmosphere of home soon gathered round the
dwelling; roses were planted, and honeysuckles trained; and the
rustling of the solitary poplar near the window was taken to her
heart, like the voice of a friend. The dingle became a favorite haunt,
where she would pass many dream-like hours of enjoyment with her
books, and her own sweet fancies, and her children playing around her.
Every tree and flower, and tuft of moss that sprung amid its green
recesses, was invested with some individual charm by that rich
imagination, so skilled in
"Clothing the palpable and the familiar
With golden exhalations of the dawn."
Here, on what the boys would call "mamma's sofa,"--a little grassy
mound under her favorite beech-tree--she first read The Talisman, and
has described the scene with a loving minuteness, in her Hour of
Romance.
"There were thick leaves above me and around,
And low sweet sighs, like those of childhood's sleep,
Amid their dimness, and a fitful sound,
As of soft showers on water. Dark and deep
Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf, so still,
They seemed but pictured glooms; a hidden rill
Made music--such as haunts us in a dream--
Under the fern-tufts; and a tender gleam
Of soft green light, as by the glow-worm shed,
Came pouring through the woven beech-boughs down."
Many years after, in the sonnet, To a distant Scene, she addresses,
with a fond yearning, this well remembered haunt--
"Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing,
O far off grassy dell!"
How many precious memories has she hung round the thought of the
cowslip, that flower, with its "gold coat," and "fairy favors," which
is, of all others, so associated with the "voice of happy childhood,"
and was, to her, ever redolent of the hours when her
"Heart so leapt to that sweet laughter's tune!"
Another favorite resort was the picturesque old bridge over the Clwyd;
and when her health admitted of more aspiring achievements, she
delighted in roaming to the hills; and the announcement of a walk to
Cwm, a remote little hamlet, nestled in a mountain hollow amid very
lovely sylvan scenery, about two miles from Rhyllon, would be joyously
echoed by her elated companions, to whom the recollection of those
happy rambles must always be unspeakably dear. Very often, at the
outset of these expeditions, the party would be reinforced by the
addition of a certain little Kitty Jones, a child from a neighboring
cottage, who had taken an especial fancy to Mrs. Hemans, and was
continually watching her movements. This little creature never saw her
without at once attaching itself to her side, and confidingly placing
its tiny hand in hers. So great was her love for children, and her
repugnance to hurt the feelings of any living creature, that she never
would shake off this singular appendage, but let little Kitty rejoice
in her "pride of place," till the walk became too long for her
capacity, and she would quietly fall back of her own accord.
Those who only know the neighborhood of St. Asaph from traveling along
its highways, can be little aware how much delightful scenery is
attainable within walks of two or three miles' distance from Mrs.
Hemans's residence. The placid beauty of the Clwyd, and the wilder
graces of its sister stream, the Elwy, particularly in the vicinity of
"Our Lady's Well," and the interesting rocks and caves at Cefu, are
little known to general tourists; though, by the lovers of her poetry,
it will be remembered how sweetly she had apostrophized the
"Fount of the chapel, with ages gray;"
and how tenderly, amid far different scenes, her thoughts reverted to
the
"Cambrian river, with slow music gliding
By pastoral hills, old woods, and ruined towers."
This is a peep into the daily life of the poetess, which is worth a
whole volume of ordinary biography. We see her here amid the lonely
magnificence of nature; yet, at the same time, surrounded by those
affectionate ties that make the only real society on earth. The
affectionate mother, the beloved brother and sister, the buoyant
hearts and voices of her own children. We see that there and then she
was and must be happy. We see how wise was that instinctive love that
drew the poetic heart from the flattering and worshiping things of the
city, to dwell apart with God, with nature, and with family affection.
What has all the society of ordinary city and literary life to equal
that? The throng of drawing-rooms, where people stand and look at each
other, and remain strangers as much as if they were sundered by half
the globe! Nay, it is not half a globe, it is a whole world of fast
succeeding engagements; dissipations that beget indifference;
flittings of the eye from face to face, and of the ear from gossip to
gossip, where neither eye nor ear ever finds any power or wish for
rest, but the heart yawns in insufferable weariness, if decorum keep
the mouth shut. It is this dreary world which is thrust between man
and man, and kills at once time and enjoyment. What has such a life,
with all its petty scandals, and bitterness, and foul criticisms, and
rankling jealousies, to compare with the breezy mountain, and the blue
sky soaring high above; with the gray ruin, and the rushing river;
with the dell and its whispering leaves, soothing down the mind to a
peaceful consciousness, in which thoughts of eternity steal into it,
and come forth again to the eternal page?
It is a deep consolation to know that the teachers and refiners of men
do sometimes enjoy a life thus heavenly, and repose at once on the
gracious bosom of nature, and on those of long tried and beloved
friends. Such was, for a time, the life of Mrs. Hemans here. For a
time the elements of happiness seemed daily to augment themselves. Her
younger brother, a man of a most genial nature, and his amiable wife,
came from service in Canada, and settled down among them. The circle
of affinity and social pleasure seemed complete; but time rapidly
causes a change upon the completest combinations of earth. In rapid
succession death and sorrow fell on the house of her elder brother;
her mother sickened and died; her younger brother was called to an
appointment in Ireland, and her sister was married, and was withdrawn
to a distance. The fatal inroad was made into the circle of happiness;
and from that time Mrs. Hemans began to contemplate quitting the scene
of so many years' sojourn. She made a visit to Liverpool, which ended
in her concluding to quit Wales, and settle there, for more congenial
society and the education of her children. One of her last pleasures
in Wales was the enjoyment of the society of Miss Jewsbury, who passed
part of the summer and autumn of 1828 in the neighbourhood of St.
Asaph.
For about thirty years she had resided in Wales; the bulk of her life;
for she was but about six years of age when her family went to reside
there; and she survived her departure from it only the same number of
years. The whole of her existence, therefore, excepting that twelve
years, was spent in her favorite Wales. For the short remainder of her
life she seemed rather a wanderer in the earth than a settled
resident. She was at Liverpool, at the Lakes, in Scotland, in Ireland;
and there, finally, seldom long in one place.
Her choice of Liverpool seemed to be determined by the consideration
of education already mentioned, and by the desire to be near two
families to which she was much attached,--those of Mrs. Lawrence, of
Wavertree-hall, and the Chorleys, of Liverpool. She took a house in
the village of Wavertree, a little apart from the road. It must have
been a dreary change from the fine, wild, congenial scenery of North
Wales, to the flat, countryless neighborhood of Liverpool. Nothing,
surely, but the sense of maternal duty could have made such a change
endurable to a mind like Mrs. Hemans's. This residence has been
described by the author of Pen and Ink Sketches, who, though some of
his relations have been much called in question, seems, in this
instance, to have stated the simple facts. "The house," he says, "was
one of a row, or terrace, as it was called, situated on the high-road,
from which it was separated only by the foot-way, and a little
flower-garden, surrounded by a white-thorn hedge. I noticed that all
the other houses on either side of it were unadorned with flowers;
they had either grass lawns or a plain gravel surface; some of them
even grew cabbages and French beans,--hers alone had flowers.
"I was shown into a very small apartment, but every thing about it
indicated that it was the home of genius and taste. Over the
mantle-piece hung a fine engraving of William Roscoe, author of the
Lives of the De Medici, with a presentation line or two in his own
handwriting. The walls were decorated with prints and pictures, and on
the mantle-shelf were some models in _terra cotta_, of Italian
groups. On the table lay casts, and medallions, and a portfolio of
choice prints and water-color drawings."
The writer was first received by Miss Jewsbury, who happened to be
there, and whom he truly describes as one of the most frank and
open-hearted creatures possible. He then adds:--
"It was not long before the poetess entered the room. She held out her
hand and welcomed me in the kindest manner, and then sat down opposite
to me, first introducing Miss Jewsbury. I can not well conceive a more
exquisitely beautiful creature than Mrs. Hemans was; none of the
portraits or busts I have ever seen do her justice, nor is it possible
for words to convey to the reader any idea of the matchless, yet
serene beauty of her expression. Her glossy, waving hair was parted on
her forehead, and terminated on the sides in rich and luxuriant auburn
curls. There was a dove-like look in her eyes, and yet a chastened
sadness in their expression. Her complexion was remarkably clear, and
her high forehead looked as pure and spotless as Parian marble. A calm
repose, not unmingled with melancholy, was the characteristic
expression of the face; but when she smiled, all traces of sorrow were
lost, and she seemed to be but 'a little lower than the
angels,'--fitting shrine for so pure a mind!"
The writer says, that he, some time after, paid a second visit to
Wavertree. "Some time I stood before the well remembered house. The
little flower-garden was no more--but rank grass and weeds sprung up
luxuriously; the windows were, many of them, broken; the entrance-gate
was off its hinges; the vine in front of the house trailed along the
ground, and a board, with 'This house to let' upon it, was nailed on
the door. I entered the deserted garden, and looked into the little
parlor--once so full of taste and elegance; it was gloomy and
cheerless. The paper was spotted with damp, and spiders had built
their webs in the comers. Involuntarily I turned away; and during my
homeward walk mused upon the probable home and enjoyments of the two
gifted creatures I had formerly seen there. Both were now beyond the
stars; and as I mused on the uncertainty of human life, I exclaimed,
with the eloquent Burke,--'What shadows we are, and what shadows,
alas, do we pursue!'"
Spite of the warm and congenial friends Mrs. Hemans had at Liverpool,
she soon found that it was not the location for her. She had lost all
that her mind and heart had been accustomed to sustain themselves upon
in a beautiful country; her hopes of educational advantages were not
realized, and she was subjected to all the annoying interruptions
which celebrity has to endure from idle curiosity, without any of its
attendant advantages. To fly the evils and regain some of her old
pleasures, she in 1829 made a journey into Scotland, to visit her
friends Mr. Hamilton and his lady, at Chiefswood, near Abbotsford.
This, of course, brought her into immediate contact with Sir Walter
Scott. She was invited to Abbotsford, and the great minstrel showed
her over his estate, and through the classic beauty of all that
border-land fame which must from her early years have been regions of
deepest romance to a mind like hers. The particulars of this visit, so
cheering and delightful to her whole nature, are to be found in the
biography written by her sister. She was, of course, received in
Edinburgh with the cordial hospitality characteristic of that capital,
and which was sure to be shown with double extent, in consequence of
her great fame, and the pleasure which every one had derived from her
productions. During this visit she was introduced, among other
distinguished people, to Mrs. Grant, of Laggan; Lord Jeffery; Captain
Basil Hall; Mr. Alison; Kirkpatrick Sharpe; Baron Hume; Sir Robert
Liston, and the old literary veteran, Henry Mackenzie.
The advantage and the happiness of this visit to the north, determined
her the next summer to pay a visit to the Lakes. Here she took up her
abode for a fortnight with Wordsworth, at Rydal Mount, and there so
charmed was she with the country, and so much did her health need the
quiet refreshment of rural retirement, that she took for the remainder
of the summer a small cottage overlooking Windermere, called Dove's
Nest. But quiet as the spot appeared, secluded as it is, it was a
great mistake to suppose that a woman of any reputation could escape
the inroads of the Tourist Vandals so near Ambleside, and Lowood. If
any one wants to set up for a lion or lioness, let him or her go and
take a cottage in the Lake country: there they will be lionized to
their heart's content. There, in the height of summer, the whole
region is alive with tourists and idlers, who are all on the lookout
for any novelty; and a literary creature is a fascinating monster,
more _piquant_ to the tribe than badger or fox to the old race of
Nimrods. If I heard of a literary person settling at the Lakes, I
should at once say, that person is anxious to be lionized. But this
was not the case with Mrs. Hemans. To avoid all such notoriety, she
never, after her reputation was spread, would visit London; she sought
for peace, but here she could not find it. "The soothing and healthful
repose which had been so thoroughly and thankfully appreciated," says
her sister, "was, alas! not destined to be of long continuance."
Subsequent letters speak of the irruption of parties hunting for lions
in Dove's Nest; of a renewal of "the Album persecution;" of an
absolute mail storm of letters and papers, threatening "to boil over
the drawer to which they were consigned;" till at last the despairing
conclusion is come to, that "one might as well hope for peace in the
character of a shadowless man as of a literary woman."
The inundation was irresistible and overwhelming; in August she fled
in desperation, and again made a journey into Scotland.
Mrs. Hemans had three of her boys with her at Dove's Nest, and they
enjoyed the place to perfection. It was just the place for boys to be
turned loose in; and with fishing, sketching, and climbing the hill
above the Nest, they were in elysium. Her own health, however, was so
far undermined now, that she complains in her letter she can not
follow them as she would, but that she is more a child in heart than
any of them. Her own description of the Dove's Nest is this: "The
house was originally meant for a small villa, though it has long
passed into the hands of farmers; and there is in consequence an air
of neglect about the little demesne, which does not at all approach
desolation, and yet gives it something of attractive interest. You see
everywhere traces of love and care beginning to be effaced; rose-trees
spread into wildness; laurels darkening the windows with too luxuriant
branches; and I can not help saying to myself, 'Perhaps some heart
like my own in its feelings and suffering, has here sought refuge and
repose.' The ground is laid out in rather an antiquated style, which,
now that nature is beginning to reclaim it from art, I do not at all
dislike. There is a little grassy terrace immediately under the
window, descending to a small court with a circular grass plat, on
which grows one tall white rose-tree. You can not imagine how I
delight in that fair, solitary, neglected-looking tree. I am writing
to you from an old-fashioned alcove in the little garden, round which
the sweet-brier and moss-rose trees have completely run wild; and I
look down from it upon lovely Windermere, which seems at this moment
even like another sky, so truly is our summer cloud and tint of azure
pictured in its transparent mirror."
This cottage is, in fact, a very simple affair. It is regularly let by
the people, farmers, who live in one end of it, and who have now built
another house near it with farm buildings. It stands, perhaps, at half
the elevation of Professor Wilson's house at Elleray, and not at such
a distance from Windermere, and nearer to Lowood inn than to
Ambleside. A considerable wild wood ascends above it to the top of the
rocky hills; and it seems, indeed, to have had its place cut out of
the front of the wood for it. You can ascend from Lowood by a steep,
straight carriage road, all bordered with laurels luxuriantly grown,
and overshadowed by forest trees; or you may, if coming from
Ambleside, ascend a foot-path, which is by far the most charming way.
Yes, a very charming way it is--a regular wild wood walk, reminding
you of many of those in Germany. It is narrow, and overhung with
hazels; at the time of my visit full of nuts, in abundant and large
clusters. Here water is running by the wayside, clear, and in fleet
abundance. The wood opens its still solitudes, ever and anon; and far
above you the rocks are seen lifting themselves into the heavens in a
gray silence. This wood walk goes on and on, bordered with wild
flowers, and odorous with the scent of meadow-sweet, till you arrive
in about half-a-mile at the cottage.
This consists of but four rooms in front; two little sitting-rooms,
and two bedrooms over them. It is a little white battlemented affair,
with a glass door. The woman of the house pointed out to me the
chamber, that on the right hand as you face the house, at which Mrs.
Hemans, she said, used to write; and which commands a fine view of the
lake and its encircling hills.
The woman is a regular character. She was very violent against steam,
railroads, and all sorts of new-fangled things. She wondered what
parliament was about that they did not stop the steam. "What are your
Sir Robert Peels, your Grahams, and your Stanleys good for, if they
can not stop the steam?" She would make them sit, if she could have
her way, till they did some good; for they had done none yet. She
almost preferred O'Connell to them, for he _did_ get master of
the queen!
"You seem to be a great radical," I said.
"Nay, nay!" she replied; "I'm naw radical. I stick fast to the church;
but I _am_ a great politic! And what _will_ all those
navies do when the railways are all made? What _is_ to become of
the poor boatmen when there are nothing but steamers?"
"Well, but has not Mr. Wordsworth written against the railroads?"
"Ay, he may write; but there's more nor Mister Wordsworth nowadays.
People are got too clever now; and if he writes there's twenty ready
to write against him."
All the time that the woman was getting on in this style, she had a
sort of smile on her face as if she was merely talking for talking's
sake; and, as she proceeded, she led the way to show me the garden,
which is a very pleasant little retirement, looking down the hill, and
toward Lowood upon the lake, and far across to its distant shores and
mountains. We then passed into a second garden, at the top of which is
the alcove mentioned by Mrs. Hemans. It is in the wall, arched above,
and whitewashed within, and with seats set round, and a most luxuriant
Ayrshire rose climbing and mantling it about, high and thick. Here,
said the woman, Mrs. Hemans sat in fine weather, generally to write.
At the lower end of the garden stood the tall white rose-tree which
Mrs. Hemans so much admired. From this the landlady plucked a flower,
and begged me to send it to my wife; as well as a number of moss-roses
growing about, which she said Mrs. Hemans admired; but not so much as
this white rose. The strange woman, unpolished, but evidently full of
strong independent feeling, and keen spirit of observation, was also
as evidently possessed of tender feelings too. She declared it often
made her melancholy to see that rose-tree and that alcove.
"Ah, poor thing!" said she, "it was a pity she did not open her
situation sooner; but she did not open her heart enough to her rich
relations, who were very fond of her. It was anxiety, sir; it was
anxiety, you may depend on it. To maintain five boys, and edicate 'em
with one pen, it was too much, you are sure. Ay, I have thought a deal
more of her since, than I did at the time; and so many ladies come
here, and wished she had but opened her situation sooner, for when
government did something for her, it was too late!"
"Did she seem quite well here?"
"Oh, yes; she seemed pretty well; and she had three of her children
with her: and well behaved, nice children they were. Charles, they
tell me, is turned Catholic, and Henry is gone abroad, and Claude is
dead. Who could have believed it, when they were all so merry here!
Poor thing! if she _had_ but made known her situation--it was
wearing her away. Mr. Graves, who was the tutor to the boys, and is
now rector of Bowness, came here with the boys when she went to
Dublin, and she was to come back, and be with me by the year; and then
the boys could have been still with Mr. Graves, for he got the living
just then. He always comes to tell me when he hears any thing about
them--and her husband is dead too, I hear."
Such was the woman's information; and there may be more truth in it
than we would like to believe. There can be no doubt that Mrs. Hemans
taxed all her strength and power to maintain her family. It is not to
be believed but that her brothers and sister, who were well off, did
all she would allow them to do; but we know the honorable pride of a
truly noble mind--not to be burdensome when it can itself do its own
work. How sensitive and shrinking it is! That Mrs. Hemans, in her
praiseworthy endeavor to furnish the means of her boys' education, did
overtax herself, and was obliged to write more than either her
inclination or her true fame prompted, we have the evidence of
herself, in one of her very last letters to her friend, Mrs. Lawrence.
"You know into how rugged a channel the poor little stream of my life
has been forced, and through what rocks it has wrought its way; and it
is now longing for repose in some still valley. It has ever been one
of my regrets that the constant necessity of providing sums of money,
to meet the exigences of the boys' education, has obliged me to waste
my mind in what I consider mere desultory effusions:
Pouring myself away,
As a wild bird, amid the foliage, tunes
That which within him thrills, and beats, and burns,
Into a fleeting lay.
My wish ever was to concentrate all my mental energy in the production
of some more noble and complete work; something of pure and holy
excellence, which might permanently take its place as the work of a
British poetess. I have always hitherto written as if in the breaking
times of storms and billows. Perhaps it may not even yet be too late
to accomplish what I wish, though I sometimes feel my health so deeply
penetrated, that I can not imagine how I am ever to be raised up
again. But a greater freedom from these cares, _of which I have been
obliged to bear up under the whole responsibility_, may do much to
restore me; and though my spirits are greatly subdued by long
sickness, I feel the powers of my mind in full maturity."
This is a plain enough confession;--and it is the old melancholy
story, of genius fighting for the world, and borne down by the world
which should be its friend. Once more, and for the ten thousandth time
under such circumstances, we must exclaim with Shakspeare--
"O what a noble mind is here o'erthrown!"
We have here the bright, warm-hearted, fascinating girl of Bronwylfa,
full of all the romance of life and the glorious visions of poetry,
now sinking the martyr of the heart betrayed in its tenderest trust,
doomed to labor like Pegasus in the peasant's cart and harness,
perishing of exhaustion, and feeling that the unequal contest of life
had yet left undeveloped the full affluence of the spirit. I could not
avoid gazing again on the empty alcove,--the beautiful prospect, and
the wildly growing white rose, and feeling the full contagion of their
and the good woman's melancholy.
But at once, out broke the strange creature with a different look and
tone--"And we have now got another writer-lady down at Ambleside."
"A poet?"
"Nay, nothing of the sort; another guess sort of person, I can tell
you."
"Why, who is that?"
"Who is that? Why Miss Martineau they call her. They tell me she wrote
up the Reform Bill for Lord Brougham; and that she's come from the
Lambtons here; and that she's writing now about the taxes. Can she
stop the steam, eh? can she, think you? Nay, nay, I warrant, big and
strong as she is. Ha! ha! good lauk! as I met her the other day
walking along the muddy road below here--'Is it a woman, or a man, or
what sort of an animal is it?' said I to myself. There she came
stride, stride,--great heavy shoes,--stout leather leggins on, and a
knapsack on her back! Ha! ha! that's a _political comicalist_,
they say. What's that? Do they mean that she can stop steam? But I
said to my husband--goodness! but that _would_ have been a wife
for you. Why she'd ha' ploughed! and they say she mows her own grass,
and digs her own cabbage and potatoes! Ha! ha! well, we see some queer
'uns here. Wordsworth should write a poem on her. What was Peter Bell
to a comicalist?"
The good woman laughed outrageously at the images she had raised in
her own mind, and infected by her mirth, as I had been by her
melancholy, I bade her good-by. Her husband, a quiet man, sat all this
time, and spite of all our talk, never for one moment looked up from
his newspaper, nor uttered a syllable. Possibly he might be deaf;
otherwise he was as impassive as an old Indian.
The warnings of failing health, which often operate insensibly on the
mind, seemed now to draw Mrs. Hemans toward the society of her younger
brother and his amiable wife, who were then settled in Ireland, and
were living at the Hermitage near Kilkenny, where Colonel Browne was
acting as a stipendiary magistrate. Here she joined them, and from
this point visited Woodstock near Thomas-town, the residence of Mrs.
Tighe, and where she is buried. At these places we must not linger.
Her brother removed to Dublin, as Commissioner of Police, and she went
there also. It was in 1831 that she took up her abode in Dublin. She
first resided in Upper Pembroke-street; then removed to 36,
Stephen's-green, and finally to 20, Dawson-street, still within a
hundred yards of Stephen's-green or so.
It is needless to say that, in Dublin, Mrs. Hemans received all the
respect that was due to her genius and virtues; but her health was so
delicate, as to oblige her to live as quietly as possible. Her boys
were now a good deal off her hands, or, rather, did not require her
immediate attention. And she was enabled, the first autumn of her
abode in Dublin, to make an excursion to the mountains of Wicklow.
Dawson-street was well situated for quietness and airiness.
Stephen's-green is one of the largest squares in the world, far larger
than any London one. While she resided in it, she had a set of
backrooms, the noise of Upper Pembroke-street having been too much for
her. The College grounds, of great extent, are at the bottom of
Dawson-street, this spacious green at its top. And near, are
Merrion-square, and the gardens of what was once the palace of the
Duke of Leinster; so that no part of Dublin could offer more openness.
Her lodgings in Dawson-street consisted of the apartments over the
shop of the proprietor, Mr. Jolliffe, a very respectable tailor. These
could, London fashion, be thrown into one drawing-room, but were
generally used as two rooms; and in the backroom she nearly always sat
and wrote.
In 1833, her sister and brother-in-law arrived in Dublin, and Mrs.
Hemans and they met after a five years' separation. "The ravages of
sickness," says her sister, "on her worn and faded form, were
painfully apparent to those who had not seen her for so long; yet her
spirits rallied to all their wonted cheerfulness, and the powers of
her mind seemed more vivid and vigorous than ever." With all her own
cordial kindliness, she busied herself in forming various plans for
the interest and amusement of her visitors; and many happy hours of
delightful converse, and old home communion were passed by her and her
sister in her two favorite resorts, the lawn of the once stately
mansion of the Duke of Leinster, now occupied by the Dublin Society,
and the spacious gardens of Stephen's-green.
In the gardens of the Dublin Society, Mrs. Hemans took that cold,
which, seizing on an already enfeebled frame, terminated fatally. She
had one day taken a book with her, and was so much absorbed by it,
that she was thoroughly chilled by the autumnal fog, and feeling a
shudder pass through her frame, she hastened home, already filled with
a strong presentiment that her hours were numbered.
In her illness, by which she was gradually wasted to a skeleton, she
enjoyed all the consolations which affection can bestow. Her sister
attended her assiduously till she was called away by the serious
illness of her husband. Her place was then tenderly supplied by her
sister-in-law, the lady of Colonel Browne; and her son Charles was
with her the whole time; George, now a prosperous engineer, for some
days; and Henry, then a school-boy at Shrewsbury, likewise, during the
Christmas holydays. For a time, she was removed to Redesdale, a seat
of the Archbishop of Dublin, about seven miles from the city; but she
returned, and died in Dawson-street, on the 16th of May, 1835. During
her last illness, she wrote some of the finest poetry that she ever
produced, especially that most soul-full effusion, Despondency and
Aspiration; and the Sabbath Sonnet; which she dedicated to her
brother, less than three weeks before her death, the last of her lays.
Her remains were interred in a vault beneath St. Ann's Church, but a
short distance from her house, on the same side of the street; where,
on the wall, under the gallery, on the right hand, as you enter, you
observe a tablet, bearing this inscription--"In the vault beneath are
deposited the Mortal Remains of Felicia Hemans, who died, May 16, 1835.
"Calm on the bosom of thy God,
Fair spirit, rest thee now;
Even 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 will fear to die."
The same vault, as nearly as possible three years afterward, received
the remains of her faithful and very superior servant, Anna Creer, a
native of the isle of Man, who had lived with her seven years, and,
after her death, married Mr. Jolliffe, the master of the house. The
worthy man was much affected in speaking of the circumstance, and bore
also the highest testimony to the character of Mrs. Hemans, saying,
"it was impossible for any one to know her without loving her." To
such a tribute, what can be added? The perfection of human character
is to excite at once admiration and lasting affection.
[Illustration: Cape Coast Castle]