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brook." Her maiden-name was Chubbuck; her family are of "the excellent," to whom belong the hopes of a better world, if not the wealth of this. After the usual school advantages enjoyed by young girls in the country, Miss Chubbuck had the good sense to seek the higher advantage of

training others, in order to perfect her own education. She was for some years a teacher in the Female Seminary at Utica, New York. Here she commenced her literary life, by contributing several poems to the Knickerbocker Magazine; she also wrote for the American Baptist Publication Society, and her little works illustrative of practical religion were well approved. She then began to write for several periodicals, and, among others, for the New Mirror, published in New York city, and then edited by Morris and Willis. Miss Chubbuck, in her first communication to the New Mirror, had assumed the name of "Fanny Forester;" the article pleased the editors; Mr. Willis was liberal in praises, and this encouragement decided the writer to devote herself to literary pursuits. But her constitution was delicate, and after two or three years of close and successful application to her pen, "Fanny Forester," as she was usually called, found her health failing, and came to Philadelphia to pass the winter of 1845-6, in the family of the Rev. A. D. Gillette, a Baptist clergyman of high standing in the city. The Rev. Dr. Judson, American Missionary to the heathen world of the East, returned about this time, for a short visit to his native land. He was for the second time a widower,* and much older than Miss Chubbuck; but his noble deeds, and the true glory of his character, rendered him attractive to one who sympathised with the warm Christian benevolence that had made him indeed a hero of the Cross. They met in Philadelphia. He felt she would be to him the dear companion he needed in the cares and labours still before him; she has given, in a poem we shall select, her own reasons for consenting to the union.

The beauty and pathos of her sentiments are so

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exquisite, that the reader will feel they were her heart's true promptings.

Dr. Judson and Miss Chubbuck were married, July, 1846, and they immediately sailed for India. They safely reached their home at Maulmain, in the Burman empire, where they continued to reside, the reverend Missionary devoting himself to his studies, earnestly striving to complete his great work on the Burman language, while his wife was the guiding angel of his young children. Towards the close of the year 1847, Mrs. Judson gave birth to a daughter, and her newly-awakened maternal tenderness is beautifully expressed in her poem, "My Bird." Her domestic happiness was not to endure. Dr. Judson's health failed; he embarked on a voyage to Mauritius, hoping benefit from the change; but his hour of release had arrived. He died at sea, April 12th, 1850, when about nine days from Maulmain. His widow and children returned to the United States.



Mrs. Emily C. Judson's published works are,"Alderbrook: a Collection of Fanny Forester's Village Sketches and Poems," in two volumes, issued in Boston, 1846. These sketches are lively and interesting, without any thrilling incident or deep passion; but the moral sentiment is always elevated, and this is ever the index of improvement. Accordingly, we find an onward and upward progress in all that Mrs. Judson has written since her marriage. The poems she has sent to her friends in America are beautiful in their simplicity of style, breathing, as they do, the holiest and sweetest feelings of humanity. She has also made a rich contribution to the Missionary cause in her "Biographical Sketch of Mrs. Sarah B. Judson," second wife of Rev. Dr. Judson. This work was sent from India, and published in New York in 1849. It is the tribute of love from the true heart of a Christian woman on earth to the true merits of a sister Christian who has passed to her reward in heaven.

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Dear, beautiful Alderbrook! I have loved thee as I shall never love any other thing that I may not meet after the sun of Time is set. Everything, from the strong old tree that wrestles with the tempest, down to the amber moss-cup cradling the tiny insect at its roots, and the pebble sleeping at the bottom of the brook, everything about thee has been laden with its own peculiar lesson. Thou art a rare book, my Alderbrook, written all over by the Creator's finger. Dearly do I love the holy truths upon thy pages; but, "I may not dwell 'mid flowers and music ever;" and I go hence, bearing another, choicer book in my hand, and echoing the words of the angels, "Look! look! live!"

I stand on the verge of the brook, which seems to me more beautiful than any other brook on earth, and take my last survey of the home of my infancy. The cloud, which has been hovering above the trees on the verge of heaven, opens; the golden light gushes forth, bathing the hill-top, and streaming down its green declivity even to my feet; and I accept the encouraging omen. The angel of Alderbrook, "the ministering spirit" sent hither by the Almighty, blesses me. Father in heaven, thy blessing, ere I go!

Hopes full of glory, and oh, most sweetly sacred! look out upon me from the future; but, for a moment, their beauty is clouded. My heart is heavy with sorrow. The cup at my lip is very bitter. Heaven help me! White hairs are bending in submissive grief, and age-dimmed eyes are made dimmer by the gathering of tears. Young spirits have lost their joyousness, young lips forget to smile, and bounding hearts and bounding feet are stilled. Oh, the rending of ties, knitted at the first opening of the infant eye and strengthened by numberless acts of love, is a sorrowful thing! To make the grave the only door to a meeting with those in whose bosoms we nestled, in whose hearts we trusted long before we knew how precious was such love and trust, brings with it an overpowering weight of solemnity. But a grave is yawning for each one of us; and is it much to choose whether we sever the tie that binds us here, to-day, or lie down on the morrow? Ah, the "weaver's shuttle" is flying; the "flower of the grass" is withering; the span is almost measured; the tale nearly told; the dark valley is close before us— - tread we with care!

My mother, we may neither of us close the other's darkened eye, and fold the cold hands upon the bosom; we may neither of us watch the sod greening and withering above the other's ashes; but there are duties for us even more sacred than these. But a few steps, mother-difficult the path may be, but very bright—and then we put on the robe of immortality, and meet to part nevermore. And we shall not be apart even on earth. There is an electric chain passing from heart to heart through the throne of the Eternal; and we may keep its links all brightly burnished by the breath of prayer. Still pray for me, mother, as in days gone by. Thou bidst me go. The smile comes again to thy lip and the light to thine eye, for thou hast pleasure in the sacrifice. blessing! Farewell, my mother, and ye loved ones of the same hearth-stone! Bright, beautiful, dear Alderbrook, farewell! June 1, 1846.



Ere last year's moon had left the sky, A birdling sought my Indian nest, And folded, oh! so lovingly,

Its tiny wings upon my breast.

From morn till evening's purple tinge, In winsome helplessness she lies; Two rose-leaves, with a silken fringe, Shut softly on her starry eyes.

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And how they wept, and how they prayed, And sleeping or awake,

How one great grief came crushingly,

As if their hearts would break.

At length they reached a distant shore, A beautiful, bright land,

And crowds of pitying strangers came, And took them by the hand.

And Abby found a pleasant home, And Pwen, and Enna too;

But poor papa's sad thoughts turned back, To Burmah and to you.

He talked of wretched heathen men,
With none to do them good;
Of children who are taught to bow
To gods of stone and wood.

He told me of his darling boys.
Poor orphans far away,
With no mamma to kiss their lips,
Or teach them how to pray.

And would I be their new mamma,

And join the little band

Of those, who for the Saviour's sake, Dwell in a heathen land?

And when I knew how good he was, I said that I would come;

I thought it would be sweet to live In such a precious home;

And look to dear papa for smiles,
And hear him talk and pray;
But then I knew not it would grow
Still sweeter every day.

Oh, if your first mamma could see, From her bright home above, How much of happiness is here,

How much there is of love,

"Twould glad her angel heart. I know,
And often would she come,
Gliding with noiseless spirit-step,
About her olden home.

Much do I love my darling boys, And much do you love me ; — Our Heavenly Father sent me here, Your new mamma to be.

And if I closely follow him, And hold your little hands,

I hope to lead you up to heaven, To join the angel bands.

Then with papa, and both mammas,

And her who went before,

And Christ who loves you more thau all, Ye'll dwell for ever more. Maulmain, 1849.



OBTAINED her celebrity as an actress under her maiden name, Miss Tree. She was born in 1805, in London, and first appeared at Covent Garden Theatre, 1823, when about eighteen years of age. She did not take the town by storm, as some actresses have burst into fame; but her graceful and lady-like manner won the good-will of her audience, and she rose in her profession by real merit, both of character and mind.

In 1837, she visited America, and was very successful in her theatrical engagements. After her return to England, she married Charles Kean, an

actor well known for his constant efforts to imitate the manner of his father, the distinguished Edmund Kean. Shortly after their marriage, Charles Kean and his wife came to America, and made a professional tour through the principal cities: the wife was greeted as an old favourite; but she was not the Ellen Tree whom the people had loved. Mrs. Kean now resides with her husband in England, having, we believe, retired from the stage.


Is THE daughter of Mr. Charles Kemble, an actor of high reputation, and for many years a favourite with the public. Dramatic talent appears a natural inheritance in the Kemble family: Mrs. Siddons, her brother John Kemble, and her niece, the subject of this sketch, have occupied by acclamation, the very highest places in their profession. Many of the other members have arisen above mediocrity as artists, among whom an honourable rank must be assigned to Mrs. Sartoris, who, before her marriage, was very favourably received as a singer under the name of Adelaide Kemble.

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immediately resumed her name of Kemble. We must, in justice, observe here, that Mrs. Kemble's bitterest enemies have never charged her with the slightest deviation from the laws of conjugal fidelity; that her fame is spotless, and her position in society exactly what it ever was. Mrs. Kemble is a woman of varied powers; she has been successful in literature, particularly in poetry; displaying an ardent impassioned fancy, which male critics consider the true fire of genius. Some of her shorter poems are wonderfully impressive; but she often mars what would otherwise be very charming, by epithets a little too Shaksperian, a little too much savouring of the art for which she was educated, and which are, to her, familiar expressions. Such words give a flavour, a taste of the antique, when read in their original places; we consider them inadmissible in the writings of a poet, a lady poet of our day; they appear like affectation or want of resource; and sometimes like want of delicacy.

The drama first claimed the genius of Fanny Kemble. At a very early age she wrote a tragedy" Francis the First," which has passed through ten editions. Her next work was "The Star of Seville;" both have been acted with success; and evince a maturity of mind, and a range of reading very uncommon for a young lady. In 1834, appeared her first work in prose, a "Journal," descriptive, chiefly, of the United States. The youthful petulance and foolish prejudices exhibited in this work have been, we believe, much regretted by the author; at any rate, her strictures have long ago ceased to trouble the people of America, and we leave the book to its quiet slumber in the past. In 1844, her "Poems" were published, and in 1847 appeared her second prose work, "A Year of Consolation;" being a description of her tour through France to Rome, and her residence in that city. In this, as in her former prose work, the strong feelings which Mrs. Kemble possesses, or, more properly speaking, which possess her, find large scope.

She looks at the world through the medium of her own emotions, and whatever may be under discussion the Pope, the people, or the pine swamps of Georgia, the chief point to be considered is what Mrs. Kemble suffered or enjoyed. Unfortunately, too, she is among those travellers who are nervously sensible to every desagrement; this is a constitutional defect, and as really deserving pity as poverty, or sickness, for like them, it prevents the enjoyment of life's varied current. A French wit has said of such" Ils meurent à cent ans, ayant toujours l'avenir devant euxregrettants le passé et se plaignent du present dont ils n'ont pas su jouér." When uninfluenced by these "noires vapeurs," Mrs. Kemble shows that she possesses a fund of good sense, and a heart filled with kind and benevolent affections. Her style is open to criticism; passages of exquisite beauty, chiefly descriptive, might be selectedbut she indulges in slang expressions and coarse epithets, that are entirely unwarrantable, coming from a woman of taste, and a poetess.

Shakspeare "Readings," in which her remarkable versatility of powers is exhibited in a manner as striking, and more wonderful, than on the stage. Among her admirers, there are those, who, judging from her "readings," pronounce her the best Macbeth, and the truest Lear which have ever been applauded; while others deem she is inimitable in Falstaff. In 1850, she left America for England, and during the winter of 1851 was giving her Shaksperian "Readings" in London.

We cannot but feel, while reviewing the events of Mrs. Kemble's career, that her purposes have been broken off, her plans of life disappointed, and her pursuits changed, before she had time or opportunity of doing the best she could in any one department of literature or art. We do not hold the opinion that genius is doomed to suffering; we trust brighter days are in store for Mrs. Kemble, and look forward to her mature years producing works that will hold a higher place in Female Literature than any she has yet published. As a woman of commanding genius, she might do much for her own sex- not by abjuring feminine delicacy of character, dress, or language, but by illustrating, as she could do "the holiness that circles round a fair and virtuous woman," and the influence such may wield.

From "A Year of Consolation."

My dismay and indignation were intense; the
rain was pouring, the wind roaring, and it was
twelve o'clock at night. The inn into which we
were shown, was the most horrible cut-throat
looking hole I ever beheld; all the members of
the household were gone to bed, except a dirty,
sleepy, stupid serving-girl, who ushered us into a
kitchen as black as darkness itself and a single
tallow-candle could make it, and then informed us
that here we must pass the night, for that the
coaches which generally came up to meet our con-
veyance, had not been able to come over the moun-
tains on account of the heavy snow for several
days. I was excessively frightened; the look of
the place was horrible, that of the people not at
all encouraging; when the conducteur demanded
the price of the coach, which I then recollected,
the Chef de Bureau had most cautiously refused
to receive, because then I should have found out
that I was not going to Chalons in his coach, but
to be shot out on the highest peak of the Morvan,
midway between Chalons and Nevers. I refused
to pay until, according to agreement, I was taken
to Chalons; he then refused to deliver up my bag-
gage, and I saw that all resistance was vain, where-
upon I paid the money, and retreated again to the
black filthy kitchen, where I had left poor
bidding her not stir from the side of my dressing-
case and writing-box I had left in her charge,
with my precious letters of credit and money-bag.

The fire of the kitchen was now invaded by a tall brawny-looking man in a sort of rough sporting costume; his gun and game-bags lay on the dresser; two abominable dogs he had with him went running in and out between our feet, pursu

In 1849, Mrs. Kemble commenced a series of ing each other, and all but knocking us down. I

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"Ten leagues." (Thirty miles.)

I smiled a sort of verjuice smile, and replied — "Even if we two women could walk thirty miles through the snow, what was to become of my baggage?"


'Oh, he did not know; perhaps, if the snow was not higher than the horse's bellies, or if the labourers of the district had been clearing out the roads at all, the master of the house might contrive some means of sending us on."

In the midst of the agony of perplexity and anxiety, which all these perhapses occasioned me, I heard that the devilish conductor and conveyance which had brought me to this horrid hole, would return to Nevers the next day at five o'clock, and making up my mind, if the worst came to the worst, to return by it thither, and having blown the perfidious Chef de Bureau of the country diligence higher than he had sent me in his coach, take the Paris diligence on its way through Nevers for Lyons straight,-this, of course, at the cost of so much time and money wasted.

With this alternative, I had my luggage carried up to my room, and followed it with my faithful and most invaluable who was neither discouraged, nor frightened, nor foolish, nor anything that I was, but comported herself to admiration. The room we were shown into was fearful looking; the wind blew down the huge black gaping chimney, and sent the poor fire, we were endeavouring in vain to kindle, in eye-smarting clouds into our faces. The fender and fire-irons were rusty and broken, the ceiling cracked all over, the floor sunken, and an inch thick with filth and dirt. I threw open the shutters of the window, and saw opposite against the black sky, the yet thicker outline of the wretched hovels opposite, and satisfied, that at any rate we were in the vicinity of human beings of some description, we piled our trunks up against a door that opened into some other room, locked the one that gave entrance from the passage, and with one lighted tallow candle, and one relay, and a box of matches by my bed-side, I threw myself all dressed upon the bed. did the same upon a sofa, and thus we resigned ourselves to pass the night.

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I thought, too, of America, of the honour and security in which a woman might traverse alone from Georgia to Maine, that vast country, certain of assistance, attention, the most respectful civility, the most humane protection, from every man she meets, without the fear of injury or insult, screened by the most sacred and universal care from even the appearance of neglect or impertinence-travelling alone with as much safety and

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Here (as every where) we were pursued by the shameless, wretched pauperism that disgusts and pains one the whole time, and makes the ruined aspect of the great outward things about one cheerful, compared with the abject degradation of that which God has made in his own image. Oh! I would not live among these people for any thing in the world; and when I think of England and America, I thank God that I was born in the one, and shall live in the other.


Francis the First."


And I marvel, sir, At those who do not feel the majesty. By heaven! I'd almost said the holiness,That circles round a fair and virtuous woman! There is a gentle purity that breathes In such a one, mingled with chaste respect, And modest pride of her own excellence,A shrinking nature, that is so adverse To aught unseemly, that I could as soon Forget the sacred love I owe to heaven, As dare, with impure thoughts, to taint the air Inhaled by such a being; than whom, my liege, Heaven cannot look on anything more holy, Or earth be proud of anything more fair.

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A young maiden's heart Is a rich soil, wherein lie many germis, Hid by the cunning hand of nature there To put forth blossoms in their fittest season, And tho' the love of home first breaks the soil With its embracing tendrils clasping it, Other affections, strong and warm, will grow, While that one fades, as summer's flush of bloom Succeeds the gentle budding of the spring. Maids must be wives, and mothers, to fulfil Th' entire and holiest end of woman's being.

From "The Star of Seville."

I love that dear old home! My mother lived there
Her first sweet marriage years, and last sad widowed ones;
Something of old ancestral pride it keeps,
Though fallen from its earlier power and vastness:
Marry we're not so wealthy as we were,
Nor yet so warlike; still it holds enough

Of ancient strength and state to prompt the memory
To many a "wherefore," and for every answer
You shall have stories long and wonderful,
Enough to make a balladmonger's fortune.
Old trees do grow around its old grey walls,
The fellows of my mouldering grandfathers:
Faith! they do mock us with their young old age.
These giant wearers of a thousand summers!
Strange, that the seed we sow should bloom and flourish
When we are faded, flower, fruit, and all;
Or, for all things to tend to reproduction,
Serving th' eternal purposes of life,
Drawing a vigorous sap into their veins

From the soil our very bodies fertilize.

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