Queen Elizabeth died on March 24th, 1603, before the morning dawned, after a reign of nearly forty-five years, at the age of sixty-nine.
VI.
MRS. HEMANS.
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.