Selina A. Bower

Let us sketch a scene in the west of our island home. Long, rolling, soft, beautiful blue waves are dashing lightly upon a clear beach of wide sparkling sand, leaving behind, as the tide gradually ebbs, a ribbed and rippled surface. A rather narrow coast-line presents a somewhat scanty amount of cultivation; cottage and mansion lying here and there, as convenience or fancy may have suggested to the possessor. Now and then a tiny clean Welsh village, or small town, claims a space of country which may be rather broader than usual. This coast-line is immediately hemmed in by high, wild, stern mountains sloping quickly upwards towards the sky, with soft grey clouds sometimes poised midway up the steep sides, or resting in filmy folds upon the top. Snowdon, rather to the south of the locality that we are sketching, and a little inland, often raising its high summit above the rest like a silver-haired veteran surrounded by companions, who vie with each other in emulation of their leader.

A large house, Grwych (pronounced Griech), stood some years ago where this coast is rather narrow, the mountains towering up in front, and the sea softly laving the sandy shore behind. A set of six young children with their parents occupied this house. They had happy playhours in the old garden, or on the smooth sand; and Felicia, the fourth child, not always disposed for the gay romp of the cheerful group, took constant possession of a large apple tree, into which she could climb; its leafy boughs well hid the little girl and her book, which she then enjoyed in unmolested quiet. Until she was five years old Felicia Dorothea Browne had lived in Liverpool. She was born there in Duke-street, on the 25th September, 1794. Her father's ancestry was Irish, that of her mother was Venetian, and probably the Italian origin of the gentle poetess gave rise to the beauty and extent of her imagination, as perhaps also from her father she might derive the quick bright flow of language from which her pen sped on in an easy graceful stream.

She was an extremely beautiful child, with long curling golden hair, which became dark brown as she grew older; her complexion was clear and bright, the colour coming and going with every varying impulse and impression. Her mother, herself talented and clever, cultivated her young daughter's tastes, and at the early age of seven years the little Felicia produced some attempts at composition. She had an extremely retentive memory, read well, and evinced great love of reading. Shakespeare was one of her favourite books at this time, and she took delight in juvenile attempts at personifying the characters. Happily, this was but a temporary freak.

Her studies do not appear to have been at all conducted with regularity. French, the English Grammar, and the rudiments of Latin comprised the only systematic training which she received. Highly imaginative as she was, and surrounded by the wild beauty of the Welsh hills, the varying sights and sounds of the wide deep sea, with her love of books and capacity to retain, as well as enjoy, her cultivation progressed, and knowledge increased rapidly without effort on her part, or on the part of others.

There is a story told of a constant childish raid. When the mother thought the little one safe for the night, she would slip quickly and quietly down to the bright laving sea, and bathe alone in the clear water, softly creeping back to bed undiscovered; and perhaps throughout her life the same wrong tendency towards insincerity and love of hidden mischief is discernible.

A visionary belief in spirits and apparitions also appears to have influenced her at times, when mystery, rather than truth, assumed possession of her mind. Even little children in the present day need scarcely be told that there are no ghosts; but, being highly sensitive and nervous, she was peculiarly open to every passing fancy.

Early in life, Felicia visited London, but cared little for its gaiety; and with true childlike impatience longed to be at home again in the dear old house by the sea, though she enjoyed the works of art to which this visit afforded access.

Felicia Browne's first book of poems was published in 1808, when she was only fourteen, and this, together with another volume published in 1812, met with severe criticism. The poor child felt this so acutely that she became ill, and had to keep her bed for several days.

These books were the only two which she wrote before her married life commenced, so that her fame as a poetess was acquired as Mrs. Hemans, and not as Felicia Browne.

There is no evidence to prove that in youth she gave her heart to the Saviour of sinners; but some of her poems in after life are deeply and touchingly full of yearnings for "The Better Land," or they sketch in soft melodious metre the swift decay of earthly beauty and joy, which is indeed always "Passing Away." As years and sorrows gathered, she also studied God's Word with earnestness and zeal, and the sixteenth of St. John was her favourite chapter; it was also the last which she read before her death. We may certainly hope that "The Comforter," who is promised in that chapter, guided her safely into "all truth," and led her simply to trust in Jesus, that in Him alone she "might have peace." For only Jesus can prepare any child of man, through the influences of His Spirit, for the purity, beauty, and happiness of His Heavenly Home, in that "better country," of which Mrs. Hemans once wrote—

Mrs. Hemans passed away in the evening twilight, on the 16th of May, 1835, at the age of forty-one.