There seems to be no subject which this woman has not pondered deeply.  Her theory of Temperament is an attendant fairy that does marvellous things for her, and not only apportions natures, but corresponding bodies, so that we can easily see how the golden age is to return again, when peradventure deceits shall be impossible, and all the virtues thrive by mere necessity under the reign of this perfected Science of the Soul.  Yet, roam where she would, there were always two mysteries that allured her back again, as Thone’s curt sentence told,—­“Tonkunst und Arzenei”; and to these might be added Race, in defiance of Mr. Buckle.  Assuredly the Hebrew owes acknowledgment to her, and not George Borrow, with all his weird learning, enters more deeply into the Burden of Egypt; Browning’s appreciation of the gypsy standing alone beside hers,—­Browning, between whose writings and her own a rich sympathy exists, both being so possessed of fulness.  Yet verse could not chain her wide eloquence in its fetters; and whenever she attempted it, its music made her thought shapeless.  There is one exception to this, however, and we give it below,—­for, inartistic as this mould may seem, and amorphous as its ideas may be, it is the only instance of any rhymes fully translating the meaning of music, and it is as full of clinging pathos and melody as the great creation it paraphrases, and to which no words will quite respond.

  “In gardens where the languid roses keep
  Perpetual sweetness for the hearts that smile,
  Perpetual sadness for the hearts that weep,
  Lonely, unseen, I wander, to beguile
  The day that only shines to show thee bright,
  The night whose stars burn wan beside thy light,
    Adelaida!

  “Adelaida! all the birds are singing
  Low, as thou passest, where in leaves they lie;
  With timid chirp unto their soft mates clinging,
  They greet that presence without which they die,—­
  Die, even with Nature’s universal heart,
  When thou, her queen, dost in thy pride depart,
    Adelaida!

  “Depart! and dim her beauty evermore;
  Go, from the shivering leaves and lily-flowers,
  That, white as saints on the eternal shore,
  Stand wavering, beckoning, in the moony bowers,—­
  Beckon me on where their moist feet are laid
  In the dark mould, fast by the alder-shade,
    Adelaida!

  “Adelaida! ’tis the Grave or Love
  Must fight for this great first, last mastery. 
  I feed in faith on spicy gales above,
  Where all along that blue unchanging sky
  Thy name is traced;—­its sweetness never fails
  To sound in streams of peace in spicy gales,
    Adelaida!

  “Adelaida! woe is me, woe, woe! 
  Not only in the sky, in starry gold,
  I see thy name,—­where peaceful rivers flow,
  Not only hear its sweetness manifold;
  On every white and purple flower ’tis written,
  Its echo every aspen-quake hath smitten,
    Adelaida!