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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 profession — of 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 ?"


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?


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!


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

sow the seeds of hatred where she might plant those of love to embitter national discord and aversion, and disseminate individual prejudice and error.


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."


The true purpose of education is to cherish and unfold the seed of immortality already sown with in 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 independence when denied love and happiness.


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.

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but Mrs. Johnstone 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 pre

ceded Fulton.

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"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. Johnstone 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 formidable, 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.


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.


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"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."


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. 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 Anne 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, June, 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.

Mrs. Judson had contemplated becoming a Missionary from a very early period of her life; she was devoted to religion when a child, and united with the Baptist church at the age of fourteen. After Dr. Judson's death, she wished to remain in India, but her failing health compelled her to return to the United States. Here she employed all her strength in advancing the holy cause. She assisted Dr. Wayland in preparing the "Memoirs of Dr. Judson," and was herself abridging that large work to form a more convenient manual for popular use, when death came and closed her labor of love. She died on the eighth anniversary of her marriage, June 1st, 1854, aged thirty-six. Few among her sex have won a better fame; long and lovingly will her virtues be remembered. From "Alderbrook."



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!

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

"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 bumble 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,

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.

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 hey loved so well!-
Ah me! the mourning in that ship,
I dare not try to tell!

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

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 than 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. After her return to London, Mrs. Kean continued to act, and with increased popularity. She is beloved and respected in private life, and retains wonderfully the admiration of those who greeted her genius in early youth.


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.


Fanny Kemble was born in London, about the year 1813, and made her first appearance on the London boards in 1829, in the character of Juliet. The highest enthusiasm was excited in her favour. Her extreme youth, which admirably suited the impersonation, rendered her conception of the passion and poetry remarkable. The British public at once stamped her by their approval, as an actress of genius, and she became distinguished as a new star in the histrionic art.

In 1832, Miss Kemble came with her father to the United States, where her theatrical career was marked by unbounded success, and her talents were warmly admired. In 1834, she was married to Pierce Butler, Esq., of Philadelphia, a gentleman of large fortune. The unhappy termination of this marriage is well known. After many domestic difficulties, a mutual divorce was granted the husband and wife in 1849, and Mrs. Butler

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