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forehead of the dying man, helped to place him again on the couch. She put her hands within his, he clasped them firmly; the warmth of affection was lingering in them still, and then, leaning his face forward towards her bosom, he died.

It was long believed, and there are many who still credit the story, that Rousseau put poison into his coffee, or shot himself with a pistol. The evidence on both sides is voluminous, and minute. I cannot analyze it now; but I think his death was not by suicide; and it is, perhaps, unjust to disbelieve Therese, his wife, when, before God and man, she declares that Rousseau died in her arms, of a natural malady. With this the principal testimonies concur.

far more that is profoundly philosophical. Its theory is that man is born good, and is corrupted by civilization. In the "Savoyard Profession," and the "Letters from the Mountain," there is the fatal infidelity displayed, but never made loathsome by those horrible phrases with which Voltaire sometimes degraded his pen. It is, however, in the "Nouvelle Heloise," that we find the secret of the immense popularity of Rousseau in France. Its passion, its tenderness, its dreamy grace, its emotion, its rich painting of the action of love, its sweet diction, and the softness and beauty of Julie, render it one of the most brilliant and seductive visions of romance that ever the fancy conceived. The "Contrat Social" is of quite another order, and is filled with political wisdom, the maxims of which are gradually perme

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After Rousseau's death a great coinage of libels took place, which continued long to circulate, as if the offences heating through the mass of the intellidid commit were not sufficient to degrade gent people of France. There, indeed. his memory. From the ink-pot of a the justice and the honour accorded to scribe, skulking under the anonymous men, and to works such as Rousseau's, in the Drapeau Blanc, to the lips of and the "Contrat Social" is far greater Napoleon himself, all the sources of than in England. They manage these falsehood were opened to pour out vitu- things better in France," says Mr. St. peration upon the philosopher of Geneva. John in his delightful "Isis," "where But France, in the fervour of her re- Corneille, and Racine, Montesquieu, volution, did justice to his name. He Voltaire, and Jean Jacques Rousseau, was decreed a statue, and his statue was monopolize a far larger amount of the decreed a crown. Therese was accorded feeling and admiration of the country a pension from the State; and the nation, than all the kings since Pepin. Turenne, by reading and applauding the works of Condé, Vendome, and Catinat, are faRousseau, gave him, in this honouring miliar only to the historical student, voice, the most splendid tribute that but the author of the 'Contrat Social' their gratitude could bestow, or thathis lives in the very heart of the people: genius could receive: his fame constantly expanding with their expanding intelligence.

The proof and echo of all human fame,
A people's loud acclaim.

Rousseau was first buried in the Isle of Poplars, at Ermonville. There on his empty tomb may still be read the inscription, which was at once his motto and his epitaph:

Vitam impendere vero. But in October, 1794, his remains were removed, to be deposited in the vaults of the Pantheon, where they now lie near those of Voltaire. On the stone is inscribed:

Ici repose l'homme de la nature et de la verité.

Of the works of Rousseau no critical description can now be attempted. The "Essay on Inequality" is a brilliant picture of a state of society which never could have existed. There is much that is equally visionary in the "Emile," but

Who,

therefore, would not rather have been Jean Jacques Rousseau than Sesostris, or Rameses, or whatever else the learned please to call him?"

The character of this man, exhibited in the actions of his life, is a strange study for the theorist on human nature. His was an irregular, convulsive career; his was a vast, but wild and mystic genius; his was a fate partly the most happy, and partly the most miserable that can be imagined. He had vices, and the most secret of his vices he himself made known; but he possessed also virtues, not unworthy of an heroic age. Simple and frugal, his intellectual ambition aspired out of sight of the meaner appetites of man. While his works were enriching the libraries of Europe, he drank water at one repast that he might be able to have a little unmingled

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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 Politically, Rousseau was the oracle expressed them whatever they were. of hope to an abased and harassed land; Especially did he aim at refuting the religiously, he was the foe, the dignified old lies which knit together the gradaand respectful foe, but still the foe, of tions of French society, instead of harChristianity; morally, he was his own monizing them by a beautiful assimilavictim, and a problem to all other men. tion into a proportioned and perfect Intellectually, he was the most splendid whole. Full of enthusiasm and of elogenius of the century. The writing of quence, he coloured his declamation the "Confessions" can never be too with the most brilliant fancies; and much regretted. Pity it is that Rous-wrought his reasoning into the most seau did not bury with himself the re- persuasive forms. A familiar pathos, a cord of crimes that otherwise need never melancholy at once passionate and egohave been revealed. The lesson they tistical, a sympathy with nature apconvey is not worth the harm that one proaching to Pagan adoration, enriched page of the grosser parts must cause in those fluent effusions of lyrical prose the incautious reader's mind. Purified which were then a marvel and are now of these wretched episodes, they might a glory to the literature of France. No have remained a romantic and historical feeling mind ever dwelt without emotreasure of the times in which their author tion on those passionate fragments lived, but, as it is, the truth cannot be which embalm the griefs he endured, 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 Sep tember, 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 houghs 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 simpli city 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 sen sitive 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;"

were especial favourites. And well can
we imagine the strange, entranced awe,
with which she would listen to the deep
impressiveness of the cathedral service
with its thrilling accompaniments;
When the depth profound of the solemn fane re-

echoed sacred story.

And one sweet voice heard lone and clear, called

on the Lord of Glory!

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 Strange and mysterious is the power of strains more rich and varied than be-music when heard in some fair Gothic fore. One of her brothers was then minster, with the fading light of eve serving in Spain, under Sir John Moore, falling through the stained windows and of course her enthusiasm was en- with no step to disturb the shadowy listed on his behalf, and visions of mili- aisles, and the white immortal statues tary glory, and scenes of martial he- standing out dim in the twilight. Then roism became at this time the sources indeed we seem to be near the spiritof her poetic inspiration. land. 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. 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.

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.

But

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

Minstrel, whose gifted hand can bring,
Life, rapture, soul from every string;
And wake, like bards of former time,
The spirit of the harp sublime;

Oh! still prolong the varying strain,
Oh! touch th' enchanted chords again.

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 beMr. Browne removed with his family came acquainted with Mr. Edwards, the to Bronwylfa, near St. Asaph's, Flint-blind harper of Conway, to whom she shire, in 1809. Here our poetess addressed some spirited stanzas: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 pre- In 1812 appeared the "Domestic ferred were chiefly of a pensive charac- Affections, and other Poems," and durter. The simplest national melodies ing the same year the marriage of the had a charm for her-the wild airs of poetess with Captain Hemans took place. Ireland and of Wales, the pathetic bal- They went to reside at Daventry for a lad lays of Scotland, and the melan-year, where their eldest son was born. choly, but chivalrous songs of Spain Mrs. Hemans regretted bitterly the

Thine is the charm, suspending care,
The heavenly swell, the dying close,
The cadence melting into air,

That lulls each passion to repose;
While transport lost in silence near,
Breathes all her language in a tear.

ber of competitors was perfectly overwhelming. In the spring of 1820 she was introduced to Bishop (then Mr.) Heber, whose eminent literary taste proved of material service to her in 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 num of that true and devoted friend. Her father sometime previously had again engaged in commerce, and emigrated to Quebec where he died. Mrs. Hemans' residence at Bronwylfa was passed in the strictest retirement, and entire con-course of her poetical career. secration to study and the requirements of her family. She had five sons, and her attention was necessarily directed towards their education. In 1818 she published a collection of translations, and afterwards in rapid succession, "The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy," "Modern Greece," "Tales and Historic Scenes." It was about this period that Captain Hemans removed to Rome, to try the restorative effects of the warm climate of the South upon his health, which had become impaired by the vicissitudes of a soldier's life. He made Rome his permanent abode, and Mrs. Hemans never saw him again. To quote the words of her sister: "It has been alleged, and with perfect truth, that the literary pursuits of Mrs. Hemans, and the education of her children, made it more eligible for her to remain under the maternal roof than to accompany her husband to Italy. It is, however, unfortunately but too well known that such were not the only reasons which led to this divided course. To dwell on this subject would be unnecessarily painful, yet 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

Mrs. Hemans was employed at that time upon a poem, entitled, "Supersti tion and Revelation," which was intended to comprehend a great variety of subjects. Everything relative to the graceful and sportive fictions of ancient Greece and Italy; the ruder beliefs of uncultivated climes; the Hindoo rites; the worship of the sun, moon, and stars, was to be laid under contribution; but of this extensive plan only a fragmentary portion was ever completed. This poem is alluded to in the following extract from a letter on the commencement of Mrs. Heman's acquaintance with Heber: "I am more delighted with Mr. Heber than I can possibly tell you; his conversation is quite rich with anecdote, and every subject on which he speaks had been, you would imagine, the sole study of his life. In short his society has made much the same sort of impression on my mind that the first perusal of Ivanhoe' did; and was something so perfectly new to me that I can hardly talk of anything else. I had a very long conversation with him on the subject of the poem, which 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.'

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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

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