Born in London, and daughter of Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Cornwall). Her earliest literary work consisted of poetical contributions published under the pseudonym of Miss Mary Berwick, in Household Words, conducted by Charles Dickens. Dickens himself had no suspicion of the real authorship of the poems until the warm approval expressed by him to Mr. and Mrs. Procter, of a poem by Miss Berwick, published in the Christmas number of Household Words, 1854, led Miss Procter to disclose her identity. Some years before her death, Miss Procter became a Roman Catholic, and took great interest in charitable work in London. It was for the benefit of a lodging house for homeless women in London that her “Chaplet of Verses” was written. She published “Legends and Lyrics,” 1858, and an enlarged edition, 1861; “A Chaplet of Verses,” 1862.

Personal

  I took Mrs. Montague up in the carriage on my way to church, and after service drove her home, and went up to see Mrs. Procter, and found baby (Adelaide Procter) at dinner. That child looks like a poet’s child, and a poet. It has something “doomed” (what the Germans call “fatal”) in its appearance—such a preternaturally thoughtful, mournful expression for a little child, such a marked brow over the heavy blue eyes, such a transparent skin, such pale-golden hair. John says the little creature is an elf-child. I think it is the prophecy of a poet.

  A beautiful girl of eight or nine years, the “golden-tressed Adelaide,” delicate, gentle and pensive, as if she was born on the lip of Castaly, and knew she was a poet’s child, completed the picture of happiness.

  In the spring of the year 1853, I observed, as conductor of the weekly journal, Household Words, a short poem among the proffered contributions, very different, as I thought, from the shoal of verses perpetually setting through the office of such a periodical, and possessing much more merit. Its authoress was quite unknown to me. She was one Miss Mary Berwick, whom I had never heard of; and she was to be addressed by letter, if addressed at all, at a circulating-library in the Western district of London. Through this channel, Miss Berwick was informed that her poem was accepted, and was invited to send another. She complied, and became a regular and frequent contributor. Many letters passed between the journal and Miss Berwick, but Miss Berwick herself was never seen. How we came to gradually establish at the office of Household Words that we knew all about Miss Berwick, I have never discovered. But we settled somehow, to our complete satisfaction, that she was governess in a family; that she went to Italy in that capacity, and returned; and that she had long been in the same family. We really knew nothing whatever of her, except that she was remarkably business-like, punctual, self-reliant, and reliable; so I suppose we insensibly invented the rest. For myself, my mother was not a more real personage to me than Miss Berwick the governess became. This went on until December, 1854, when the Christmas number, entitled “The Seven Poor Travellers,” was sent to press. Happening to be going to dine that day with an old and dear friend, distinguished in literature as “Barry Cornwall,” I took with me an early proof of that number, and remarked as I laid it on the drawing-room table, that it contained a very pretty poem, written by a certain Miss Berwick. Next day brought me the disclosure that I had so spoken of the poem to the mother of its writer, in its writer’s presence; that I had no such correspondent in existence as Miss Berwick; and that the name had been assumed by Barry Cornwall’s eldest daughter, Miss Adelaide Anne Procter.

  Of the gifted eldest daughter the mother was intensely proud, and well may she have been, for a more vital spirit never inhabited a finely wrought frame. Adelaide Anne Procter was so curiously unlike her poems, and yet so distinct in individuality, that it is a pity she was not painted by an artist capable of rendering her singular and interesting face. There was something of Dante in the contour of its thin lines, and the coloring was a pale, delicate brown, which harmonized with the darker hair, while the eyes were blue, less intense in hue than those of Shelley; and like his also was the exquisitely fine, fluffy hair, which when ruffled stood out in a halo round the brow. A large oil painting of her exists, done, I believe, by Emma Galiotti, and it is like her as she appeared in a conventional dress and a most lugubrious mood, but the real woman was quite different. She had a forecast of the angel in her face and figure, but it was of the Archangel Michael that she made one think. There was something spirited and almost militant in her aspect, if such a word can be applied to one so exquisitely delicate and frail.

  If Miss Brontë did not talk much, as was usual with her, she kept her eyes open. One of Mr. Thackeray’s guests was Miss Adelaide Procter, and those who remember that lady’s charming personality will not be surprised to learn that I was greatly attracted by her. During our drive home I was seated opposite to Miss Brontë, and was startled by her leaning forward, putting her hands on my knees, and saying, “She would make you a very nice wife.” “Whom do you mean?” I replied. “Oh, you know whom I mean,” she said, and we relapsed into silence. Though I admired Miss Procter very much, it was not the case of love at first sight, as Miss Brontë supposed.

General

  Adelaide Anne Procter, even had she been the most pushing and irrepressible of blue stockings, with every vantage ground of circumstance, was not appreciated as she deserved. But, in addition to the original sin of being a woman, several reasons peculiar to herself concurred to render her, what we think she has been, one of the most underrated writers of her day. First, she was an Englishwoman. Had she not been, she might never have been anything; but once being something, we do not think it was an utterly inestimable advantage. For, as being English, every one took for granted that she must be a Protestant, and every one was disappointed and provoked to find her a Catholic.

  Read her “Two Worlds,” “The Warrior to his Dead Bride,” “The Story of the Faithful Soul”—read, in fact, almost everything she has ever written—and you will find only pity for the world, a contempt of death, and a yearning, without any admixture of doubt, for the home beyond the grave.

  It is like telling one’s beads, or reading a prayer-book, to turn over her pages,—so beautiful, so pure and unselfish a spirit of faith, hope and charity pervades and hallows them. These women, with their melodious voices, spotless hearts, and holy aspirations are priestesses of the oracle. Their ministry is sacred; in their presence the most irreverent become subdued.

  Miss Procter, on the publication of her “Legends and Lyrics,” at once assumed a high place in popular estimation; and that place she has maintained year after year, and still maintains without any diminution, the present demand for her poems being far in excess of that for the writings of any living poet, except Mr. Tennyson.

  She was very unobtrusive as a literary personage. She did not claim for herself any particular place or mission among her brothers and sisters of the pen. Her poems were not efforts. They were spontaneous productions of a sweet, wholesome nature, designed solely to brighten the lives of ordinary people. If she pleased the many readers of “Household Words,” apparently her ambition was largely satisfied. We know, also, that while by nature she was endowed in many artistic ways, and while among her friends she was full of that sunshiny character which endears its possessor more than talent, her real life was not in the higher realms of imagination or in the intercourse of society, but was a secret devotion to piety. To be sure, the fact that this piety led her into the Roman Catholic Church shocked and perhaps prejudiced many who had early admired her writings. Still, there is a nun-like charm about the portrait of her which hearsay has handed down to us. And this peculiar charm hangs about her poetry also.

  Wherever she treats distinctly of peculiar Catholic doctrines, as in “The Chaplet,” she is inferior to herself; but she has a heart and mind for broad and deep Christianity, and the two poems from “The Chaplet” which are nearly free from a narrower aim are really perfect, as much so as Dr. Newman’s exquisite lines, “Lead, Kindly Light.” The pieces to which I refer are … “Ministering Angels” and “Per Pacem ad Lucem.”

  Her poetry may be classified as narrative, lyrical, and devotional, though, as we have already observed, the deeply religious and devotional cast of their author’s mind is manifest in all of them. Nor is their purpose unapparent, though their didacticism is kept under admirable restraint. All of them faithfully reflect the deeper convictions of her mind, and it is matter of observation that though she lived till 1864, in the midst of intellectual people, many of whom must have been profoundly influenced by the scepticism, the unrest, the despair, of the time, no trace of it is to be discovered in her writings,—a remarkable fact in connection with the work of one so eager, so sympathetic, so impetuous…. Adelaide Procter is never obscure. She never struggles to find entrance for any “perplexed meanings;” all she says is clear, simple, direct. On the other hand, it is not often that she touches a very deep note in the human heart…. One of her best and most characteristic pieces is, undoubtedly, “The Story of the Faithful Soul.” To compare her for a moment with another sweet religious singer of this century,—Keble—it might be said that, while she instills the same precepts and inculcates the same duties, she has never attained to his height.

  It remains to say a few words about her poems. Since for years they had a larger sale than those of any other poet save Tennyson, they must have penetrated into every reading household in Great Britain. Of late, however, their popular fame seems chiefly to repose on “The Lost Chord,” nobly set to music by Sir Arthur Sullivan. It is wonderful to see the enthusiasm infused by this song. The vast audience of St. James’s Hall thrills as one man when it is given. But in the beauty of the narrative poems, and in the profound depth of feeling of those which have an autobiographical source, the student of Victorian literature will, I’m convinced, find permanent delight; and that many verses and many lines will survive may be inferred from the perfection of form which is essential to lasting fame. Miss Procter always used the plainest words to convey her thought, the simplest, choicest words to express her feeling. Some of those which deal with the human heart are wonderfully sweet and subtle.

  Miss Procter, if not a great poet, had a gift for verse, and expressed herself with distinction, charm and sincerity. She borrowed little or nothing, and showed to best advantage in her narrative poems. “The Angel’s Story,” the “Legend of Bregenz,” the “Legend of Provence,” the “Story of a Faithful Soul,” are found in numerous poetical anthologies. Her songs, “Cleansing Fires,” “The Message,” and “The Lost Chord,” are well known, and many of her hymns are in common use. Her poems were published in America, and also translated into German. In 1877 the demand for Miss Procter’s poems in England was in excess of those of any living writer except Tennyson.

  Though all of Adelaide Procter’s poems are characterised by an earnestness of purpose which gives them a religious tone, her actual output of definitely religious verse is very small. The poem “Thankfulness,”… has given voice to the religious feelings of so many that it certainly deserves a place in any collection of the religious poetry of the time.

  There is a certain grace in her verse, but it is altogether destitute of weight and power of thought.