The first appearance in print! What an event in life is this! What a new world it seems to open out to the writer! Felicia Browne was fourteen years old when a collection of her poems was published. The earliest of these early compositions was written when she was only eight years of age.
The volume of poems appeared in 1808. Perhaps it would have been a more judicious course on the part of her friends if they had prevented them from appearing. The young girl of fourteen years was by her youth ill-fitted to face the criticisms of the literary world.
At this time there came across her path the person whose name she was afterwards to bear—Captain Hemans, of the King's Own Regiment. He was on a visit in the neighbourhood of Gwyrch, and soon became an intimate friend in the family which contained Felicia amongst its members. Before he was called upon to embark with his regiment for Spain, an impression had been created which three years' absence did not efface on either side. The friends of both parties hoped that it might be otherwise, and that nothing would come of this attachment. But their hopes were not to be realised.
In 1809 the Browne family removed to Bronwylfa, near St. Asaph. Her self-education and her literary work went on side by side.
Captain Hemans returned to Wales in 1811, and in the following year he was married to Miss Browne. His appointment as adjutant to the Northamptonshire Militia caused them to take up their residence at Daventry, a neighbourhood by its tameness strangely contrasting with her "own mountain-land." But she was not to be long away from her old home. The next year, on the reduction of the corps, a return was made to Bronwylfa. Mrs. Hemans was never again, until death parted them, to leave her mother, "by whose unwearied spirit of love and hope she was encouraged to bear on through all the obstacles which beset her path." A period of domestic privacy in association with literary occupation and study followed. Five children, all sons, were given to her. One can easily understand how many calls there were now on her, as, her marriage being not altogether a happy one, she had to arrange the education of her children. How well she trained them, not only in temporal wisdom, but in the highest of all wisdom, many evidences show. We may anticipate and insert an anecdote of one of her boys at the age of eleven. She had been reading to him Lord Byron's magnificent address to the sea:—
"Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue ocean, roll."
He listened with breathless attention, and at the close broke out with these words—"It is very grand indeed!—but how much finer it would have been, mamma, if he had said at the close, that God had measured out all those waters with the hollow of His hand!" On another occasion she was explaining to her eight-year-old boy the meaning of the title of a story he was reading, "The Atheist." His argument was real and ready: "Not believe in a God, mamma? Who does he expect made the world and his own body?"
The plentiful contributions from her pen were becoming increasingly popular, and it may be added increasingly useful. There is no doubt that she was a distinct moral power for good.
As almost every one thinks that he or she can compose poetry, and that better than others, it often happens that in a prize poem competition there is no lack of persons ready to enter the lists. So it was when a patriotic Scotchman offered a prize of £50 for the best poem on "The meeting of Wallace and Bruce." The number of competitors was astounding, and the mass of matter sent in overwhelming, one production being as long as "Paradise Lost." Quality prevailed over quantity, and the award was made to Mrs. Hemans. This was not the only occasion on which she was adjudged the prize in a competition. In 1821 she obtained that awarded by the Royal Society of Literature for the best poem on "Dartmoor."
One of her poems, which was destined to be almost more useful than any of the others, was "The Sceptic." A reviewer's testimony to the elevating influence of the work, after complaining of the grave defect in some of the most popular writers of the day, in that "they are not sufficiently attentive to the moral dignity of the performances," concludes with this encomium on Mrs. Hemans' work:—"With the promise of talents not inferior to any, and far superior to most of them, the author before us is not only free from every stain, but breathes all moral beauty and loveliness; and it will be a memorable coincidence if the era of a woman's sway in literature shall become co-eval with the return of its moral purity and elevation." A more gratifying testimony to the worth of "The Sceptic" was given in a visit of a stranger to Mrs. Hemans. It occurred many years after "The Sceptic" was published; indeed, a very short time before her death. The visitor was told that she was unable to see him, as she was only just recovering from an illness. He entreated for a few minutes' interview with such importunity that it was granted to him. On his admission he explained with the utmost feeling that the object of his visit was to acknowledge the deepest debt of obligation; "that to her he owed, in the first instance, that faith and those hopes which were now more precious to him than life itself; for that it was by reading her poem of 'The Sceptic' he had been first awakened from the miserable delusion of infidelity and induced to 'search the Scriptures.'" This was not the only time she received a comforting assurance of this kind with regard to the poem.
The warm friendship of the Bishop of St. Asaph, Dr. Luxmoore, was a great boon to Mrs. Hemans. He was always ready with his advice and his support; and she found them of singular benefit in her comparatively lonely position. The bishop's palace was like a second home. There she and her children were always welcome. Of like value was the friendship of another who was also destined to have a place on the episcopal bench. Reginald Heber was a frequent visitor at the residence of his father-in-law, the Dean of St. Asaph. He soon became deeply interested in the welfare of Mrs. Hemans. She found in him one whose counsel, especially in literary matters, was of the utmost value. His suggestions and encouragement supplied just what she wanted. Any one who reads his hints with regard to her contemplated poem "Superstition and Revelation" will know how full and painstaking was the trouble he took to assist his friend.
The design of the poem to which reference has just been made was a grand one. It is best described in her own words: "Might not a poem of some extent and importance, if the execution were at all equal to the design, be produced, from contrasting the spirit and tenets of Paganism with those of Christianity? It would contain, of course, much classical allusion; and all the graceful and sportive fictions of ancient Greece and Italy, as well as the superstitions of more barbarous climes, might be introduced, to prove how little consolation they could convey in the hour of affliction, or hope in that of death. Many scenes from history might be portrayed in illustration of this idea; and the certainty of a future state, and of the immortality of the soul, which we derive from revelation, are surely subjects for poetry of the highest class." The poem was commenced, but never completed. It was pressed out by other undertakings.
Mrs. Hemans found peculiar pleasure in reading and speaking German. "I am so delighted," she wrote, "when I meet with any one who knows and loves my favouritescelenvolle(full of soul) German, that I believe I could talk of it for ever." Her sister remarks that her knowledge of the language seemed almost as if it had been born with her.
The poetess could write humorous prose as well as serious verse. Some of her letters written in 1822 give a very amusing description of the inconveniences she had to put up with whilst certain alterations were being made at Bronwylfa. She describes how at last she was driven to seek refuge in the laundry, from which classical locality, she was wont to say, it could be no wonder if sadlymangledlines were to issue. "I entreat you to pity me. I am actually in the melancholy situation of Lord Byron's 'scorpion girt by fire'—her circle narrowing as she goes—for I have been pursued by the household troops through every room successively, and begin to think of establishing mymétierin the cellar; though I dare say, if I were to fix myself as comfortably in a hogshead as Diogenes himself, it would immediately be discovered that some of the hoops or staves wanted repair." "There is a war of old grates with new grates, and plaster and paint with dust and cobwebs, carrying on in this once tranquil abode, with a vigour and animosity productive of little less din than that occasioned by 'lance to lance and horse to horse.' I assure you, when I make my escape about 'fall of eve' to some of the green quiet hayfields by which we are surrounded, and look back at the house, which, from a little distance, seems almost, like Shakespeare's moonlight, to 'sleep upon the bank,' I can hardly conceive how so gentle-looking a dwelling can continue to send forth such an incessant clatter of obstreperous sound through its honeysuckle-fringed windows. It really reminds me of a pretty shrew, whose amiable smiles would hardly allow a casual observer to suspect the possibility of so fair a surface being occasionally ruffled by storms."
The lyric "The Voice of Spring" was written in 1823. It was followed by "Breathings of Spring." The season of spring had a marked influence upon her. It was, with all its joy and beauty, generally "a time of thoughtfulness rather than mirth." It has been well observed that autumn in one way is a more joyous time than spring. It reminds us that "we shall go to them," while in spring everything seems to say "they will not return to us."
"But what awakest thou in theheart, O Spring!The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs?Thou that givest back so many a buried thing,Restorer of forgotten harmonies!Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou art—What wakest thou in the heart?
Too much, oh, then too much! We know not wellWherefore it should be thus, yet, roused by thee,What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul's deep cell,Gush for the faces we no more may see!How are we lamented, in the wind's low tone,By voices that are gone?"
In 1825 there appeared one of her principal works—the one she considered as almost, if not altogether, the best—The Forest Sanctuary. It related to the sufferings of a Spanish Protestant in the time of Philip II., and is supposed to be narrated by the sufferer himself, who escapes with his child to a North American forest. The picture of the burial at sea was the passage of whose merits she had the highest opinion.
Another change of home took place in 1825. The new home was not more than a quarter of a mile from the old one. Rhyllon could be seen from the windows of Bronwylfa. It was a very different house. The former is described as a tall, staring brick house, almost destitute of trees; the latter as a perfect bower of roses, peeping out like a bird's-nest from amidst the foliage in which it was embosomed. The contrast is playfully depicted in a dramatic scene between Bronwylfa and Rhyllon. The former, after standing for some time in silent contemplation of Rhyllon, breaks out into the following vehement strain of vituperation:—
"You ugliest of fabrics! you horrible eyesore!I wish you would vanish, or put on a vizor!In the face of the sun, without covering or rag on,You stand and outstare me, like any red dragon."
And so on through many amusing and spirited lines, showing the lighter side of the authoress's character. Her sister describes this part of her life as perhaps the happiest of all, and this was produced to a great extent by her seeing the happiness of others, especially that of her boys. She was always ready to join them in their rambles and their sports. The mornings were spent in the instruction of her children, then in answering countless letters and satisfying the demands of impatient editors. And this done, she would revel in the enjoyment of fresh air. "Soft winds and bright blue skies," she writes, "make me, or dispose me to be, a sad idler." For this reason she delighted in the rigour of winter, as being most conducive to literary productiveness.
A heavy sorrow was overshadowing this happy home. Between Mrs. Hemans and her mother there was the strongest bond of affection. In her poems there may be traced the intensity of this love. It is found in the simple lines, "On my Mother's Birthday," when the child was only eight years old, and, after incidentally appearing in many a poem, it is shown in all its intensity in the "Hymn by the Sick-bed of a Mother."
"Father, that in the olive shade,When the dark hour came on,Didst, with a breath of heavenly aid,Strengthen Thy Son;
Oh, by the anguish of that night,Send us down blest relief;Or to the chastened, let Thy mightHallow this grief!"
And if the flame of passionate affection shone out in the time of fear and impending sorrow, no less was it seen after the dread hour had come. What beauty there is in the lines entitled "The Charmed Picture":—
"Sweet face, that o'er my childhood shone,Whence is thy power of change,Thus ever shadowing back my own,The rapid and the strange?
Whence are they charmed—those earnest eyes?I know the mystery well!In mine own trembling bosom liesThe spirit of the spell!"
[Illustration: Edna Hemans]
This mother patiently bore sickness for eight months, and then passed away. Something of what this blow meant to the loving daughter may be gathered from her letters. But she knew where true comfort was to be found, and in alluding to the words of another setting forth the Divine consolation, she says, "This is surely the language of real consolation; how different from that which attempts to soothe us by general remarks on the common lot, the course of Nature, or even by dwelling on the release of the departed from pain and trial."
It was not surprising that her health, for a long time delicate, now showed signs of an alarming nature. She often had a complete prostration of strength, succeeded by a wonderful reaction.
The place of Mrs. Hemans in the literary world was established. As might be expected, friendships were formed with those who had tastes in common. Amongst the number were Miss Baillie, Miss Mitford, Mrs. Howitt, Miss Jewsbury, and Dean Milman. From her friends she sought sympathy rather than praise. Always appreciative of words of encouragement, she gave back good exchange in the artless way into which she entered into the pursuits of her correspondents.
Her health continued to give great anxiety to her friends, and matters were not improved by the unconquerable dislike of the patient to the adoption of the necessary precautions and remedies. But in the midst of all her suffering her imagination was busy. Compositions were dictated to friends who sat by her bedside. Her amanuensis record—how the little song "Where is the Sea" came to her like a strain of music whilst lying in the twilight under the infliction of a blister.
In 1828 she published theRecords of Woman, the work into which she said she had put her heart and individual feelings more than in anything else she had written. One verse amongst many others indicates the pressure put upon her feeble frame by the intensity of her activity of mind.
"Yet I have known it long;Too restless and too strongWithin this clay hath been the o'ermastering flame;Swift thought that came and went,Like torrents o'er me sent,Have shaken as a reed my thrilling frame."
A severe trial was at hand. The home must again be changed and the beloved Wales left. The marriage of her sister and the appointment of her brother to an official post were the immediate cause. In which direction should she turn her steps with most advantage? The choice was determined by the consideration that at Wavertree near Liverpool she had several attached friends, that there she would meet with advantages for the education of her boys and also with more literary communion for herself.
The wrench from the "land of her childhood, her home, and her dead," was a hard one. She wrote, telling her friends how she literally covered her face all the way from Bronwylfa until her boys told her they had passed the Clwyd range of hills. Then she felt that something of the bitterness was over.
"The sound of thy streams in my spirit I bear;Farewell, and a blessing be with thee, green land!On thy hearths, on thy halls, on thy pure mountain air,On the chords of the harp, and the minstrel's free hand,From the love of my soul, with my tears it is shed,As I leave thee, green land of my home and my dead."
Her love for the people of Wales was not an unreciprocated love. Many of them rushed forward to touch the posts of the gate through which the poetess had passed; and when, three years later, she paid a visit to St. Asaph, came and wept over her, and entreated her to make her home among them again.
Wavertree had its advantages, but it certainly had its disadvantages too. She was brought into a scene where all her precious time might have been absorbed in the trivialities of society. She was overwhelmed with offers of service and marks of courtesy. All the gaiety of a large town was open to her. Gladly would she, as one who had made her mark, have been received on all hands. But consideration of both time and inclination demanded that her life should be spent in a more retired way. She had a great distaste to "going out." And so the frivolous soon gave her up, and went their own way. Her dress was not rigorously correct; she seemed to have motives and pursuits unlike theirs. And so they did not desire her company any more than she found satisfaction in theirs. In the society of those with whom she had no interest in common she well describes her state as feeling herself more alone thanwhenalone. There was much to try her in the curiosity which prompted so many to call upon the strange poetess; but she treated this experience in a cheerful manner. She was pursued by albums, their possessors all anxious to have something written on purpose for themselves. We can understand her humorous appeal to a friend "to procure her a dragon, to be kept in her courtyard."
The life at Wavertree was very different from that in Wales in many respects. She had to face the cares and vexations of domestic life, now that she lived alone in her own house. She had to bear her part in general society. The change was not a palatable one. "How I look back upon the comparative peace and repose of Bronwylfa and Rhyllon—a walk in the hayfield—the children playing round me—my dear mother coming to call me in from the dew—and you, perhaps, making your appearance just in the 'gloaming,' with a great bunch of flowers in your kind hand! How have these things passed away from me, and how much more was I formed for their quiet happiness than for the weary part offemme célèbrewhich I am now enacting."
A visit to Scotland in 1829 was a great event in her life. She seemed to gain fresh energy and vigour. Edinburgh was ready with a hearty welcome. Admiration was in danger of degenerating into adulation; as, for example, when a literary man, on his introduction to her, asked "whether a bat might be allowed to appear in the presence of a nightingale." On another occasion a man of eminence in the book world was honoured with a visit from her. Afterwards he was asked whether he had chanced to see the most distinguished English poetess of the day. "He made no answer," continued the narrator, "but taking me by the arm, in solemn silence, led me into the back parlour, where stood a chair in the centre of the room, isolated from the rest of the furniture: and pointing to it, said, with the profoundest reverence, in a low earnest tone. 'Thereshesat, sir, on that chair!'" One of the brightest parts of this bright tour was that spent with Sir Walter Scott. The recollection of her walks and talks with the great man was always a treasured memory. And so were the words with which he parted from her. "There are some whom we meet, and should like ever after to claim as kith and kin; andyouare one of these."
In 1830 Mrs. Hemans published her volume ofSongs of the Affections.The principal of the poems, "A Spirit's Return," was suggested as the result of a favourite amusement—that of winding up the evenings by telling ghost stories. A discussion arose as to the feelings with which the presence and the speech of a visitant from another world would be most likely to impress the person so visited. Mrs. Hemans contended that the predominant sensation would partake of awe and rapture, and that the person visited must thenceforward and for ever be inevitably separated from this world and its concerns—that the soul which had once enjoyed so strange and spiritual communion must be raised by its experience too high for common grief to perplex or common joy to enliven.
"The music of another land hath spoken.No after-sound is sweet; this weary thirst!—And I have heard celestial fountains burst.Whathereshall quench it?"
A visit to the Lakes of Westmoreland in 1830 was a source of great enjoyment to Mrs. Hemans. The beauty of the district was one attraction, but the prospect of sharing the society of Mr. Wordsworth was a greater attraction. Wearied out with the "glare and dust of celebrity," she was longing for the hills and the quiet peacefulness of the Lake country. It is needless to say that the first poetess of Nature was charmed with the first poet of Nature, and the poet with the poetess. Her letters were full of expressions of delight and keen appreciation of the privilege she was enjoying. Wordsworth was kindness itself. "I am charmed with Mr. Wordsworth, whose kindness to me has quite a soothing influence over my spirits. Oh! what relief, what blessing there is in the feeling of admiration when it can be freely poured forth! 'There is a daily beauty in his life,' which is in such lovely harmony with his poetry, that I am thankful to have witnessed andfeltit."
Mrs. Hemans, after staying a fortnight at Rydal Mount, took a little cottage called Dove's Nest near the lake. Here she was joined by her children, into whose pursuits she heartily threw herself. This was a season of grateful rest to her. "How shall I tell you of all the loveliness by which I am surrounded, of all the soothing and holy influence it seems shedding down into my inmost heart! I have sometimes feared within the last two years, that the effect of suffering and adulation, and feelings too highly wrought and too severely tried, would have been to dry up within me the fountains of such peace and simple enjoyment; but now I know—"
'Nature never did betrayThe heart that loved her.'
"I can think of nothing but what is pure, and true, and kind; and my eyes are filled with grateful tears even whilst I am writing to you." But even to this sweet retirement she was pursued by curious tourists, "hunting for lions in doves' nests," and by letters which threatened "to boil over the drawer to which they were consigned."
She had made up her mind that it was a wise step to leave Wavertree. At one time Edinburgh was thought of as a fit place for her residence. But finally Ireland, and not Scotland, became the home of her latter days, one reason for this choice being that her brother would be near to give his advice and guidance as to her sons. In 1831 she took up her abode in Dublin, where, whilst entering very little into general society, she much enjoyed intercourse with many kindred spirits whom she gathered around her. Amongst her most valued friends were the Archbishop of Dublin and Mrs. Whately, from whom she met with marked kindness. These years in Dublin have been described as the happiest as well as the last of her life. Heading was perhaps more than ever a delight to her, especially of works of religious instruction and consolation. Bishop Hall, Leighton, and Jeremy Taylor, and other old divines afforded her great strength and refreshment, whilst the Scriptures were her daily study and delight. Wordsworth was the poet she loved best and read oftenest, never a single day during the last four years of her life being passed, unless sickness prevented, without her reading something of his.
"Nervous suffering" is a phrase that describes Mrs. Hemans' state of health. But still her mind was busy and her pen active, especially on subjects of a religious character. "I now feel as if bound to higher and holier tasks which, though I may occasionally lay aside, I could not long wander from without some sense of dereliction. I hope it is not self-delusion, but I cannot help sometimes feeling as if it were my true task to enlarge the sphere of sacred poetry, and extend its influence." In 1834Hymns for ChildhoodandNational Lyricsappeared in a collected form, and soon after the long-contemplated collection ofScenes and Hymns of Life. The aim of these may be best expressed in her own words. It was to enlarge the sphere of sacred poetry "by associating with its themes, more of the emotions, the affections, and even the pure imaginative enjoyments of daily life, than had hitherto been admitted within the hallowed circle."
Two last works were to issue from her mind and heart. The lyric "Despondency and Aspiration" was hoped to be her best production, as it was certainly her most laborious effort. On it she was anxious to concentrate all her powers. It was meant to be the prologue to a poetical work which was to be calledThe Christian Temple. It was her purpose, "by tracing out the workings of passion—the struggle of human affection—through various climes, and ages, and conditions of life, to illustrate the insufficiency of any dispensation, save that of an ill-embracing Christianity, to soothe the sorrows, or sustain the hopes, or fulfil the desires of an immortal being whose lot is cast in a world where cares and bereavements are many." She was never to carry out this design.
She dictatedThoughts during Sicknessin the intervals of sickness, when concentrated thought was possible. Their shortness tells of the shortness of those intervals. Who is not better for thinking over these sonnets, recalling as they do a peaceful spirit of resignation and calmness at the approach of the last hour?
"Let otherstremblingbow,Angel of Death, before thee;—not to thoseWhose spirits with Eternal Truth reposeArt thou a fearful shape. And, oh, forme,How full of welcome would thine aspect shine,Did not the cords of strong affection twineSo fast around my soul, itcannotspring to thee."
The last of the series is entitled a "Sabbath Sonnet." It was composedby Mrs. Hemans a few days before her death, and dictated to her brother.It ends in these words—-fit words for the last utterances of aChristian poet:
"I may not treadWith them those pathways—to the feverish bedOf sickness bound; yet, O my God, I blessThy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath filledMy chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilledTo one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness."
But we are anticipating. At the end of 1834 Mrs. Hemans was recommended to try change of air. Most kindly Archbishop Whately placed at her disposal his country seat of Redesdale, where she had every comfort. But there was a comfort she had that was not of man's making or man's giving. "Far better than these indications of recovery is the sweet religious peace which I feel gradually overshadowing me with its dove-pinions, excluding all that would exclude thoughts of God."
All around her delighted to ease her suffering and to minister to her comfort. Especially thoughtful was her faithful attendant. And well was that attendant repaid in hearing the words which fell from her mistress's lips. How bright was the testimony of the dying poetess! "I feel like a tired child wearied, and longing to mingle with the pure in heart! I feel as if I were sitting with Mary at the feet of my Redeemer, hearing the music of His voice, and learning of Him to be meek and lowly." "Oh, Anna, do not you love your kind Saviour? The plan of redemption was indeed a glorious one; humility was indeed the crowning work. I am like a quiet babe at His feet, and yet my spirit is full of His strength. When anybody speaks of His love to me, I feel as if they were too slow; my spirit can mount alone with Him into those blissful realms with far more rapidity."
Mrs. Hemans left Redesdale to return to Dublin, so as to be near her physician. She could only leave her bed to be laid upon a couch. The sufferings were great, but there was no complaint. She would never allow those around her to speak of her state as one calling for pity. She seemed to live partly on earth, partly in heaven. "No poetry could express, nor imagination conceive, the visions of blessedness that flitted across her fancy, and made her waking hours more delightful than those even that were given to temporary repose." She would ask to be left perfectly alone, in stillness and darkness, to commune with her own heart and reflect on the mercies of her Saviour. Her trust in the atonement was entire, and often did she speak of the comfort she derived from dwelling upon that central fact. She assured a friend that the tenderness and affectionateness of the Redeemer's character, which they had often contemplated together, was now a source not merely of reliance, but of positive happiness to her—"the sweetness of her couch."
As is often the case under such circumstances, her thoughts were busy with the haunts of her childhood, the old home and the old walks. Her memory appeared unweakened. Its powers, always so great, seemed to be greater than ever. She would lie hour after hour, repeating to herself chapters of the Bible and pages of Milton and Wordsworth. When delirium came upon her, it was observed how entirely the beautiful still retained its predominance over her mind. The one material thing that gave her pleasure was to be surrounded with "flowers, fresh flowers."
Often did she thank God for the talents He had entrusted to her, and declared how much more ardently than ever her powers would have been consecrated to His service had life been prolonged. On March 15th she received the Holy Communion for the last time, one of her sons being a partaker of that feast for the first time. But the end was not to come at once. There was another flicker of life. The days that remained were spent in pious preparation, one of her favourite occupations being the listening to the reading of some of her most valued books. TheLives of Sacred Poetsand theLives of Eminent Christians, in both of which her life was soon to be worthy of a place, were especially enjoyed. In the latter book she earnestly recommended the perusal of the account of the death of Madame de Mornay, as showing in bright yet not exaggerated colours "how a Christian can die."
On the 26th of April she dictated to her brother the last strain, the "Sabbath Sonnet," to which reference has already been made. From this time she began to sink slowly but steadily. On the 12th of May she was able to read part of the 16th chapter of St. John, her favourite among the evangelists, which was the Gospel for the day, and also the Collect and Epistle. She delighted to hear passages from a book she dearly loved—a selection from the works of Archbishop Leighton. "Beautiful! beautiful!" she exclaimed. To her faithful attendant she said that "she had been making her peace with God; that she felt all at peace within her bosom."
On Saturday the 16th May, 1835, she slumbered nearly all the day: and at nine o'clock in the evening, without pain or struggle, her spirit passed away to the "Better Land."
'I hear thee speak of the better land,Thou callest its children a happy band;Mother, oh, where is that radiant shore?Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?Is it where the flower of the orange blows,And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs?''Not there, not there, my child!'
'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!'
'Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy,Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;Dreams cannot picture a world so fair—Sorrow and death may not enter there:Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,—It is there, it is there, my child!'
Her remains were laid to rest in a grave within St. Anne's Church, Dublin. A tablet records her name, her age—forty-one years—and the date of her death. There are added the following lines of her own:—
"Calm on the bosom of thy God,Fair spirit, rest thee now;E'en while with us thy footsteps trode,His seal was on thy brow.Dust to its narrow home beneath,Soul to its place on high;They that have seen thy look in death,No more may fear to die."
Though many of the productions of the gifted poetess will soon be forgotten, there is no doubt that some will live. The subjects are those which gain an admittance to the hearts of all classes. We have already given in full that beautiful poem "The Better Land." There is no danger of "Casabianca" passing into oblivion. Children delight to commit it to memory, and are all the better for the lesson of devotion to duty they have learnt.
"Yet beautiful and bright he stood,As born to rule the storm;A creature of heroic blood,A proud, though childlike form.
The flames rolled on—he would not goWithout his father's word;That father, faint in death below,His voice no longer heard."
Mrs. Hemans was at her best in treating of such matters as those dealt with in "The Homes of England" and "The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers." Any one is to be pitied who can read without admiration these lines from the former:—
"The merry homes of England!Around their hearths by nightWhat gladsome looks of household loveMeet in the ruddy light!There woman's voice flows forth in song,Or childhood's tale is told,Or lips move tunefully alongSome glorious page of old.
The blessed homes of England!How softly on their bowersIs laid the holy quietnessThat breathes from Sabbath hours!Solemn, yet sweet, the church bell's chimeFloats through their woods at morn;All other sounds in that still timeOf breeze and leaf are born."
There is little danger of "The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers" being forgotten. How well the poetess indicated the, motive which led them from their native country to the unknown land!—
"What sought they thus afar?Bright jewels of the mine?The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?They sought a faith's pure shrine!
Ay, call it holy ground,The soil where first they trod!They have left unstained what there they found—Freedom to worship God!"
As an example of Mrs. Hemans' treatment of sacred subjects, we may quote the concluding verses of "Christ's Agony in the Garden":—
"He knew them all—the doubt, the strife,The faint perplexing dread,The mists that hang o'er parting life,All darkened round His head;And the Deliverer knelt to pray,Yet passed it not, that cup, away.
It passed not—though the stormy waveHad sunk beneath His tread;It passed not—though to Him the graveHad yielded up its dead.But there was sent Him from on highA gift of strength for man to die.
And wasHismortal hour besetWith anguish and dismay?—How maywemeet our conflict yet,In the dark, narrow way?How, but through Him, that path who trod?Save, or we perish, Son of God!"
We are thankful to find that the poetess had such clear views of the atonement as those to be met with in herSonnets, Devotional and Memorial,for example, in "The Darkness of the Crucifixion."
The last quotation shall be one from "The Graves of a Household," the opening and the closing verses of a literary gem which will never lack appreciation:—
"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.
The same fond mother bent at nightO'er each fair sleeping brow;She had each folded flower in sight—Where are those dreamers now'?
* * * * *
And parted thus they rest, who playedBeneath the same green tree;Whose voices mingled as they prayedAround one parent knee!
They that with smiles lit up the hall,And cheered with song the hearth!Alas, for love! ifthouwert all,And nought beyond, O Earth."
The lyrics of Mrs. Hemans will ever keep her memory fresh. "In these 'gems of purest ray serene,' the peculiar genius of Mrs. Hemans breathes, and burns, and shines pre-eminent; for her forte lay in depicting whatever tends to beautify and embellish domestic life, the gentle overflowings of love and friendship, home-bred delights and heartfelt happiness, the associations of local attachment, and the influences of religious feelings over the soul, whether arising from the varied circumstances and situations of man, or from the aspects of external Nature."
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Jeanne Marie Bouvières de la Mothe, afterwards Madame Guyon, was born at Montargis, about fifty miles south of Paris, on April 13, 1648. Her father, who bore the title of Seigneur de la Mothe Vergonville, was a man of much religious feeling. Although Jeanne was a child of delicate health, her mother does not seem to have bestowed much trouble upon her, sending her, when only two years and a half old, to an Ursuline seminary a short time, and then committing her almost entirely to the care of servants, from whom, as a matter of course, her mental and moral culture at that highly-receptive age did not receive much attention. 'When four years old, she was transferred to the care of the nuns in a Benedictine convent. "Here," she says in her autobiography,[1] "I saw none but good examples; and as my natural disposition was towards the good, I followed it as long as I met with nobody to turn me in another direction. I loved to hear of God, to be at church, and to be dressed up as a nun."
[Footnote 1:La Vie de Madame J.M.B. de la Mothe-Guyon, écrite par elle-même,première partie, ch. ii., 6. The edition from which I quote was published at Paris, in three volumes, by the "Associated Booksellers," in 1791. See also Life by J.C. Upham (Sampson Low & Co., 1872).]
Now, as her opening mind drank in such instruction as came to her, she deeply felt the claims of God upon her love and service. Under the influence of a remarkable dream, she openly expressed her determination to lead a religious life; and one day, with unguarded frankness, she avowed her readiness to become a martyr for God. Her fellow-pupils at the convent, like Joseph's brethren, did not appreciate either her dream or her avowal. With girlish jealousy they laid her devout aspirations at the door of pride, and proceeded to test her professions in a cruel manner. They persuaded her that God had taken her at her word and called her suddenly to undergo the martyrdom for which she had declared her readiness. Her courage did not give way at their summons. So, after allowing her a short time for preparatory prayer, they led her into a room made ready for the purpose, where a cloth was spread on the floor, and an older girl stood behind her, lifting a large cutlass, and seemingly prepared to chop off the child's head. Who can wonder that at this too realistic sight the little girl's valour gave way? She cried out that she must not die without her father's leave. The girls triumphantly asserted that this was a paltry excuse, and let her go, with the scornful assurance that God would not accept as a martyr one who had so little of a martyr's courage.
Poor little Jeanne Marie! This unjust ordeal had a painful effect on her joyous spirit. Child though she was, she saw clearly that, like Simon Peter, she had been too ready and bold in her avowals of devotedness to her Lord. She thought that by her cowardice she had offended God, and that now there was little likelihood of winning His favour and enjoying His support. Her health, always delicate, could not but be injured by this unpleasant episode, and after a while she was taken home and again left to the care of the servants. Placed a second time at the Ursuline convent, she was happy in being under the care of her half-sister,—a good creature, who devoted her excellent abilities to the loving training of Jeanne in learning and piety. While here, the little girl was often sent for by her father; and at his house, on one occasion, she found Henrietta Maria, the widowed queen of England, who was so much pleased with her pretty ways and sprightly answers that she tried to induce M. de la Mothe to place his daughter in her care, intimating that she would make her maid of honour to the princess. The father, much to the queen's annoyance, declined the honour, and Madame Guyon, in after years, considered that perhaps she owed her salvation to his judicious refusal.
At this Ursuline seminary she remained, under her sister's care, until she was ten years old, when she was taken home again, and then placed in a Dominican convent, where she stayed eight months. Here she was left much to herself, but was so happy as to find an abiding companion, a heaven-sent gift, in a copy of the Bible, which had been "providentially" left in the apartment assigned to her. "I read it," she says, "from morning to night; and having a very good memory, I learnt by heart all the historical parts." Whatever were the immediate results of this close acquaintance with the Book of books, it is certain that in after years, when the true light had shined into her soul, her early intimacy with the Bible was of great service to her progress, and helped to qualify her in some measure for writing herExplanations and Reflectionson the sacred volume. On her return home once more her religious state seems to have fluctuated considerably. Family jealousies and jars deadened the fervour of her devotion. Preparations for her first Sacrament under her sister's guidance, and the actual participation in that ordinance, had for a time a beneficial effect. But the solemnity of the Supper passed away without permanent influence on her heart.
She was now growing up a fine tall girl, of remarkable beauty and of equal fascination of speech and manner. Her mother became proud of her loveliness, and took great interest in her dress and appearance. Accomplished and attractive, she was welcome in every circle, and her wit and gaiety made her company much sought after. Her serious impressions passed away, and her heart was hot in the chase after pleasure. That it was still tender and susceptible we learn from a little incident at this period. She had gone for a walk with her youthful companions, and during her absence a young cousin, De Toissi, who was going as a missionary to Cochin China, called for a short time at her father's house. On her return home she found that he had already departed, and she heard such an account of his sanctity and of his pious utterances that she was deeply affected and was overcome with sorrow, crying all the rest of the day and night. Once more she sought earnestly "the peace of God, which passeth all understanding," but sought it by deeds of charity and by bodily austerities, instead of by the simple way of faith. At this time, in the fervour of her devotion, she resolved to enter a convent and become a nun. Her father, however, believed that his daughter, whom he tenderly loved, might be truly religious without taking such an irrevocable step. But soon—whether through some juvenile attachment or not we cannot tell—her good desires and resolves grew faint, she left off prayer, and lost such comfort and blessing as had been granted her from above. "I began," she says, "to seek in the creature what I had found in God. And Thou, O my God, didst leave me to myself, because I had first left Thee, and Thou wast pleased, in permitting me to sink into the abyss, to make me feel the necessity I was under of maintaining communion with Thyself in prayer."
In 1663 her father removed his household to Paris, and Jeanne Marie was transferred to a larger and more brilliant arena for the display of her beauty and accomplishments. Louis XIV. was on the throne, and Paris was at the very height of its gaiety and celebrity. The influence of its dissipation and distraction on the spirit of Mademoiselle de la Mothe was of course unfavourable to religion. Her parents found themselves not merely in a fashionable circle, but in a highly-intellectual centre. Thegrand monarqueposed as the great patron of literature and the arts; and society presented splendid opportunities for the exercise of the young lady's conversational powers. She tells us that she began to entertain extravagant notions of herself, and that her vanity increased. In such surroundings it could hardly be otherwise. Her faith and love, such as they were, had died away, and her devotion had dwindled down to nothing. The dazzling world before her was in her eyes something worth conquering; and she set herself to gain its acclamation, and was to a great extent successful. From this high state of worldly gratification, and low state of religious principle and enjoyment, she was aroused and rescued in a very rough and painful manner.
Early in 1664, when not quite sixteen, Jeanne Marie de la Mothe was given in marriage to M. Jacques Guyon, a man of thirty-eight, possessed of great wealth, whom she had seen for the first time only a few days before the ceremony took place. Many ladies no doubt envied her, but for her it was an unhappy change. Several suitors had appeared, with whom she felt she could have been content and happy; but M. Guyon's riches and perseverance had carried the day with her parents, and marriage, to which she had looked forward as the period of liberation from restraint, and of freer enjoyment of the gay Parisian life, proved but the commencement of a dreary spell of dulness and misery. Her friends, who came to congratulate her the next day after the wedding, were surprised to find her weeping bitterly, and, in answer to their raillery, were told by her, "Alas! I used to have such a desire to be a nun: why, then, am I married now? and by what fatality has this happened to me?" She was overwhelmed with this regret, this longing to be areligieuse. The sudden transition from being the admired of all beholders, "the cynosure of neighbouring eyes," the witty belle whose every word and look were treasured up, to the hopeless condition of a bird pining in a gilded cage, was very hard to bear.
The details of the poor girl's sufferings in her new home are painful to read; but as Madame Guyon relates these early trials, she devoutly regards them as the means employed by her Heavenly Father to wean her affections from the world and turn them towards Himself. Beset with sore afflictions, guarded and illtreated by a servant devoted to her mother-in-law, cut off from the innocent pleasures of friendly intercourse, perpetually thwarted and misrepresented, she bethought herself of the possibility of getting help from above, and once more turned her mind towards God and heavenly things, doing her best, according to her imperfect light, to propitiate the Divine favour. She gave up entirely the reading of romances, of which formerly she had been passionately fond. Thepenchantfor them had already been deadened, some time before her marriage, by reading the Gospel, which she found "so beautiful," and in which she discerned a character of truth which disgusted her with all other books. She resumed the practice of private prayer; she had masses said, in order to obtain Divine grace to enable her to find favour with her husband and his mother, and to ascertain the Divine will; she consulted her looking-glass very seldom; she regularly studied books of devotion, such asThe Initiation of Jesus Christ, and the works of St. Francis de Sales, and read them aloud, so that the servants might profit by them. She endeavoured in all things not to offend God.
Her mind, shut off from all earthly comfort, was now driven in upon itself. Her lengthy meditation, though it helped to give her some degree of resignation, did not produce true peace and joy Though quite natural under the circumstances, it was an unhealthy habit, and doubtless tended to foster the mystic dreaming which grew upon her in riper years. Changes of circumstances now came to her relief. Soon after the birth of her first child, a heavy loss of property called her husband to Paris, to look after his affairs; and she, after a while, was permitted to join him there. This made a pleasant break in the dreary round of her married life. She cared nothing for losses, so long as she could gain from her stern and surly mate some token of affection and acknowledgment; and this, though in very small fragments, she had now occasionally the satisfaction of getting. While at Paris she had a severe illness, and the learned doctors of the city brought her to death's door by draining her of "forty-eight pullets" of blood.
Sad to say, as she regained her health, her husband resumed his moroseness and violent tempers, and her feeble strength was tried to its utmost. But she records, "This illness was of great use to me, for, besides teaching me patience under very severe pains, it enlightened me much as to the worthlessness of the things of this world. While detaching me to a great extent from myself, it gave me fresh courage to bear suffering better than I had done in the past." When at last she regained her health, the loss of her mother and the crosses of every-day life served still further to solemnize her mind, and to turn her aspirations heavenwards. She followed strictly her plan for private prayer twice a day; she kept watch over herself continually, and in almsgiving and other ways endeavoured to do as much good as she could.
About this time a pious lady, an English exile, came to reside at her father's house; and though she could but imperfectly understand her devout conversation, Madame Guyon saw in her face a sweet satisfaction which she herself had not as yet attained. Then her cousin De Toissi arrived from the East, and, with sincere concern for her welfare, encouraged her in her search after happiness in God. To him she unburdened her soul, giving him a full account of all her faults and all her wants. He tendered the best counsel he could. She now tried to meditate continually on God, saying prayers and uttering ejaculatory petitions. But all was in vain. The advice of these excellent persons led her to look too much inwardly upon her own heart, instead of upward to the Saviour as revealed in His word. So she still laboured along in deep darkness and depression.
It was with a sudden brilliance that light and joy broke in upon her spirit. In July, 1668, she was once more at the parental home, to nurse her father, who was dangerously ill. Knowing well his daughter's unhappiness, M. de la Mothe recommended her to consult his confessor, an aged Franciscan, who had been of service to himself. This good man, after listening for some time to the story of her restless wanderings after peace, said, "Madame, you are seeking outside what you have within. Accustom yourself to seek God in your heart, and you will find Him there." These few and simple words turned her gaze from her own efforts and feelings to see that peace was a thing to be found not in outward deeds but in a heart right with God; and so she was enabled to realise the bounteous love of God, which at that instant was broadening her heart by the Holy Spirit. The next morning when she told the old Franciscan of the effect of his words, he was much astonished.
"These words," she observes, "brought into my heart what I had been seeking so many years; or rather they made me discover what was there, but what I had not been enjoying for want of knowing it. O my Lord, Thou wast in my heart, and didst require of me only a simple turning inward to make me perceive Thy presence. O Infinite Goodness, Thou wast so near, and I went running hither and thither in search of Thee, and did not find Thee. My life was wretched, yet my happiness lay there within me. I was poor in the midst of riches, and I was dying of hunger close by a table spread and a continual feast. O Beauty, ancient and new, why have I known Thee so late? Alas! I sought Thee where Thou wast not, and did not seek Thee where Thou wast. It was for want of understanding these words of Thy Gospel, where Thou sayest, 'The kingdom of God is not here or there; but the kingdom of God is within you.'" [1]
[Footnote 1:La Vie, première partie, ch. viii., 7.]
There can be no doubt that her heart now realised something of the great fundamental truth that "God is Love." She had been trying to propitiate Him, as a Being of awful majesty and purity, by good works, strict conduct, severe penances. Now she saw at a glance the mistakes of her former conceptions of the Divine Being, and all her faculties drank in the grand verity of the boundless love of God.
Her own account of this vital change is as follows: "I told this good father that I did not know what he had done to me; that my heart was totally changed; that God was there, and I had no more difficulty in finding Him; for from that moment was given me an experience of His presence in my soul; not by mere thought or intellectual application, but as a thing which one really possesses in a very sweet manner. I experienced these words of the spouse in the Canticles: 'Thy name is as ointment poured forth: therefore do the virgins love thee.' For I felt in my soul an unction which like a healing balm cured in a moment all my wounds, and which even spread itself so powerfully over my senses that I could scarcely open my mouth or my eyes. That night I could not sleep at all, because Thy love, O my God, was for me not only as a delicious oil, but also as a devouring fire, which kindled in my soul such a flame as threatened to consume all in an instant. I was all at once so changed as not to be recognisable either to myself or to others. I found neither the blemishes nor the dislikes (which had troubled me): all appeared to me consumed like a straw in a great fire." [1]
[Footnote 1:Ibid., ch. viii., 8.]
These extracts from her autobiography are important as giving a key to her subsequent life. We see here the intensity of her affections and emotions, the excitability of her temperament, the tendency to wander into regions of spiritual imagination, the liking for strong dramatic expression, which, though not in themselves blamable, yet gave to the outside world, and even to those about her who were open to adverse prepossessions, false impressions as to the depth and reality of her religion. They, close at hand, could not make the allowance which we can easily make for the extravagances of a soul which had just emerged from the prison gloom of depression and distrust into this realisation of the Divine love and favour. When her enthusiastic spirit led her to subject herself to the severest penances, she joyed in their infliction and could not make them severe enough. And here at once comes out prominently a primary error of judgment in this good woman at the very outset of her Christian life. She gives us details of a specially disgusting penance which she inflicted on herself. In this, as in the rest of her self-imposed tortures and degradations, the impulse manifestly came not from above, but from the mistaken imaginings of an over-wrought mind encased in a frail and delicate frame; and these morbid fancies were based on her intense passion for self-abasement. We must remember that at this critical time, when she most needed counsel, she had really no one to guide her—no one, that is, who possessed spiritual wisdom and common sense.
Though Madame Guyon was much absorbed in a mystical ecstasy, which she describes as prayer without words or even thoughts, she was no mere visionary. Her love to God, her intense devotion to her Saviour, led her to earnest endeavours to do good to those around her. The poor and the sick, young girls exposed to temptation, all who needed temporal or spiritual help, were the special objects of her care and benevolence. In leading others to Christ she was remarkably successful. She had indeed exceptional qualifications for this missionary work. Just over twenty years of age, her youthful beauty and grace, the tender, yearning love which lit up her expressive features, the ready utterance and sweet voice, and the charm of manner which never left her, were no unfitting media to convey the tidings of mercy to many a benighted seeker after rest and peace.
At this time she found great benefit from the counsel of her friend Geneviève Granger, the prioress of the Benedictine convent, who encouraged her in her determination to avoid all conformity to the world, and to live wholly to God. She once more made progress in the Divine life, and the trials which now came thickly upon her were the means of blessing her soul with increase of purity and peace. Hers were no light trials. Besides the constant annoyance from her implacable mother-in-law and the ill-tempered behaviour of her husband, heavy afflictions befell her. The terrible small-pox attacked her, and spoilt her beautiful face, though it left her alive. Her cruel mother-in-law, instead of tenderly nursing her, basely neglected her, debarred her from medical attendance, and imperilled her life. The loss of her beauty alienated her husband's affection—such as it was—from her, and he became still more open to unfavourable influences. Burdened as she was with these troubles, yet another was added. Her younger son, a lovely boy four years of age, was carried off by the same fearful disease. Yet in all these afflictions she showed a spirit of holy resignation.
In the summer of 1671 she made the acquaintance of Father La Combe, who came with an introductory letter from her half-brother Father La Mothe. He was in search of inward peace, and Madame Guyon's counsels, the outcome of deep thought and Divine enlightenment, were of great service to him. The next year was marked by other trying losses. Her little daughter, who latterly had been her one source of human comfort, died rather suddenly. This was probably the severest trial of her life. In the same month she lost her affectionate father. Yet in these bereavements also she charged not God foolishly, but took them as a part of the discipline wisely ordered to knit her soul in closer union to Him.
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On July 22, 1672, the fourth anniversary of the day on which she first found peace, at the suggestion of her correspondent Geneviève Granger, she put her signature and seal to a covenant which that lady had drawn up. "The contract," she says,[1] "ran thus: 'I N. promise to take as my husband our Lord Jesus Christ, and to give myself to Him as His spouse, although unworthy.' I asked of Him, as the dowry of my spiritual marriage, crosses, contempt, confusion, disgrace, and ignominy; and I prayed Him to give me grace to entertain dispositions of littleness and nothingness with regard to everything else." Though we cannot consider such covenants in general as wise in themselves, nor this one in particular as appropriate in its language, yet for a time it seemed to give greater strength to her holy resolutions and increased stability to her pious frame of mind. But about eighteen months afterwards she fell into a state of depression, or absence of joy, which lasted nearly six years.
[Footnote :1La Vie de Madame Guyon, première partie, ch. xix., 10.]
Probably this state of "privation," as she terms it, was in great measure the result of physical causes. She had for many years tried her bodily strength to the utmost by her severe self-denying treatment of herself. And now the death of her intimate friend, the above-mentioned Geneviève Granger, no doubt exercised a lowering effect on her spirits. It was a testing time for her faith, and it is a signal proof of the depth and reality of her piety that through all this trying season she held fast her trust in God, and kept on her way, though uncheered for a time by the joyous emotions with which she had so long been favoured. It was well that her mind, which had been overtaxed and strained by the intensity of her religious fervour, and by its unbroken continuity of introspection, should be brought into a more healthful state by this bitter tonic of joylessness.
In 1676 her husband's health, never very good, completely broke down, and after a long illness he died, leaving her, at the age of twenty-eight, a widow, with three children. As the solemn hour of parting drew near, she swept away all the wretched interference which had helped to cloud the happiness of their married life, and, kneeling by his bed, she begged him to forgive anything she had done amiss. The better nature of the man now at length prevailed, and he said—what he had never said before—"It is I who ask pardon of you. I did not deserve you:" which was perfectly true. He left a large amount of property, but his affairs were in a perplexing state of entanglement, and his young widow, unused to business, had to do her best to make all straight. She proved equal to the occasion, and soon, with her quick perception and uncommon powers of direction and persuasion, she reduced the complicated tangle to order, and then retired to a house of her own, where she was free from the annoying devices of her irreconcilable mother-in-law, and could devote herself to the education of her children, the perfecting of her own education, and the visitation of the sick and poor.
It was in 1680, after nearly seven years of comparative darkness and depression, that her spiritual gloom was broken in upon by a letter from Father La Combe, in which he took the sensible view that by this sore deprivation God was teaching her not to lean on her state of feeling, but to look to Him alone for comfort and strength. On the 22nd of July—a day several times marked in her history as one of signal blessing—her prayers were heard, and God again lifted up the light of His countenance upon her. "On that happy day," she writes, "my soul was fully delivered from all its distresses. It began a new life," a life of steady peace and joy, guarded from dependence on the joy itself by the painful experience from which she had just emerged.
From this time forth she devoted her life to the spread of the knowledge of the love of God. After much deliberation and consultation with others, she left Paris in July, 1681, to commence work in the south-east of France. The preceding winter had been passed in making necessary preparations, in relieving the necessities of the famished poor of Paris, and in other works of charity.