We are not in general anxious to pry into the domestic afflictions of any pair whom wedlock has mismatched. If we feel a little curiosity to know more than the sister has told us, in this instance, it is merely from a wish to learn how far the poetic temperament of Mrs Hemans could be assigned as the real cause of her matrimonial unhappiness. Did the Captain grow weary of the society of one whose feelings were pitched in too high a key for him to sympathise with?--was there too much of poetry mingled with the daily food of life? "Men, by St Thomas! cannot live like bees." Did he yearn for something more homely, as she, on her side, yearned for something more elevated? Had he been made to feel that he did not approach the ideal of her imagination, and that the admiration she once had given was withdrawn? Or should we say of her, in lines of her own:-- There are hearts So perilously fashioned, that for them God's touch alone hath gentleness enough To waken, and not break, their thrilling strings. Of this perhaps some future biographer may tell us. There are many passages in her poetry which show an intense longing for the sympathy of other minds; which show that, while her feelings were of a rare order for their refinement and elevation, she yet sought--what for such a one it was difficult to obtain--for the kindred sympathy of others. She could not worship her goddesses alone. This tendency of mind many of her verses indicate; and there is one sweet little poem where, if our fancy does not mislead us, she secretly reproves herself for having exacted too much in this respect from others: we do not say from any one in particular, for the verses bear reference to a brother, not a husband. Yet some personal reminiscence, or regret of this kind, might lead to the strain of thought so beautifully expressed in the following lines:-- KINDRED HEARTS. Oh! ask not, hope not thou too much Of sympathy below; Few are the hearts whence one same touch Bids the sweet fountains flow: Few--and by still conflicting powers, Forbidden here to meet; Such ties would make this life of ours Too fair for aught so fleet. It may be that thy brother's eye Sees not as thine, which turns In such deep reverence to the sky Where the rich sunset burns: It may be that the breath of spring, Born amidst violets lone, A rapture o'er thy soul can bring-- A dream, to his unknown. The tune that speaks of other times-- A sorrowful delight! The melody of distant chimes, The sound of waves by night; The wind that, with so many a tone, Some chord within can thrill-- These may have language all thine own, To _him_ a mystery still.