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sorrow The shaft in her own bosom she plants in that of every other married pair; like a person afflicted with a painful disease, she hears only of the afflicted, and fancies the world to be a hospital of incurables. As we observed in the beginning, the cloud over her early life has darkened her spirit. She has, naturally, a love for the innocent and the pure, is a true woman in her warm sympathies with her sex, and had she been fortunate (like Mrs. Howitt) in the connexion which possessed for her, as it does for the noblest and purest of both sexes, the holiest elements of happiness and the best opportunities of self-improvement, she would have been a shining light in the onward movement of Christian civilization; she would have devoted her heart and her genius to the True and the Good, instead of bowing her woman's soul to man's philosophy, and deifying the worship of the Beautiful in Art. In this work"Winter Studies," &c., Mrs. Jameson, commenting on the gratitude due those great and pure men, who work out the intellectual and spiritual good of mankind, closes thus: "Such was the example left by Jesus Christ-such a man was Shakspeare such a man was Goëthe!" To understand the depth of this moral bewilderment, which could class Goëthe with the Saviour, we will insert from the volume which contains the shocking comparison, her own account of the last mental effort of her German idol.

"The second part of the Faust occupied Goëthe during the last years of his life; he finished it at the age of eighty-two. On completing it, he says, 'Now I may consider the remainder of my existence as a free gift, and it is indifferent whether I do any thing or not;' as if he had considered his whole former life as held conditionally, binding him to execute certain objects to which he believed himself called. He survived the completion of the Faust only one year.

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"The purport of the second part of Faust has puzzled many German and English scholars, and in Germany there are already treatises and commentaries on it, as on the Divina Commedia. I never read it, and if I had, would not certainly venture an opinion where doctors disagree;' but I recollect that Von Hammer once gave me, in his clear, animated manner, a comprehensive analysis of this wonderful production that is, according to his own interpretation of it. I regard it,' said he, as being from beginning to end a grand poetical piece of irony on the whole universe, which is turned, as it were, wrong side out. In this point of view I understand it; in any other point of view it appears to me incomprehensible.'

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The next work of Mrs. Jameson was "Sacred and Legendary Art," two volumes, published in London in 1848, in which the peculiar tastes and talents of the authoress had a fine scope, and deserve what has been freely awarded her, high praise. The sequel, "Legends of the Monastic Orders," one volume, published in 1850, is tinctured with the same false views noticed in some of her previous works. She seems quite inclined to forgive, if not to justify, all the profligacy, ignorance, and errors which monkery engendered and

| entailed on the Christian world- because these institutions preserved and ennobled works of art! As an author there is a false air of eloquence thrown over some of her writings, even where simplicity would be more suitable. Generally, in her descriptive passages, there is something pantomimic, theatric, unreal; everything figures in a scenic manner. She is, no doubt, a sincere lover of pictures, probably understands them better than most connoisseurs, but readers tire of "Raphaels and Correggios," when too often thrown in their faces, and call them "stuff."

Now that we have honestly stated what we do not like in Mrs. Jameson's books, we are happy to dwell on their merits, and the many commendable qualities of the authoress, which these suggest. She has an earnest and loving admiration for genius, a discriminating sense of the benefits it confers upon the world, and an unselfish eagerness to point out its merits and services. All this is seen in her very pleasing descriptions of the many celebrated men and women she had encountered. She has a deep sense of the dignity of her own sex; she seeks to elevate woman, and many of her reflections on this subject are wise and salutary. We differ from her views in some material points, but we believe her sincerely devoted to what she considers the way of improvement. her extraordinary talents there can be no doubt.

From Visits and Sketches," &c.
ARTISTS.

Of

I have heard young artists say, that they have been forced on a dissipated life merely as a means of " 'getting on in the world" as the phrase is. It is so base a plea, that I generally regard it as the excuse for dispositions already perverted. The men who talk thus are doomed; they will either creep through life in mediocrity and dependence to the grave; or, at the best, if they have parts as well as cunning and assurance, they may make themselves the fashion, and make their fortune; they may be clever portrait painters and bustmakers, but when they attempt to soar into the ideal department of their art, they move the laughter of Gods and men; to them higher, holier fountains of inspiration are thenceforth sealed.

That man of genius who thinks he can tamper with his glorious gifts, and for a season indulge in social excess, stoop from his high calling to the dregs of earth, abandon himself to his native powers to bring himself up again; O believe it, he plays a desperate game! One that in nearly ninety-nine cases out of one hundred is fatal.

WOMEN ARTISTS-SINGERS-ACTRESSES, &c.

To think of the situation of these women! And then to look upon those women who, fenced in from infancy by all the restraints, the refinements, the comforts, the precepts of good society - the one arranging a new cap. - the other embroidering a purse - the third reading a novel — far, far removed from want, and grief, and care—now sitting in judgment, and passing sentence of excommunication on others of their sex, who hav

been steeped in excitement from childhood, their nerves for ever in a state of terror between severe application and maddening flattery; cast on the world without chart or compass-with energies misdirected, passions uncontrolled, and all the inflammable and imaginative part of their being cultivated to excess as part of their professionof their material! Oh, when will there be charity in the world? When will human beings, women especially, show mercy and justice to each other, and not judge of results without a reference to causes?"

FEMALE GAMBLER.

Unless I could know what were the previous habits and education of the victim-through what influences, blessed or unblessed, her mind had been trained her moral existence built upought I to condemn? Who had taught this woman self-knowledge? Who had instructed her in the elements of her own being, and guarded her against her own excitable temperament? What friendly voice had warned her ignorance? What weariness of spirit - what thankless husband or faithless lover had driven her to the edge of the precipice?

M. You would then plead for a female gambler? A. Why do you lay such an emphasis on female gambler? In what respect is a female gambler worse than a male? The case is more pitiable more rare- - therefore, perhaps, more shocking; but why more hateful?

ENGLISH PRIDE.

It is this cold impervious pride which is the perdition of us English, and of England. I remember, that in one of my several excursions on the Rhine, we had on board the steamboat an English family of high rank. There was the lordly papa, plain and shy, who never spoke to any one except his own family, and then only in the lowest whisper. There was the lady mamma, so truly lady-like, with fine-cut patrician features, and in her countenance a kind of passive hauteur, softened by an appearance of suffering, and ill health. There were two daughters, proud, pale, fine-looking girls, dressed à ravir, with that indescribable air of high pretension, so elegantly impassive-so self-possessed — which some people call l'air distingué, but which, as extremes meet, I would rather call the refinement of vulgarity the polish we see bestowed on debased materialthe plating over the steel-the stucco over the brick-work!

THE DUTY OF TRAVELLERS.

Every feeling, well educated, generous, and truly refined woman, who travels, is as a dove sent out on a mission of peace; and should bring back at least an olive-leaf in her hand, if she bring nothing else. It is her part to soften the intercourse between rougher and stronger natures; to aid in the interfusion of the gentler sympathies; to speed the interchange of art and literature from pole to pole: not to pervert wit, and talent, and eloquence, and abuse the privileges of her sex, to

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Conversation may be compared to a lyre with seven chords-philosophy, art, poetry, politics, love, scandal, and the weather. There are some professors, who, like Paganini, "can discourse most eloquent music" upon one string only; and some who can grasp the whole instrument, and with a master's hand sound it from the top to the bottom of its compass. Now, Schlegel is one of the latter he can thunder in the bass or caper in the treble; he can be a whole concert in himself.

From "The Loves of the Poets"

The theory, then, which I wish to illustrate, as far as my limited powers permit, is this: That where a woman has been exalted above the rest of her sex by the talents of a lover, and consigned to enduring fame and perpetuity of praise, the passion was real, and was merited; that no deep or lasting interest was ever founded in fancy or in fiction; that truth, in short, is the basis of all excellence in amatory poetry, as in every thing else; for where truth is, there is good of some sort, and where there is truth and good, there must be beauty, there must be durability of fame. Truth is the golden chain which links the terrestrial with the celestial, which sets the seal of heaven on the things of this earth, and stamps them with immortality."

From "Winter Studies and Summer Rambles."

EDUCATION.

The true purpose of education is to cherish and unfold the seed of immortality already sown within us; to develop, to their fullest extent, the capacities of every kind with which the God who made us has endowed us. Then we shall be fitted for all circumstances, or know how to fit circumstances to ourselves. Fit us for circumstances! Base and mechanical! Why not set up at once a "fabrique d' education," and educate us by steam? The human soul, be it man's or woman's, is not, I suppose, an empty bottle, into which you shall pour and cram just what you like, and as you like; nor a plot of waste soil, in which you shall sow what you like; but a divine, a living germ planted by an Almighty hand, which you may, indeed. render more or less productive, or train to this or that form-no more. And when you have taken the oak sapling, and dwarfed it, and pruned it. and twisted it, into an ornament for the jardinière in your drawing-room, much have you gained truly; and a pretty figure your specimen is like to make in the broad plain and under the free air of heaven.

*

The cultivation of the moral strength and the active energies of a woman's mind, together with the intellectual faculties and tastes, will not make a woman a less good, less happy wife and mother. and will enable her to find content and independ ence when denied love and happiness.

AUTHORESS.

It is too true that mere vanity and fashion have lately made some women authoresses; more write for money, and by this employment of their talents earn their own independence, add to the comforts of a parent, or supply the extravagance of a husband. Some, who are unhappy in their domestic relations, yet endowed with all that feminine craving after sympathy, which was intended to be the charm of our sex, the blessing of yours, and somehow or other has been turned to the bane of both, look abroad for what they find not at home; fling into the wide world the irrepressible activity of an overflowing mind and heart, which can find no other unforbidden issue, and to such "fame is love disguised." Some write from the mere energy of intellect and will; some few from the pure wish to do good, and to add to the stock of happiness, and the progress of thought; and many from all these motives combined in different degrees.

*

but Mrs. Jolinstone neither emulates nor imitates in the slightest degree the light that preceded her. Many writers, who were quite lost in the eclipse of the "Great Unknown," have since asserted that he did not suggest the idea of Scotland, as a scene for fiction; that their works were begun or meditated before "Waverley" appeared; among whom, Mrs. Brunton, author of "Discipline," whose testimony is unquestionable, may be placed. Perhaps, there was at that time a national impulse towards "Scotch Novels," just as the taste for nautical discoveries produced Columbus, and the attempt at steam-boats preceded Fulton.

"Clan Albin" is decidedly of the genre ennuyeux, the only kind that Voltaire absolutely condemns. It is full of good sentiment, but insipid and tiresome, and gives no indication of the talent afterwards abounding in Mrs. Johnstone's works. Her next book was "Elizabeth De Bruce," very superior to her first, containing portions that were highly praised by able critics. A very charming, well-written work, in that difficult class-"Children's Books," succeeded. "The Diversions of Hollycot" may take place near Miss Edgeworth's "Frank and Rosamond." Like her stories for juvenile readers, it is sprightly and natural — inculcates good principles, and much useful knowledge; and, what is rarer, it is totally free from any thing sentimental or extravagant. Mrs. Jolinstone has continued to improve in style, and to develop many amiable qualities as a writer; her humour is sui generis, equal in its way to that of Charles Lamb. Some of the sketches in her "Ed

In Germany I met with some men, who, perhaps out of compliment, descanted with enthusiasm on female talent, and in behalf of female authorship; but the women almost uniformly spoke of the latter with dread, as something for midable, or with contempt, as something beneath them what is an unworthy prejudice in your sex, becomes, when transplanted into ours, a feeling; a mistaken, but a genuine, and even a generous feeling. Many women who have sufficient sense and simplicity of mind to rise above the mere prejudice, would not contend with the feeling: they would not scruple to encounter the public judg-inburg Tales "those of "Richard Taylor," and ment in a cause approved by their own hearts, but they have not courage to brave or to oppose the opinions of friends or kindred.

DR. JOHNSON AND WOMEN.

Johnson talks of "men being held down in conversation by the presence of women"-held up, rather, where moral feeling is concerned; and if held down where intellect and social interests are concerned, then so much the worse for such a state of society.

Johnson knew absolutely nothing about women; witness that one assertion, among others more insulting, that it is a matter of indifference to a woman whether her husband be faithful or not. He says, in another place: "If we men require more perfection from women than from ourselves, it is doing them honour."

Indeed! if, in exacting from us more perfection, you do not allow us the higher and nobler nature, you do us not honour but gross injustice; and if you do allow us the higher nature, and yet regard us as subject and inferior, then the injustice is the greater. There, Doctor is a dilemma for you.

JOHNSTONE, MRS.,

Is a native of Scotland, and well deserves a distinguished place among contemporary writers of fiction. Her first work, "Clan Albin," was among the earliest of that multitude of novels which followed "Waverley" into the Highlands;

"Governor Fox," are not surpassed by any thing
in Elia. These and many others were published
in a monthly periodical, established at Edinburgh
about the year 1830, bearing the title of "John-
stone's Magazine," of which she was editor and,
we believe, proprietor. It was continued ten or
fifteen years.
In this was published the "Story
of Frankland the Barrister," which is one of the
most perfect gems of this kind of literature-wit,
pathos, nice delineation of character, are all to be
found in it, while the moral lesson is enforced very
powerfully. "The Nights of the Round Table"
was published in 1835, and contains some admi-
rable tales. "Blanche Delamere" is still a later
work; in it she has attempted to show what might
be done, and ought to be done by the nobility, to
lessen the load of misery pressing on the working
classes. We may add, that in all her later works,
Mrs. Johnstone, like most thinking writers in the
British empire, directs her pen to subjects con-
nected with the distresses of the people. Her
tales illustrative of these speculations have neither
the wit nor the fancy of their predecessors; the
mournful reality seems "to cast a cloud between,
and sadden all she sings."

JUDSON, EMILY C.,

FIRST known to the public by her nomme de plume of "Fanny Forester," was born in the interior of the State of New York; her birth-place she has made celebrated by the name of "Alder

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

See Anna H. Judson," page 367; also, "Sarah B. Judson." page 369

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.

We think Mrs. Judson has yet her greatest work to do. She is left in charge, not only of the little orphan children of her beloved and revered husband, but she is also the guardian, so to speak, of his latest writings of his life's history. We trust she will live to write the Memoirs of Dr. Judson.

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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. Thy blessing! Farewell, my mother, and ye loved ones of the same hearth-stone!

Bright, beautiful, dear Alderbrook, farewell!

June 1, 1846.

MY BIRD.

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.

There's not in Ind a lovelier bird;

Broad earth owns not a happier nest, O God, thou hast a fountain stirred, Whose waters never more shall rest! This beautiful, mysterious thing,

This seeming visitant from Heaven, This bird with the immortal wing,

To me to me, thy hand has given. The pulse first caught its tiny stroke,

The blood its crimson hue, from mine. This life, which I have dared invoke, Henceforth is parallel with thine.

A silent awe is in my room

I tremble with delicious fear;
The future, with its light and gloom,
Time and eternity are here.

Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise;
Hear, oh my God! one earnest prayer
Room for my bird in paradise,

And give her angel plumage there!
Maulmain, (India,) January, 1848.

THE TWO MAMMAS.

(FOR HENRY AND EDWARD.)
"Tis strange to talk of two mammas!
Well, come and sit by me,
And I will try to tell you how
So strange a thing can be.

Years since you had a dear mamma,
So gentle, good, and mild,

Her Father, God, looked down from heaven
And loved his humble child.

"Come hither, child," he said, "and lean
Thy head upon my breast."
She had toiled long and wearily,
He knew she needed rest.

And so her cheek grew wan and pale,
And fainter came her breath,
And in the arch beneath her brow,
A shadow lay like death.

Then dear papa grew sad at heart,

Oh, very sad was he!

But still he thought 'twould make her well,
To sail upon the sea.

He did not know that God had called,
But thought she still might stay,
To bless his lonely Burman home,
For many a happy day.

And so she kissed her little boys,

With white and quivering lip,
And while the tears were falling fast,
They bore her to the ship.

And Abby, Pwen, and Enna* went —
Oh! it was sad to be
Thus parted three upon the land,
And three upon the sea!

But poor mamma still paler grew,
As far the vessel sped,

Till wearily she closed her eyes,
And slept among the dead.

Then on a distant rocky isle,

Where none but strangers rest.
They broke the cold earth for her grave,
And heaped it on her breast.

And there they left her all alone, --
Her whom they loved so well! —
Ah me! the mourning in that ship,
I dare not try to tell!

* Pwen and Enna, names of endearment among the Burmans, very commonly applied to children.--ED.

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