A large house, Grwych (pronounced Griech), stood some years ago where this coast is rather narrow, the mountains towering up in front, and the sea softly laving the sandy shore behind. A set of six young children with their parents occupied this house. They had happy playhours in the old garden, or on the smooth sand; and Felicia, the fourth child, not always disposed for the gay romp of the cheerful group, took constant possession of a large apple tree, into which she could climb; its leafy boughs well hid the little girl and her book, which she then enjoyed in unmolested quiet. Until she was five years old Felicia Dorothea Browne had lived in Liverpool. She was born there in Duke-street, on the 25th September, 1794. Her father's ancestry was Irish, that of her mother was Venetian, and probably the Italian origin of the gentle poetess gave rise to the beauty and extent of her imagination, as perhaps also from her father she might derive the quick bright flow of language from which her pen sped on in an easy graceful stream. She was an extremely beautiful child, with long curling golden hair, which became dark brown as she grew older; her complexion was clear and bright, the colour coming and going with every varying impulse and impression. Her mother, herself talented and clever, cultivated her young daughter's tastes, and at the early age of seven years the little Felicia produced some attempts at composition. She had an extremely retentive memory, read well, and evinced great love of reading. Shakespeare was one of her favourite books at this time, and she took delight in juvenile attempts at personifying the characters. Happily, this was but a temporary freak. Her studies do not appear to have been at all conducted with regularity. French, the English Grammar, and the rudiments of Latin comprised the only systematic training which she received. Highly imaginative as she was, and surrounded by the wild beauty of the Welsh hills, the varying sights and sounds of the wide deep sea, with her love of books and capacity to retain, as well as enjoy, her cultivation progressed, and knowledge increased rapidly without effort on her part, or on the part of others. There is a story told of a constant childish raid. When the mother thought the little one safe for the night, she would slip quickly and quietly down to the bright laving sea, and bathe alone in the clear water, softly creeping back to bed undiscovered; and perhaps throughout her life the same wrong tendency towards insincerity and love of hidden mischief is discernible. A visionary belief in spirits and apparitions also appears to have influenced her at times, when mystery, rather than truth, assumed possession of her mind. Even little children in the present day need scarcely be told that there are no ghosts; but, being highly sensitive and nervous, she was peculiarly open to every passing fancy.