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on Wednesday evening; dying, as he had lived, without much trouble. He boasted himself a descendant from mighty ancestors of that name, who heretofore held ducal dignities in this realm. In his actions and sentiments he belied not the stock to which he pretended. Early in life he found himself invested with ample revenues; which, with that noble disinterestedness which I have noticed as inherent in men of the great race, he took almost immediate measures entirely to dissipate and bring to nothing: for there is something revolting in the idea of a king holding a private purse; and the thoughts of Bigod were all regal. Thus furnished by the very act of disfurnishment; getting rid of the cumbersome luggage of riches, more apt (as one sings)

To slacken virtue, and abate her edge,

Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise,

he set forth, like some Alexander, upon his great enterprise, "borrowing and to borrow!"

In his periegesis, or triumphant progress throughout this island, it has been calculated that he laid a tythe part of the inhabitants under contribution. I reject this estimate as greatly exaggerated: but having had the honor of accompanying my friend divers times, in his perambulations about this vast city, I own I was greatly struck at first with the prodigious number of faces we met, who claimed a sort of respectful acquaintance with us. He was one day so obliging as to explain the phenomenon. It seems, these were his tributaries; feeders of his exchequer; gentlemen, his good friends (as he was pleased to express himself), to whom he had occasionally been beholden for a loan. Their multitudes did no way disconcert him. He rather took a pride in numbering them; and, with Comus, seemed pleased to be "stocked with so fair a herd."

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With such sources, it was a wonder how he contrived to keep his treasury always empty. He did it by force of an aphorism, which he had often in his mouth, that "money kept longer than three days stinks." So he made use of it while it was fresh. good part he drank away (for he was an excellent toss-pot); some he gave away, the rest he threw away, literally tossing and hurling it violently from him-as boys do burrs, or as if it had been infectious-into ponds, or ditches, or deep holes, inscrutable cavities of the earth; or he would bury it (where he would never seek it again) by a river's side under some bank, which (he would facetiously observe) paid no interest-but out away from him it must go peremptorily, as Hagar's offspring into the wilderness, while it was sweet. He never missed it. The streams were pe

rennial which fed his fisc. the first person that had the felicity to fall in with him, friend or stranger, was sure to contribute to the deficiency. For Bigod had an undeniable way with him. He had a cheerful, open exterior, a quick, jovial eye, a bald forehead, just touched with gray (cana fides). He anticipated no excuse, and found none. And, waiving for a while my theory as to the great race, I would put it to the most untheorizing reader, who may at times have disposable coin in his pocket, whether it is not more repugnant to the kindliness of his nature to refuse such a one as I am describing, than to say no to a poor petitionary rogue (your bastard borrower), who, by his mumping visnomy, tells you that he expects nothing better; and, therefore, whose preconceived notions and expectations you do in reality so much less shock in the refusal.

When new supplies became necessary,

When I think of this man; his fiery glow of heart; his swell of feeling; how magnificent, how ideal he was; how great at the midnight hour; and when I compare with him the companions with whom I have associated since, I grudge the saving of a few idle ducats, and think that I am fallen into the society of lenders, and little men.

The following is a portion of a letter to Coleridge, in which he most beautifully pours forth his feelings of

FILIAL AFFECTION.

I am wedded, Coleridge, to the fortunes of my sister and my poor old father. O! my friend, I think sometimes, could I recall the days that are past, which among them should I choose? Not those "merrier days," not the "pleasant days of hope," not "those wanderings with a fair-haired maid," which I have so often and so feelingly regretted, but the days, Coleridge, of a mother's fondness for her schoolboy. What would I give to call her back to earth for one day, on my knees to ask her pardon for all those little asperities of temper which, from time to time, have given her gentle spirit pain! And the day, my friend, I trust, will come; there will be "time enough" for kind offices of love, if "Heaven's eternal year" be ours. Hereafter, her meek spirit shall not reproach me. O, my friend, cultivate the filial feelings! and let no man think himself released from the kind "charities" of relationship; these shall give him peace at the last: these are the best foundation for every species of benevolence. I rejoice to hear, by certain channels, that you, my friend, are reconciled with all your

relations. 'Tis the most kindly and natural species of love, and we have all the associated train of early feelings to secure its strength and perpetuity.

FELICIA HEMANS, 1793-1835.

FELICIA DOROTHEA BROWNE was the daughter of a Liverpool merchant, and was born on the 25th of September, 1793. From her earliest years she was remarkable for her extreme beauty and precocious talent. At the age of seven, her father was unsuccessful in business and removed to Wales. Here the young poetess passed a happy childhood, and here she imbibed that intense love of nature which ever afterwards "haunted her like a passion." She early began to court the Muse, and in 1808 a volume of her poems was published; but it was not received with much favor. This, however, did not discourage her, and she continued to write. In 1812, another volume, entitled "The Domestic Affections, and other Poems," was given to the world—the last that was to appear under her maiden name, for in the summer of that year she exchanged it for the one by which she is generally known, her youthful fancy having been captivated by the martial appearance and military dress of a Captain Hemans, of the army. The match proved a very unhappy one, and after they had lived together six years, in 1818 Captain Hemans, whose health had been impaired by a military life, determined to try the effects of a southern climate, and went to Italy. Mrs. Hemans, with her five boys, repaired to her maternal roof, and the two never met again. She continued her studies in her rural retreat, acquiring several languages, and in 1819 obtained a prize of £50 for the best poem upon Sir William Wallace. In 1820, she published the "Skeptic," which was favorably noticed in the "Edinburgh Monthly Magazine." In June, 1821, she obtained the prize awarded by the Royal Society of Literature for the best poem on the subject of "Dartmoor."1 "The Voice of Spring," perhaps the best known and the best loved of all her lyrics, was written early in the year 1823. In the latter part of the same year, she published "The Vespers of Palermo," a tragedy, which was considered a failure; and in 1826 appeared her best poem, "The Forest Sanctuary," which was brought out in conjunction with the "Lays of Many Lands." Every successive year brought fresh proofs of her widely-extending fame. In 1828, having suffered the loss of her mother

In a letter to a friend on the occasion, she thus pleasantly writes: "What with surprise, bustle, and pleasure, I am really almost bewildered. I wish you could have seen the children when the prize was announced to them yesterday. Arthur sprang from his Latin Exercise,' and shouted, 'Now I am sure mamma is a better poet than Lord Byron.'"

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an affliction which went down into the very depths of her soul--she removed to Wavertree, near Liverpool, and soon gave to the world "Lays of Leisure Hours," National Lyrics," and other poems. In 1829, she made a visit to Scotland, and was most cordially received by Sir Walter Scott, Jeffrey, and other distinguished literary characters of the Scottish metropolis.1

Early in 1830, she published her volume of "Songs of the Affections," and in the month of June she accomplished a project which she had long had at heart, of making a visit to the Lakes of Westmoreland, and to the poet Wordsworth. On returning thence, she went to reside in Dublin, where her brother, Major Browne, was settled. She entered very little into the general society of Dublin, but devoted most of her time to the education of her children. Her health, however, was quite feeble, so that, in her own language, "the exertion of writing became quite irksome." Early in 1834 appeared her "Hymns for Childhood," which was soon followed by "Scenes and Hymns of Life," and both were noticed very favorably in the periodicals of the day. But her course of life was nearly run; a cold, taken by being out too late in the evening, terminated in a fever, and she breathed her last, without a pain or struggle, on the 16th of May, 1835. Her remains were deposited in a vault beneath St. Anne's Church, Dublin, and over her grave some lines, from one of her own dirges, were inscribed:

In the "Edinburgh Review" for October, 1829, appeared an article on the poetry of Mrs. Hemans, from the masterly pen of Jeffrey, who, with great delicacy and discrimination, touches upon the peculiar characteristics of her style. "Almost all her poems," writes this high authority, "are rich with fine descriptions, and studded over with images of visible beauty. But these are never idle ornaments; all her pomps have a meaning, and her flowers and her gems are arranged, as they are said to be among Eastern lovers, so as to speak the language of truth and passion. This is peculiarly remarkable in some little pieces, which seem at first sight to be purely descriptive-but are soon found to tell upon the heart, with a deep moral and pathetic impression.'

Of the beauty of this scenery, she thus writes: "Yesterday I rode round Grasmere and Rydal Lake. It was a glorious evening, and the imaged heavens in the waters more completely filled my mind, even to overflowing, than I think any object in nature ever did before. I could have stood in silence before the magnificent vision an hour, as it flushed and faded, and darkened at last into the deep sky of a summer's night." Her sonnet, "A Remembrance of Grasmere," written four years afterwards, describes the peculiar coloring with which her imagination invested it :

"O vale and lake, within your mountain urn
Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep!
Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return,
Coloring the tender shadows of my sleep
With light Elysian; for the hues that steep
Your shores in melting lustre seem to float
On golden clouds from spirit lands remote-
Isles of the blest-and in our memory keep
Their place with holiest harmonies.'

In reference to the notice of the "Scenes and Hymns," she writes: "The volume is recognized as my best work, and the course it opens out called 'a noble path.' My heart is growing faint-shall I have power given me to tread that way much further! I trust that God may make me submissive to his will, whatever that will may be."

"Calm on the bosom of thy God,
Fair spirit! rest thee now!

Even while with us thy footsteps trod,
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."

If Mrs. Hemans' poetry be not of the very highest order, it is distinguished for its pure fancy, beautiful imagery, and melodious versification. Many of her shorter pieces and her lyrical productions are touching and beautiful, both in sentiment and expression, while everything that she wrote is full of elevated moral feeling, and combines much energy of thought with a winning grace and delicacy of sentiment.1

THE VOICE OF SPRING.

I come, I come! ye have called me long,

I come o'er the mountains with light and song;
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut-flowers
By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers:

And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes,

Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains.

But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,

To speak of the ruin or the tomb!

I have passed o'er the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,

And the reindeer bounds through the pasture free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,

And the moss looks bright where my step has been.

I have sent through the woodpaths a gentle sigh,
And called out each voice of the deep-blue sky,
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,

To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks.

"We do not hesitate to say that she is, beyond all comparison, the most touching and accomplished writer of occasional verses that our literature has yet to boast of."-Edinburgh Review, vol. 1. p. 47.

"In our opinion, all her poems are elegant and pure in thought and language; her later poems are of higher promise; they are vigorous, picturesque, and pathetic."-Quarterly Review, vol. xxiv. p. 139.

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