been so delicate, and at all times required innumerable precautions, of which she was painfully regardless, now began to give token of alarming fragility. The inflammatory symptoms to which she had always had a tendency, recurred with unwonted frequency, and she became liable to attacks of palpitation of the heart, and distressing pain at the chest. These would cause for a time complete and rapid prostration of strength; and then, with that natural elasticity for which her constitution was so remarkable, there would be an equally sudden reaction, and she would seem, for a season, to have shaken off all disquieting symptoms. This tremulous state of health was naturally accompanied by corresponding fluctuations of spirits; and their fitful gaiety, through which an under cur ing perplexities, he often looks back to her grave with a feeling to which all bosoms must respond. See, for example, the preface to his Mutter der Makkabäer, written at Vienna in 1819. The tone of still, but deep and heartfelt sadness, which runs through the whole of this piece, cannot be communicated in extracts. We quote only a half stanza, which, except in prose, we shall not venture to translate. 'Ich, dem der Liebe Kosen, Und alle Frendenrosen, Am Muttergrab entflohn.' 'I, for whom the caresses of love, and all roses of joy withered away, as the first shovel with its mould sounded on the coffin of my mother.' "The date of her decease became a memorable era in his mind, as may appear from the title which he gave long afterwards to one of his most popular and tragical productions-Die vier-und-zwanzigste Februar.” rent of sadness might always be traced, was almost more melancholy than their frequent depression. "My spirits"-thus she wrote of herself-" are as variable as the lights and shadows now flitting with the wind over the high grass, and sometimes the tears gush into my eyes when I can scarcely define the cause.” And in another letter of the same period—“ My health is quite renewed, and my spirits, though variable, are often all that they used to be. I am a strange being, I think. I put myself in mind of an Irish melody, sometimes, with its quick and wild transitions from sadness to gaiety." This comparison was from her a very expressive one, as she had always a peculiar feeling for Irish music. "There breathes through it" (she once wrote, and would often say,) "or perhaps I imagine all this—a mingling of exultation and despondence, like funeral strains with revelry, a something unconquerable, yet mournful, which interests me deeply." Even yet more applicable to these “ mental lights and shades" are the similes in that wellknown passage from the works of Mrs. Joanna Baillie, which she loved no less for its beauty, than from feeling how appropriately it might have been written for herself. "Didst thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast, In the sunn'd glimpses of a stormy day, Shiver in silver brightness? Or boatman's oar as vivid lightning flash One hasty glance, in mockery of the night, A few original fragments found after Mrs. Hemans's death in one of her MS. books, may here be given as belonging to this date. 66 Oh, that we could but fix upon one eternal and unchangeable Being, the affections which here we pour forth, a wasted treasure, upon the dust! But they are of the earth, earthy;' they cling with vain devotedness to mortal idols; how often to be thrown back upon our own hearts, and to press them down with a weight of voiceless thoughts,' and of feelings which find no answer in the world!" "Oh, that the mind could throw from it the burthen of the past for ever! Why is it that voices and tones and looks, which have passed away, come over us with a suddenness and intenseness of remembrance which make the heart die within us, and the eyes overflow with fruitless tears? Who shall explain the mysteries of the world within ?" "As the hart panteth for the water-brooks,' or as the captive for the free air of Heaven, so does the ardent spirit for the mingling of thought with thought, -for the full and deep communion of kindred natures. The common, every-day intercourse of human beings -how poor it is how heartless!-how much more 'From the Tragedy of Orra. does it oppress the mind with a sense of loneliness, than the deepest solitude of majestic nature! Can it indeed be, that this world has nothing higher, nobler, more thrilling? and the thousands of minds that seem to dwell contented within this narrow circle, do they dream of nothing beyond? I often ask myself this question in what we call society, and what should be the answering thought? I thank thee that I am not as this man ;' or, Surely this man is happier than I!' Yet, when a sudden spark of congenial thought or feeling seems to be struck from the mind of another by our own, is not the joy so great as almost to compensate for hours and days of weariness? Is it not like the swift breaking in of sunshine through the glades of a forest, sending gladness to their very depths? Yes;-but few and far between' are such moments; widely severed the fresh fountains at which we drink strength and hope, to bear us on through the desert beyond." "How the name of love is profaned in this world! Truly does Lord Byron call 'circumstance' an 'unspiritual God.' What strange coarse ties,-coarse but not strong,―one daily sees him forming !—not of the "silver cords" of the heart, but of the homely housewifely worsted of interest-convenience-economical consideration. One wonders how they are to resist the wear and tear of life, or how those whom they link together are to be held side by side through sorrow, difficulty, disappointment, without the strong affection which 'overcometh all things,' and ennobles all things- even the humblest offices performed in attendance at the sick-bed of one we love. What work, what sacrifice is there which a deep, true, powerful feeling cannot dignify?" "Is not the propensity of ardent and affectionate natures to love and trust, though disappointed again and again, as a perpetual spring in the heart, ever throwing out fresh buds and flowers, though but to be nipped by the killing frost?'-Far better thus, than to be bound in the lifelessness of winter." "What is fame to a heart yearning for affection, and finding it not? Is it not as a triumphal crown to the brow of one parched with fever, and asking for one fresh healthful draught - the cup of cold water?'"' 6 "Is it real affliction-ill health-disappointmentor the craving void that aches within the breast' for sympathies which perhaps earth does not afford-that weans us most from life?-I think the latter. If we could only lie down to die as to sleep, how few would not willingly throw off what Wordsworth calls -The weight Of all this unintelligible world!' and 'flee away, and be at rest.'' "The ancients feared death;- we, thanks to Christianity, fear only dying;' so says the author of the Guesses at Truth, and surely it is even so. I, that have seen a spirit pass away in sleep, in soft and solemn repose that almost melted into death, should |