"It was suggested," he says, "by a fire-here is so brightly still, so remote from side conversation. It had long been a every-day cares and tumults, that somefavourite amusement to wind up our times I can hardly persuade myself I evenings by telling ghost-stories. One am not dreaming. It scarcely seems to night, however, the store of thrilling be the light of common day,' that is narratives was exhausted, and we began clothing the woody mountains before to talk of the feelings with which the me; there is something almost visionary presence and the speech of a visitant in its soft gleams and ever-changing from another world (if indeed a spirit shadows. I am charmed with Mr.Wordscould return), would be most likely to worth, whose kindness to me has quite impress the person so visited. After a soothing influence over my spirits. having exhausted all the common vari-Oh! what relief, what blessing there is eties of fear and terror in our specula- in the feeling of admiration when it tions, Mrs. Hemans said, she thought can be freely poured forth! There is a 'the predominant sensation at the time daily beauty in his life which is in such must partake of awe and rapture, and lovely harmony with his poetry, that I resemble the feelings of those who have am thankful to have witnessed, and felt listened to a revelation, and at the same it. He gives me a good deal of his somoment know themselves to be favoured ciety, reads to me, walks with me, leads above all men, and humbled before a my pony when I ride; and I begin to being no longer sharing their own cares talk with him as with a sort of paternal or passions; but that the person so friend." visited must thenceforward and for ever be separated from the world and its concerns; for the soul which had once enjoyed such a strange and spiritual communion, which had been permitted to look, though but for a moment, beyond the mysterious gates of death, must be raised by its experience too high for common grief again to perplex, or common joy to enliven.' She spoke long and eloquently upon this subject; and I have reason to believe that this conversation settled her wandering fancy, and gave rise to the principal poem in her next volume."

In the summer of 1830, Mrs. Hemans visited Wordsworth, at Rydal Mount. And here we must again quote from her picturesque letters:-"My nervous fear at the idea of presenting myself to Mr. Wordsworth grew upon me so rapidly that it was more than seven o'clock before I took courage to leave the inn at Ambleside. I had indeed little cause for such trepidation. I was driven to a lovely cottage-like building, almost hidden by a profusion of roses and ivy; and a most benignant-looking old man greeted me in the porch. This was Mr. Wordsworth himself; and when I tell you that, having rather a large party of visitors in the house, he led me to a room apart from them, and brought in his family by degrees, I am sure this little trait will give you an idea of considerate kindness which you will both like and appreciate."

Again"I seem to be writing to you almost from the spirit-land; all

After spending above a fortnight with the venerable poet of Rydal Mount, Mrs. Hemans engaged for a few weeks a pretty little cottage on the lake called the "Dove's Nest." She writes of it:

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"I am so delighted with the spot that I scarcely know when I shall leave it. The situation is one of the deepest retirement; but the bright lake before me, with all its fairy barks and sails, glancing like things of life' over the blue waters, prevents the solitude from being overshadowed by anything like sadness."

6

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But even in this romantic seclusion Mrs. Hemans was not free from the annoyance of "lion-hunters," and she complained bitterly of the vexations to which such visitors subjected her. On quitting the Dove's Nest," late in the summer, she made another tour into Scotland. During her sojourn at Milbank Tower, she had formed a friendship with J. C. Graves, Esq., and his family, of Dublin; and by them she was induced that autumn to effect a long-projected visit to Wales, by way of Dublin and Holyhead. Not having found the neighbourhood of Wavertree to agree with her health, she determined upon taking up her permanent residence at Dublin the ensuing spring, particularly as her brother was residing in Ireland. She paid a last farewell-visit to her former home at Bronwylfa, on her return from Ireland. During Mrs. Hemans' residence near Liverpool, she enjoyed much of the society of Mr. Roscoe, the author of the "Lives of Lorenzo the

Magnificent, and Leo X." The last "The starry Galileo with his woes") winter she was in Wavertree, she took—by which he pays for his consummate lessons in music, and derived much excellence. He scarcely knows what pleasure from a newly-discovered faculty sleep is; and his nerves are wrought, of musical composition. At this time to such almost preternatural acuteness, her health began decidedly to fail, and that harsh, even common sounds, are her physician enjoined upon her "great often torture to him; he is unable somecare and perfect quiet," to prevent her times to bear a whisper in his room. disease (an affection of the heart) from His passion for music he described as assuming a dangerous character. an all-absorbing, a consuming one; in In the spring of 1831, Mrs. Hemans fact, he looks as if no other life than that removed to Dublin, and shortly after ethereal one of melody, were circulating paid a visit to her brother, Major in his veins. But, he added, with a Browne, at Kilkenny. She writes:-glow of triumph kindling through deep "The state of the country here, though sadness: Mais, c'est un don du ciel.' I Kilkenny is considered tranquil, is cer- heard all this, which was no more than tainly, to say the least of it, very ominous. I had imagined, with a still deepening We paid a visit, yesterday evening, at conviction, that it is the gifted before a clergyman's house about five miles all others—those whom the multitude hence, and found a guard of eight armed | believe to be rejoicing in their own policemen stationed at the gate; the fame, strong in their own resources— window ledges were all provided with who have most need of true hearts to great stones, for the convenience of hurl- rest upon, and of hope in God to suping down upon assailants, and the master port." of the house had not for a fortnight taken a walk without loaded pistols. You may well imagine how the boys, who are all here for the holidays, were enchanted with this agreeable state of things; indeed, I believe they were not a little disappointed that we reached home with-minant taste; and her earnest and diliout having sustained an attack from the White-feet."

Mrs. Hemans did not go into society much at Dublin. She formed, however, several very interesting friendships. Among them may be mentioned Archbishop Whateley, Sir William Hamilton, and Mr. Blanco White. It was here that she heard Paganini for the first time. She alludes to his magical performances in the following letter:-"To begin with the appearance of the foreign wonder. It is very different from what the undiscriminating newspaper accounts would lead you to suppose. He is certainly singular looking, pale, slight, and with long, neglected hair; but I saw nothing whatever of that wildfire, that almost ferocious inspiration of mien which has been ascribed to him. Indeed I thought the expression of the countenance rather that of good-nature-a mild enjouement than of anything else; and his bearing altogether simple and natural." She writes again : related to me a most interesting conversation he had had with Paganini, in a private circle. The latter was describing to him the sufferings-(do you remember a line of Byron's?

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After some reference to the increasingly delicate state of Mrs. Hemans' health, her sister remarks:-" A delight in sacred literature, and particularly in the writings of some of our old divines, became from henceforward her predo

gent study of the Scriptures was a wellspring of daily increasing comfort.

She now sought no longer to forget her trials-('a wild wish and a longing vain!' as such attempts must ever have proved)—but rather to contemplate them through the only true and reconciling medium; and that relief from sorrow and suffering for which she had once been apt to turn to the fictitious world of imagination, was now afforded her by calm and constant meditation on what can alone be called 'the things that are.'

A very pleasing incident occurred at this time. A stranger called upon Mrs, Hemans one day, while she was still very unwell and obliged to decline visits from all, except her nearest friends. He begged, however, so earnestly to see her, that refusal was impossible; and then, in terms of the deepest feeling, he expressed his warm gratitude to her, in that through reading her poem of " The Sceptic," he had passed from the darkness of infidelity to the light of faith and trust in all the infinite consolation of the Christian religion.

In 1833, Mrs. Hemans designed the plan of a volume of sacred poetry, after.

wards published under the title of "Scenes and Hymns of Life." She writes:-" I have now passed through the feverish and somewhat visionary state of mind, often connected with the passionate study of art in early life; deep affections and deep sorrows seem to have solemnized my whole being, and I even 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 no 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. When you receive my volume of 'Scenes and Hymns,' you will see what I mean by enlarging the sphere, though my plans are as yet imperfectly developed."

about this period, in consequence of an attack of fever. On her recovery she went on an excursion into Wicklow county, for change of air, but, most unfortunately, the inn to which she repaired was infected with scarlet fever, and both herself and servant "caught the contagion." On her partial convalescence she returned to Dublin; and, the same autumn, through being exposed to the evening air, she took a cold, that was followed by distressing ague attacks, from the effects of which she never more recovered. In December, for the sake of change of scene, she removed to the country residence of Archbishop Whateley, at Redesdale, which was kindly placed at her disposal. Here she writes:" My fever, though still returning at its hours, is still decidedly abated, with several of its most In 1834, the "Hymns for Childhood," exhausting accompaniments, and those the "National Lyrics," and lastly, the intense throbbing headaches have left "Scenes and Hymns of Life," were pub-me, and allowed me gradually to resume lished. All were favourably received, the inestimable resource of reading, and especially the latter. In a letter to though frequent drowsiness obliges me a friend, Mrs. Hemans observes:-"I to use it very moderately. But better find in the Athenæum' of last week, far than these indications of recovery is a brief but satisfactory notice of the the sweet religious peace, which I feel 'Scenes and Hymns.' The volume is gradually overshadowing me with its recognised as my best work, and the dove-pinions, excluding all that would course it opens out, called 'a noble path.' exclude thoughts of God. I would I My heart is growing faint. Shall I could convey to you the deep feeling of have power given me to tread that way repose and thankfulness with which I lay one Friday evening gazing from my sofa, upon a sunset sky of the richest suffusion, silvery green and amber kindling into the most glorious tints of the burning rose. I felt its holy beauty sinking through my inmost being, with an influence drawing me nearer and nearer to God."

much further?"

In the summer of the same year, Mrs. Hemans was startled and deeply affected by the news of the death of her friend, Mrs. Fletcher, late Miss Jewsbury, who died in India. The following extract from one of her letters, will best describe her state of feeling on the reception of this melancholy news:-—“ I The state of her health being rather was, indeed, deeply and permanently worse than better, Mrs. Hemans left affected by the untimely fate of one so Redesdale for her own home at Dublin, gifted and so affectionately loving me, in March, 1835. She was, henceforth, as our poor lost friend. It hung the confined to her room, and often the prey more solemnly upon my spirit, as the of acute suffering. But her soul was subject of death and the mighty future ever enwreathed with a sweet serenity, had so many times been that of our an atmosphere of joy and love— the most confidential communion. How" peace that passeth all understanding." much deeper power seemed to lie coiled Her spirit was haunted at times by up, as it were, in the recesses of her dreams of immortal beauty, as if borne mind, than were ever manifested to the by ministering angels to illumine her world in her writings! Strange and sad couch of death. She would sometimes does it seem, that only the broken music say, no poetry could express, no imaof such a spirit should have been given gination conceive the visions of blessedto the earth, the full and finished harness that flitted across her fancy." mony never drawn forth." Again, she remarked, 'I feel as if hovering between heaven and earth." She assured one of her friends that “the

Mrs. Hemans was obliged to relinquish a projected visit to England

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tenderness and affectionateness of the or less creatures of dependence.
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."

On Sunday, April 26th, she dictated her last poem to her brother. It was the "Sabbath Sonnet." Throughout her illness, she enjoyed the watchful care of her brother and sister-in-law, and was tenderly and faithfully attended by her servant, Anna Creer, a young woman of singular intelligence and warm-heartedness. On the evening of Saturday, May the 16th, 1835, the bright and gentle spirit of Felicia Hemans passed peacefully away from an earthly slumber to that divine rest which "God giveth His beloved." A simple tablet was erected to her memory, inscribed with some lines from a dirge of her own composition:

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 house beneath,
Soul to its place on high!
They that have seen thy look in death,
No more may fear to die.

Having thus taken an imperfect glance over the life-history of this sweet singer, and most aimable woman, let us proceed with a brief but comprehensive survey of the writings on which rest the foundation of her literary fame. We will endeavour to trace the connection between her life and her poetry, which we believe will be found to be attuned in perfect harmony; the one forming, as it were, a kind of complement to the other, the story of her existence, interpreting the burden of her song.

Seldom have genius and Christianity been more beautifully and intimately allied than in the case of Felicia Hemans. Religion with her was not merely a name, but a thing of life and reality. Hence it is the sweet and gentle undertone which runs through all her poetry; the rich perfume in which her most tender and refined sentiment is ever embalmed; the voice that mingles with the music of her every outburst of feeling; the fair soft light in fine which rests on each page of her writings. The gift of genius is oftimes one fatal to its possessor. Such persons are not unfrequently erratic stars. Nor is this a matter of surprise, for their position is one of peculiar trial. We are all more

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require sympathy, and we derive a pleasure from being understood and appreciated. Herein lies one of the peculiar trials of which genius is susceptible; for by its very nature it is in most instances beyond ordinary comprehension, and consequently it is unrecognised, and of course meets with but little sympathy. Thus the "loneliness amid a crowd," becomes doubly true.

Filled with high aspirations after all that is great and beautiful, the soul of genius is continually doomed to deep and bitter disappointment in this world of ours. Living in a realm of wonder and of strange mystery, the mind thus endowed is liable, in an extraordinary degree, to the assailant questionings of doubt, and the reasonings of a false philosophy. What marvel, then, if it sometimes go astray? And the method by which such minds have been too often treated acts by no means as a remedy. Oh, world! how many high spirits have been crushed, how many deep true hearts have been broken by thy cold scorn, by thy proud indifference! Better, far better it were to meet them on their ways of wandering, with words of love and of tender entreaty, and thus gently to guide them into the "paths of peace" and of blessedness, to enchant them by a vision of beauty, fairer than their brightest dreams, and to fill their thirsting spirits with all the joybreathing harmonies of the truth eternal.

Many are the dark histories unveiled by the chronicles of genius. We have the sad record of a Chatterton

The marvellous boy,
The sleepless soul who perished in his pride.

And a Byron, like another Cain, wan-
dering over land and sea, seeking rest,
and finding none. And a Keats, "true
prophet of the beautiful," bending be-
neath the weight of ungenerous criticism,
like a surcharged lily, to his Roman grave.
Here, too, is the "star-eyed" Alastor,
with his fair locks disparted Greek-wise
over his pale forehead, shipwrecked amid
the billows of a cold despair.

Lucretius nobler than his mood,

Who cast his plummet down the broad Deep universe, and said, "No God!" Such stories make us sad. We look upon these highly-gifted souls with an admiration mingled with much trembling. We reflect on what they might have been, compared, alas! with what