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of her Irish girls (very different from that in high life) is admirably depicted. Next year, Mrs. Hall issued a little volume for children, "Chronicles of a School-Room," consisting also of a series of tales, simple, natural, and touching. The hometruths and moral observations conveyed in these narratives, reflect great credit on the heart and the judgment of the writer. Indeed, good taste and good feeling may be said to preside over all the works of our authoress. In 1831, she issued a second series of "Sketches of Irish Character," fully equal to the first, which was well received. TheRapparee" is an excellent story, and some of the satirical delineations are hit off with great truth and liveliness. In 1832, she ventured on a larger and more difficult work- - an historical romance in three volumes, entitled "The Buccaneer." The scene of this tale is laid in England, at the time of the Protectorate, and Oliver himself is among the characters. The plot of "The Buccaneer" is well managed, and some of the characters (as that of Barbara Iverk, the Puritan) are skilfully delineated; but the work is too feminine, and has too little of energetic passion for the stormy times in which it is cast. In 1834, Mrs. Hall published "Tales of Woman's Trials," short stories of decidedly moral tendency, written in the happiest style of the authoress. In 1835, appeared Uncle Horace," a novel, and in 1838 "Lights and Shadows of Irish Life," three volumes. The latter had been previously published in the New Monthly Magazine, and enjoyed great popularity. The principal tale in the collection, "The Groves of Blarney," was dramatised at one of the theatres with distinguished success. In 1840, Mrs. Hall issued what has been styled the best of her novels, "Marian; or a Young Maid's Fortunes," in which her knowledge of Irish character is again displayed. Katty Macane, an Irish cook, who adopts Marian, a foundling, and watches over her with untiring affection, is equal to any of the Irish portraitures since those by Miss Edgeworth. The next work of our authoress was a series of "Stories of the Irish Peasantry," contributed to Chambers' Edinburgh Journal, and afterwards published in a collected form. In 1840, Mrs. Hall aided her husband in a work chiefly composed by him, and which reflects credit upon his talents and industry-"Ireland, its Scenery, Character," &c. Topographical and statistical information is here blended with the poetical and romantic features of the country- the legends of the peasantry-scenes and characters of humour and pathos-and all that could be gathered in five separate tours through Ireland, added to early acquaintance and recollection of the country. The work was highly embellished by British artists, and extended to three large volumes. In tasteful description of natural objects, and pictures of every-day life, Mrs. Hall has few superiors. Her humour is not so broad or racy as that of Lady Morgan, nor her observation so pointed and select as Miss Edgeworth's. Her writings are also unequal, but, in general, they constitute easy, delightful reading, and possess a simple truth and purity of sentiment that is ultimately more fasci

nating than the darker shades and colourings of imaginative composition.”*

Mrs. Hall's residence was for a number of years at The Rosery, Old Brompton, near London; where her home was distinguished for its simple elegance, and the refined taste and hospitality of the gifted pair who presided in this pleasant literary retreat. At present they reside in Surrey, about eighteen miles from London; Mr. Hall is editor of the "Art-Union," and Mrs. Hall a constant contributor to its pages. There her latest and one of her most interesting works, "Midsummer Eve; a Fairy Tale of Love," first appeared, with superb illustrations. The most distinguished artists in Great Britain furnished the pictorial semblances of the author's pure and beautiful ideas; we hardly know which deserves most praise. The volume was issued in 1848, and well sustains the intention of the authoress: "I have endeavoured," she says, "to trace the progress of a young girl's mind from infancy to womanhood; the Good and Evil Influences to which it is subjected; and the Trials inseparable from a contest with the World." Mrs. S. C. Hall, as she always gives her name to her works, seemingly desirous of associating her husband's fame with her own, never loses an opportunity of inculcating those virtues as well as graces which make the happiness and enlarge the best influence of her own sex. Another beautiful trait of her character, is her active benevolence; she engages in those associated efforts to benefit society by taking care for woman's education and comfort, now beginning to be made in England. We find her name on the Committee for the Asylum of the "Governesses' Benevolent Institution;" and in the establishment of "The Queen's College" for the better promotion of female education, Mrs. S. C. Hall was warmly interested.

From "Marian; or a Young Maid's Fortunes."
MARIAN'S CHARACTER.

It would be difficult to analyze the feelings with which Marian awoke to this new existence -- for new indeed it was; the kindness of Lady Isabel, the dean's benevolence, the joy of her beloved nurse, each succeeding the other, were more like spells, the spells of a happy land, where there were no tears, no anxieties, no troubles. She was filled with joy and gratitude. Not many weeks had elapsed, and she was living a new life, in a new world, remembering only the past to enhance the sweetness of the present. Her heart's beatings, lest it should be a dream, not a reality, had hardly subsided; and when each morning she awoke, she could scarcely believe that what surrounded her was less than fairy-land. It was with mingled delight and astonishment that Lady Isabel discovered her rare excellence in music. She had not

only completely mastered the mechanical part of the science, but infused into her performance that pure and exquisite spirit which, like genius, cannot be taught-it cometh we know not whence; but it is impossible to listen to vocal or instrumental music such as hers, without feeling that

Chambers' Cyclopædia.

"Because, though many are celebrated, few are great. Women are at so early a period bound to the littlenesses of life, that it is no easy matter

for them to break the thousand small intricate chains which keep them down on every side, and which, after all, except with very extraordinary talents, and under peculiar circumstances, had, perhaps, better be only loosened. There are, however, many heroic women, clad in English russet, whose sufferings and whose virtues deserve the martyr's crown. To be truly great we must be above the weaknesses- the petty ambitions of life soaring as the eagle in the heavens with only the sun in view."

"As I should like to soar!" exclaimed the young enthusiast, and my sun should be independence."

"And," said Lady Isabella, "if you attained it by the most praiseworthy exertions, you would then desire one other-the only one that ever made woman, however great, happy."

"What is that, madam ?"

Lady Isabella paused; the word "Love" was on her lip, but she sent it back, and said, "Affection."

"I do not know," replied the maiden, "but I think I should like to be great."

"And so should I like you to be great in goodness! You have been reading this morning the biography of two very celebrated women: whom would you rather have been, Queen Elizabeth or Lady Rachel Russel ?"

Marian paused not, but replied instantly, "Oh, Lady Rachel, to be sure!"

Lady Isabella drew her breath freely. "Thank God!" she instantly exclaimed; "she is righthearted!"

BLUE-STOCKINGS.

The particular class of blue-stockings of which Lady Barbara, in her day, was so decided a specimen, is passing away. The generality of females are better informed than they were thirty years ago; it is not that there are fewer trout, but there are fewer minnows; consequently, "the trout" do not look so very big. Lady Barbara, toward the conclusion of her career, affected that hardness which, unfortunately, many clever women, now-adays, mistake for strength. The affectation of sentiment and romance was foolish; the affectation of hard philosophy, in a woman, is worse than that. It is dangerous. Nature! that unerring philosopher! commanded different and separate occupations to the fair portion of her creation, from what she allotted to the stronger; and whatever tends to destroy these obligations, flies in the very face of that nature which it has become the fashion to talk about, and disobey. Women are capable of appreciating, and ought to be ready to exercise and understand the principles of all that is great and beautiful; they ought to be true patriots, firm friends, and honest members of society; these are general virtues: but there are others, especially their own, that must not be forgotten.

"No, I can't, nor won't!" exclaimed Katty, with a heroic spirit that females would do well and wisely to cultivate. "I will not hould my tongue, where my own poor wake sex is imposed upon. Haven't I often seen the young, and the innocent, and the virtuous, drawn by their natural goodness (which desavers like you twist as a halter about their necks, strangling them with their own good intentions, like seething the kid in its mother's milk;) haven't I often seen such drawn into sin, and left to moulder away in it, till they sunk into a nameless grave? And why? Because there was none of their own sex found with enough judgment to watch over them; or with courage enough to draw them back after the first false step; or to give the broad, the loud, the determined, the steadfast LIE to what is almost as dangerous to a young woman: the first false word that's even whispered against her honest fame!"

THE PUBLIC SINGER.

It will be remembered that Marian once thought her fine voice might promote her independent desires, and Lady Isabella promised to read her one of those practical lessons on the danger of female publicity that are so forcible by the mere strength of example. About a week after the funeral of Mrs. Jones she fulfilled her promise- the lesson was in itself fearful. A young and clever girl without a home, and most painfully situated, married a man much beneath her; and, finding out, after the expiration of a month, that he was not only low in connexion, but of debased mind, sprang, as it were, upon the stage, as a means of support, where her magnificent musical talent commanded success. She had done so with a mind full of honest and excellent resolves-with a firm desire to do right-with a prayer; but, no, she did not pray-if she had prayed, she would not have fallen! Poor thing! she trusted to her integrity of purpose, and, elated with success-flushed with triumph-her unguarded and unworldly manners reaped, as their reward, a reputation, not blight exactly, but breathed upon by that class of men whose breath is poison. Those, few as they were in number, of her own sex whom she respected, and who ought boldly to have rallied round a sister whom they believed in danger, shrank from her. She was worse than alone in the world! for she had the clog of a base and cruel husband— a yoke-fellow, but no help; and this at the time when all the town were at her feet; this, as has been said before, all brilliant as it is, never yet filled the aching void in woman's heart. Her

curse seemed to be always to love unworthily; she fell; knowing then that she was degraded, she became reckless, and this recklessness was increased by the desertion of the fashionable roué who courted her as a step to farther notoriety. She went on from bad to worse, and, in the midst of a career of professional success, multitudinous scandal, and bitter self-reproach, the poor actress' health gave way, and she had no friends-envy, and that mock religion which blasts where it ought to bless, did their worst. She crept down to Twickenham with the remnant of her earnings, to die like a hunted cat, away from the scenes of her feverish home.

PREJUDICE.

Prejudice is the more dangerous, because it has the unfortunate ability of accommodating itself to all the possible varieties of the human mind. Like the spider, it makes everywhere a home. Some one of our glorious old divines-South, or Taylor, or Fuller, or Bishop Hall - has it somewhere, that let the mind be as naked as the walls of an empty and forsaken tenement, gloomy as a dungeon, or ornamented with the richest abilities of thinking; let it be hot, cold, dark, or light, lonely or inhabited; still prejudice, if undisturbed, will fill it with cobwebs, and live, like the spider, where there seemed nothing to live upon.

EMULATION.

It is the greatest possible mistake to imagine that being of the same way of thinking, having the same pursuits, the same turn of mind, as it is called, makes people agree. Derogatory as it is to the dignity of human nature, experience forces the knowledge that people having the same pursuits, the same foibles, the same feelings, agree least of all; one thunder-clap deadens the effect of another. A theatre, for instance, is nothing more than a hive, where every bee has a sting ready, not for an intruder, but for its fellow-bee. It is painful to know how actors of similar style and manner mar each other's points, and count the calls and claps which each receives above the other; but it would be invidious to quote this as an instance of discord, arising where many are engaged in the pursuit of the same object, if the confession were not added, that the same fault is observable in every sphere where men's tempers and feelings are called into operation. Higher and nobler minds overcome it altogether, simply because they are high and noble, and above the small artifices and weak emulations which gangrene and fester the heart.

HALL, LOUISA JANE,

Is THE daughter of Dr. James Park of Newburyport, Massachusetts, where she was born in 1802. Dr. Park removed to Boston, and in 1811, opened a school for young ladies, (one of the first institutions of this kind under the care of a man, a mode of female education since become so popular in Boston,) where his daughter was carefully educated. She began to write very early, but did not publish until 1832.

In 1840, she married Rev. Edward B. Hall, a Unitarian clergyman of Providence, Rhode Island, where she has since resided. Her principal works are, "Miriam, a Drama;" "Joanna of Naples, a Historical Tale," and "A Biography of Elizabeth Carter;" besides several poems published in periodicals. Of her most remarkable work, the editor of "The Female Poets of America," says"Mrs. Hall wrote Miriam only for amusement, as she did many little poems and tales which she destroyed. The first half of this drama, written in 1825, was read at a small literary party in Boston. The author not being known, was present, and was encouraged by the remarks it occasioned to finish it in the following summer. Her father forbade her design to burn it; it was read, as completed, in the winter of 1826, and the authorship disclosed; but she had not courage to publish it for several years. She saw its defects more distinctly than before, when it appeared in print, and resolved never again to attempt any thing so long in the form of poetry. Her eyesight failed for four or five years, during which time she was almost entirely deprived of the use of books, the pen, and what she says she most regretted, the needle.

"Miriam' was published in 1837. It received the best approval of contemporary criticism, and a second edition, with such revision as the condition of the author's eyes had previously forbidden, appeared in the following year. Mrs. Hall had not proposed to herself to write a tragedy, but a dramatic poem, and the result was an instance of the successful accomplishment of a design, in which failure would have been but a repetition of the experience of genius. The subject is one of the finest in the annals of the human race, but one which has never been treated with a more just | appreciation of its nature and capacities. It is the first great conflict of the Master's kingdom, after its full establishment, with the kingdoms of this world. It is Christianity struggling with the first persecution of power, philosophy, and the interests of society. Milman had attempted its illustration in his brilliant and stately tragedy of The Martyr of Antioch; Bulwer has laid upon it his familiar hands in The Last Days of Pompeii; and since, our countryman, William Ware, has exhibited it with power and splendour in his masterly romance of The Fall of Rome; but no one has yet approached more nearly its just delineation and analysis than Mrs. Hall in this beautiful poem."

The prose works of Mrs. Hall evince a cultivated mind and refined taste; the style is carefully finished, and the delineations of character satisfy the judgment of the reader, if they fail to awaken any deep interest in the fate of the Queen or the pursuits of the learned lady. There is something in the genius of Mrs. Hall which seems statue-like; we feel that this repose is a part of the beauty, and yet one would wish to see it disturbed if only to prove the power which the inspired artist possesses.

R. W. Griswold.

"From Miriam."

[Miriam, the only daughter of Thraseno, a Christian exile from Judea, residing with his two children at Rome, is seen and loved by Paulus, a young nobleman, whose father, Piso, had in his youth served in the armies in Palestine. The passion is mutual, but secret; and having failed to win the Roman to her faith, the Christian maiden resolves to part from him for ever. r.]

THE PARTING.

Miriam. The anguish of my soul,
My spirit's deep and rending agony,

Tell me that though this heart may surely break,
There is no change within it! and through life,
Fondly and wildly though most hopelessly—
With all its strong affections will it cleave

To him for whom it nearly yielded all

That makes life precious peace and self esteem,
Friends upon earth, and hopes in heaven above!

Paul. Mean'st thou I know not what. My mind grows

dark

Amid a thousand wildering mazes lost.

There is a wild and dreadful mystery
Even in thy words of love I can not solve.

Mir. Hear me: for with the holy faith that erst
Made strong the shuddering patriarch's heart and hand,
When meek below the glittering knife lay stretched
The boy whose smiles were sunshine to his age,
This night I offer up a sacrifice

Of life's best hopes to the One Living God!
Yes, from that night, my Paulus, never more
Mine eyes shall look upon thy form, mine ears
Drink in the tones of thy beloved voice.

Paul. Ye gods! ye cruel gods! let me awake
And find this but a dream!

Mir. Is it then said!

O God! the words so fraught with bitterness
So soon are uttered and thy servant lives!
Ay, Paulus; ever from that hour, when first
My spirit knew that thine was wholly lost,
And to its superstitions wedded fast,
Shrouded in darkness, blind to every beam
Streaming from Zion's hill athwart the night
That broods in horror o'er a heathen world,
Even from that hour my shuddering soul beheld
A dark and fathomless abyss yawn wide
Between us two; and o'er it gleamed alone
One pale, dim twinkling star! the lingering hope
That grace descending from the Throne of Light
Might fall in gentle dews upon that heart,
And melt it into humble piety.
Alas! that hope hath faded; and I see
The fatal gulf of separation still

Between us, love, and stretching on for aye
Beyond the grave in which I feel that soon
This clay with all its sorrows shall lie down.
Union for us is none in yonder sky:
Then how on earth? - so in my inmost soul,
Nurtured with midnight tears, with blighted hopes,
With silent watchings and incessant prayers,

A holy resolution hath ta'en root,

And in its might at last springs proudly up.
We part, my Paulus! not in hate, but love,
Yielding unto a stern necessity.

And I along my sad, short pilgrimage,
Will bear the memory of our sinless love
As mothers wear the image of the babe
That died upon their bosom ere the world
Had stamped its spotless soul with good or ill,
Pictured in infant loveliness and smiles,

Close to the heart's fond core, to be drawn forth
Ever in solitude, and bathed in tears. -
But how with such unmanly grief struck down,
Withered, thou Roman knight!

Paul. My brain is pierced!

Mine eyes with blindness smitten! and mine ear Rings faintly with the echo of thy words! Henceforth what man shall ever build his faith On woman's love, on woman's constancy?

A light- a flush a calm-not of this earth!
For in this hour of bitterness and woe,
The grace of God is falling on my soul
Like dews upon the withering grass which late
Red scorching flames have seared. Again
The consciousness of faith, of sins forgiven,
Of wrath appeased, of heavy guilt thrown off,
Sheds on my breast its long-forgotten peace,
And shining steadfast as the noonday sun,
Lights me along the path that duty marks.
Lover, too dearly loved! a long farewell!
The bannered field, the glancing spear, the shout
That bears the victor's name unto the skies-
The laurelled brow-be thine-

DYING FANCIES.

Angels are gathering in the eastern sky-
The wind is playing 'mid their glittering plumes—
The sunbeams dance upon their golden harps -
Welcome is on their fair and glorious brows!
Hath not a holy spirit passed from earth,
Whom ye come forth to meet, seraphic forms?
Oh, fade not, fade not yet! — or take me too,
For earth grows dark beneath my dazzled eye!

MIRIAM TO PAULUS, WHO DECLARES HIMSELF A
CHRISTIAN.

If but one ray of light from Heav'n
Hath reach'd thy soul. I may indeed rejoice!
Ev'n thus, in coming days, from martyrs' blood
Shall earnest saints arise to do God's work.
And thus with slow, sure, silent step shall Truth
Tread the dark earth, and scatter Light abroad,
Till Peace and Righteousness awake, and lead
Triumphant, in the bright and joyous blaze,
Their happy myriads up to yonder skies!

MIRIAM TO HER BROTHER AND LOVER.
Euphas, thy hand! - Ay, clasp thy brother's hand!
Ye fair and young apostles! go ye forth --
Go side by side beneath the sun and storm,

A dying sister's blessing on your toils!
When ye have pour'd the oil of Christian peace
On passions rude and wild -- when ye have won
Dark, sullen souls from wrath and sin to God-
Whene'er ye kneel to bear upon your pray'rs
Repentant sinners up to yonder heav'n,

Be it in palace - dungeon -open air

'Mid friends-'mid raging foes in joy-in griefDeem not ye pray alone; - man never doth!

A sister spirit, ling'ring near, shall fill

The silent air around you with her pray'rs,
Waiting till ye too lay your fetters down,
And come to your reward! Go fearless forth;
For glorious truth wars with you, and shall reign.

HANKE, HENRIETTE WILHELMINA,

WAS the daughter of Mr. Arndt, a merchant in Jauer; she was born in 1783. In 1802, she mar ried the pastor Hanke, of Dejherrnfurth; and in 1819, she became a widow. Since which event, she has lived retired with her mother, her time wholly devoted to literary pursuits, and the care of her aged parents. She has written - "The Step-Daughter," published in 1820; "The Twelve Months of the Year," in 1821; "The Hunting