wine with another. Ardent and irascible by nature, he was neither jealous of his friends nor vindictive to his enemies. Voltaire wronged him and never made amends, but he did justice to Voltaire. "He could hate him," says a French biographer, "without insulting him." His health was usually equal, though weak, and while abhorring the idea of a physician, he often imagined himself ill. The toil of the pen was irksome to one who loved so much to be breathing freedom on the mountains, to be pulling flowers in the vales, to be musing poetically in the woods. Spots that were beautiful he never ceased to remember, and hours that were happy his fancy dwelt on, as though they were to him a fountain of perpetual joy. Yet he also lingered over every melancholy souvenir, until the tone of his mind was sad, and he complained continually of the solitude of desolation. " The genius of Rousseau, however, is that which has made his apotheosis. It was rare, commanding, enormous. It grasped and penetrated the most portentous problems of philosophy; it inspired and excited a whole people; it made itself felt through Europe; and it left a response to the inquiries of every future age. So vast was its range; so varied were the objects of its comprehension; so luminous was the atmosphere it created for itself, that the profoundest minds, and minds the most humble, found in its works something to remember and to admire. There never was a writer more eloquent in his pleas for the liberty of man; there never was one more dangerous to the false and corrupted system which, by the aid of a confederate imposture, loaded the people of France. Daring always, and sometimes reckless, Rousseau feared no opinions; but formed his own, and expressed them whatever they were. Especially did he aim at refuting the old lies which knit together the gradations of French society, instead of harmonizing them by a beautiful assimilation into a proportioned and perfect whole. Full of enthusiasm and of eloquence, he coloured his declamation with the most brilliant fancies; and persuasive forms. A familiar pathos, a melancholy at once passionate and egotistical, a sympathy with nature approaching to Pagan adoration, enriched those fluent effusions of lyrical prose which were then a marvel and are now a glory to the literature of France. No feeling mind ever dwelt without emotion on those passionate fragments which embalm the griefs he endured, Politically, Rousseau was the oracle of hope to an abased and harassed land; religiously, he was the foe, the dignified and respectful foe, but still the foe, of Christianity; morally, he was his own victim, and a problem to all other men. Intellectually, he was the most splendid genius of the century. The writing of the "Confessions can never be too much regretted. Pity it is that Rous-wrought his reasoning into the most seau did not bury with himself the record of crimes that otherwise need never have been revealed. The lesson they convey is not worth the harm that one page of the grosser parts must cause in the incautious reader's mind. Purified of these wretched episodes, they might have remained a romantic and historical treasure of the times in which their author lived, but, as it is, the truth cannot be concealed that their influence is viti-and the deep agony of sorrow and reating on the morality, literature, and sentiments of the country. They are, nevertheless, for candour and simplicity, superior to all other writings of the kind. The Confessions of Montaigne are neither so fresh, so faithful, nor so interesting. Those of Chateaubriand have all the egotism, without the genius which gives a grace even to egotism itself. Evelyn's are equally honest, though they have nothing disgraceful to reveal, but they are bald and feeble; while Pepys, with all his frankness, all his vanity, and all his cunning, was nothing but a truckling impostor, participating in the grossness of a vulgar age, morse which perpetually came like the phantom of Nemesis to darken his solitude and to break his sleep. His eloquence was at once poured forth, as if from inspiration, and polished with an art the most delicate and pure. The pomp of Bossuet's diction, the glossy bloom, if we may so speak, of Racine's, the glittering staccatoes of style by which some of the livelier writers of that country played with the resources of their mother tongue, are wanting in the works of Rousseau; but for the easy, full, pure expression of elevated and beautiful ideas; the embodiment of the feelings in their own best language which is that of pastoral simplicity; the shadowing forth of philosophy in clear and majestic eloquence, he remains unrivalled among the ornaments of letters in a distinguished age. He was great, and he was partly good, and if we must despise some of his acts, while we pity his unhappiness, let us remember that while he lived he suffered misery enough to atone for the offences of a man far worse than he. FELICIA HEMANS. AMONG the many lady writers of the present century, few have higher claims upon our gratitude and regard than FELICIA HEMANS. The hearts and "homes of merry England" have often been charmed by the music of her plaintive melodies, sublimated by their lofty moral tone, ennobled and refined by their gentle teachings of faith, and of love; and their holy aspirations after all that is beautiful and true. The poetry of Mrs. Hemans may not possess the intellectuality, the massive power, the deep earnestness, the beauty, which distinguish that of Mrs. Barrett Browning; nevertheless it is full of sweetness and gentleness, and of a soft, subdued enthusiasm, breathing, moreover, throughout such a trusting and affectionate spirit, that it must ever find a welcome and a rest in all true, loving hearts. Felicia Dorothea Browne was the daughter of an eminent merchant of Liverpool. She was the fifth of seven children, and born on the 25th of September, 1793. While she was still very | young, her father suffered a reverse of fortune, and consequently left Liverpool with his family, to reside in Wales. Here, in the deep seclusion of a romantic country, in a fine old mansion at Gwrych, in Denbighshire, Felicia Browne spent many happy years of childhood. The wild far-distant murmurs of the "solemn sea," with its teachings of the grand and the infinite, the soft, undefinable whisperings of the free, green woodland, the song of birds, the fall of waters, the changeful skies, and all the endless variety of mountain scenery, early inspired her with an intense love and sincerest reverence for nature, that silent, but ever true, and noble educator of the poet's soul. She was early distinguished by mental precocity. At six years of age Shakspere was the companion of her solitude; and many a pleasant hour she passed in sweet communion with the lofty spirits of old, in a rustic seat she had chosen amid the boughs of an old apple tree. She was a rapid reader, and her fine memory easily retained whole pages of poetry after having only once read them over. Her juvenile studies were superintended by her mother-a noble-minded woman of high intelligence, and sweet simplicity of character, and of a calm cheerful temperament-in every way admirably adapted for the guidance of a spirit so bright and beautiful, so exquisitely sensitive as that of the young Felicia. And in after years when the wreath of fame encircled the fair brows of the poetess, she turned from the world's praises to the soft glance of those beloved eyes, and felt that her best reward still lay in the glad, approving smile of the dear face "that on her childhood shone." When about eleven years of age, she spent a winter in London with her parents; and the following year repeated the visit--and this was the last time of her sojourn in the great metropolis. The contrast between the confinement of a town life, and the bright, happy freedom of the country, was by no means pleasing to her. She longed most earnestly to return to her romantic home among the mountains of Wales; and again to join in the merry sports of her younger brothers and sisters. We can well imagine how distasteful the noise and hurry of London life, the crowded streets, the cloudy atmosphere, would prove to the fair child of the hill and the forest; how she would miss the sweet music of nature, the rich melody of birds, the mountain echoes, the woodland murmurs; but most of all the fresh, pure air, and the clear, bright, open skies. Many things, however, she saw during these London visits, which ever remained most vividly impressed upon her remembrance. Collections of art were objects of her especial interest. On entering a hall of sculptures she exclaimed, "Oh, hush!-don't speak;" well knowing that the spirit of the place was silence. Felicia Browne was not more than fourteen years old when her first volume of poems was published, in the form of a quarto volume. It was very severely criticised, and although, at first, the young poetess felt much depressed, she soon recovered from the effects of this harsh judgment, and again poured forth her melodies in strains more rich and varied than before. One of her brothers was then serving in Spain, under Sir John Moore, and of course her enthusiasm was enlisted on his behalf, and visions of military glory, and scenes of martial heroism became at this time the sources of her poetic inspiration. The commencement of her acquaintance with Captain Hemans dates from about this period. On his first introduction to the family at Gwrych, Felicia was a lovely girl of fifteen-with rich golden ringlets shading a fair face of radiant and changeful expression. She was a dream of delight, a vision of beauty, a creature all poetry, romance, and enthusiasm, in the first bright flush of the sunshine of life, and as such she was eminently calculated to inspire sentiments of admiration, of devotion, and of love. Captain Hemans pleaded eloquently, and received in return the first affection, deep, and sincere, of that warm young heart. Her friends trusted this might be only a fleeting fancy, but it proved on the contrary a constant one, although Captain Hemans was immediately ordered to embark with his regiment for Spain, and Felicia did not see him again for three years. Mr. Browne removed with his family to Bronwylfa, near St. Asaph's, Flintshire, in 1809. Here our poetess entered upon new studies with her accustomed ardour. She read Spanish and Portuguese, and commenced the study of German, although it was long years after this before she drank in the spirit of the latter language with thorough appreciative enjoyment. She possessed some taste for drawing, and had a decided talent for music, which ever powerfully influenced her highly susceptible mind. The strains she preferred were chiefly of a pensive character. The simplest national melodies had a charm for her-the wild airs of Ireland and of Wales, the pathetic ballad lays of Scotland, and the melancholy, but chivalrous songs of Spain Strange and mysterious is the power of music when heard in some fair Gothic minster, with the fading light of eve falling through the stained windows with no step to disturb the shadowy aisles, and the white immortal statues standing out dim in the twilight. Then indeed we seem to be near the spiritland. The glory streams through the golden gates, we half see the flashing of the star-gemmed diadems, for truly and indeed we hear the angel voices. But it is too much. The spirit faints beneath the weight of too divine a joy, and as the caged bird beats vainly against her prison-bars, such in that intoxicating moment are the soul's wild efforts to attain the real, the infinite, the true. In after years there were times when Mrs. Hemans found music too painfully exciting, and the voice of her heart reechoed to the exclamation of Jean Paul's immortal old man;-" Away! away! Thou speakest of things which throughout my endless life I have found not, and shall not find!" About this time Felicia Browne en joyed much pleasant intercourse with some friends at Conway; and the beautiful scenery by which she was surrounded, was a fount of constant and never-failing inspiration. Here she became acquainted with Mr. Edwards, the blind harper of Conway, to whom she addressed some spirited stanzas:— Minstrel, whose gifted hand can bring, Thine is the charm, suspending care, That lulls each passion to repose; In 1812 appeared the "Domestic Affections, and other Poems," and during the same year the marriage of the poetess with Captain Hemans took place. They went to reside at Daventry for a year, where their eldest son was born. Mrs. Hemans regretted bitterly the change of residence from the mountain the best poem on the "Meeting of land to so flat and uninteresting a Wallace and Bruce on the banks of country; and with exceeding delight the Carron." The prize being awarded she returned to Bronwylfa with her to her was a pleasing surprise to Mrs. husband the following year. Here she Hemans, as she had not the slightest resided with her mother until the death expectation of obtaining it, for the numof that true and devoted friend. Her ber of competitors was perfectly overfather sometime previously had again whelming. In the spring of 1820 she engaged in commerce, and emigrated to was introduced to Bishop (then Mr.) Quebec where he died. Mrs. Hemans' Heber, whose eminent literary taste residence at Bronwylfa was passed in proved of material service to her in the the strictest retirement, and entire con- course of her poetical career. secration to study and the requirements Mrs. Hemans was employed at that of her family. She had five sons, and time upon a poem, entitled, "Supersti her attention was necessarily directed tion and Revelation," which was intowards their education. In 1818 she tended to comprehend a great variety of published a collection of translations, subjects. Everything relative to the and afterwards in rapid succession, graceful and sportive fictions of ancient "The Restoration of the Works of Art Greece and Italy; the ruder beliefs of to Italy," "Modern Greece," "Tales uncultivated climes; the Hindoo rites; and Historic Scenes." It was about the worship of the sun, moon, and stars, this period that Captain Hemans re- was to be laid under contribution; but moved to Rome, to try the restorative of this extensive plan only a frageffects of the warm climate of the South mentary portion was ever completed. upon his health, which had become im- This poem is alluded to in the following paired by the vicissitudes of a soldier's extract from a letter on the commencelife. He made Rome his permanent ment of Mrs. Heman's acquaintance abode, and Mrs. Hemans never saw him with Heber: "I am more delighted with again. To quote the words of her Mr. Heber than I can possibly tell you; sister: "It has been alleged, and with his conversation is quite rich with anecperfect truth, that the literary pursuits dote, and every subject on which he of Mrs. Hemans, and the education of speaks had been, you would imagine, her children, made it more eligible for the sole study of his life. In short his her to remain under the maternal roof society has made much the same sort than to accompany her husband to of impression on my mind that the Italy. It is, however, unfortunately first perusal of Ivanhoe' did; and but too well known that such were not was something so perfectly new to me the only reasons which led to this that I can hardly talk of anything else. divided course. To dwell on this sub-I had a very long conversation with ject would be unnecessarily painful, yet him on the subject of the poem, which it must be stated that nothing like a permanent separation was contemplated at the time, nor did it ever amount to more than a tacit conventional arrangement, which offered no obstacle to the frequent interchange of letters, nor to a constant reference to their father in all things relating to the disposal of her boys. But years rolled on, seventeen years of absence, and consequently alienation, and from that time to the hour of her death Mrs. Hemans and her husband never met again." The increasing popularity of her writings brought her many new friends, among whom none more valued than Dr. Luxmore, bishop of St. Asaph's. He took great interest in her poem "The Sceptic," which made its appearance in 1820. Just before this publication she obtained the prize of fifty pounds for he read aloud and commented upon as he proceeded. His manner was so entirely that of a friend, that I felt perfectly at ease, and did not hesitate to express all my own ideas and opinions on the subject, even where they did not exactly coincide with his own.' In the autumn of 1820 Mrs. Hemans paid a visit to the family circle of Henry Park, Esq., Wavertree Lodge, near Liverpool. Here she writes: "I cannot tell you how much I have enjoyed the novelty of all the objects around me. The pastoral seclusion and tranquillity of the life I have led for the last seven or eight years had left my mind in that state of blissful ignorance, particularly calculated to render every new impression an agreeable one; and accordingly Mr. Kean, casts from the Elgin marbles, and the tropical plants in the Botanic gardens, have all in turn been the objects of my wondering admiration." It was while visiting these kind friends that the jeu d'esprit was written with reference to the word "Barb,"-a gentleman having requested Mrs. Hemans to supply him with some precedents from old English writers, proving the use of the word as applied to a steed. The following imitations were the result of his inquiry, and the forgery was not discovered until after some time. The warrior donn'd his well-worn garb, Percy's Reliques. Eftsoons the wight withouten more delay, Spurr'd his brown barb, and rode full swiftly on his way. Spenser. Hark! was it not the trumpet's voice I heard? The soul of battle is awake within me! Base, idle grooms! Are ye in league against me? Haste with my barb, or by the holy saints, Why he can heel the lavolt, and wind a fiery barb, as well as any gallant in Christendom. He's the very pink and mirror of accomplishment. Shakspere. Fair star of beauty's heaven! to call thee mine, For the poor shepherd's crook and daisied field. For courts or camps no wish my soul would prove, So thou wouldst live with me and be my love! Earl of Surrey's Poems, For thy dear love my weary soul hath grown Or knightly tilt when steel-clad champions meet, Borne on impetuous barbs, to bleed at beauty's feet.-Shakspere's Sonnets. As a warrior clad In sable arms, like Chaos grim and sad, Whose radiant heavenly ark, E'en more than doubly dark, In 1821, Mrs. Hemans obtained the prize offered by the Royal Society of Literature for the best poem on the subject of Dartmoor. An extract from one of her letters at this period pleasingly illustrates the bright sunshine of joy which ever lit up her family circle on the occasion of her literary successes: "What with surprise, bustle, and pleasure, I am really almost bewildered. I wish you had but seen the children when the prize was announced to them yesterday. Arthur, you know, had so set his heart upon it, that he was quite troublesome with his constant inquiries on the subject. He sprang up from his Latin exercises, and shouted aloud, Now, I am sure mamma is a better poet than Lord Byron! Their acclamations were actually deafening, and George said, that the excess of his pleasure had really given him a headache." 6 In The next production of Mrs. Hemans was the " Vespers of Palermo," a tragedy, which she was induced to offer for the stage, through the kind encouragement of Bishop Heber and Mr. Milman. This step occasioned her considerable anxiety as to its ultimate success. not been able, I am sorry to say, to pay a letter to a friend, she writes:-"I have the least attention to my Welsh studies since your departure. I am so fearful of not having the copying of the tragedy completed by the time my brother and sister return, and I have such a variety of nursery interruptions, that what with the murdered Provençals, George's new clothes, Mr. Morehead's Edinburgh Magazine, Arthur's cough, and his Easter holidays, besides the dozen little riots which occur in my colony every day, my ideas are sometimes in such a state of rotatory motion that it is with difficulty I can reduce them to any sort of order." Some time about this period the return of her sister from Germany, and a large stock of books sent her by her brother from Vienna, supplied her with inducements to return to her German studies with increased ardour and interest. This magnificent language soon opened to her delighted mind a perfectly new world of feeling, of thought, and |