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immediately resumed her name of Kemble. We | Shakspeare "Readings,” in which her remarkable 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. 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.


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. Kem-
ble, and look forward to her mature years produc-
ing 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 deli-
cacy of character, dress, or language, but by illus-
trating, as she could do -
-"the holiness that cir-
cles 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 conveyance, had not been able to come over the mountains 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 baggage, and I saw that all resistance was vain, whereupon 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 dressingcase 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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"What was the distance?"

"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 convey- | ance 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 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.


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 n espectful 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

comfort as though she were the sister or the daughter of every man she meets.


"Up, and be doing," is the impulse for ever with me; and when I ask myself, both sadly and scornfully, what? both my nature and my convictions repeat the call, "up, and be doing;" for surely there is something to be done from morning till night, and to find out what, is the appointed work of the onward-tending soul.


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.

From 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.


A young maiden's heart

Is a rich soil, wherein lie many germs,
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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Say thou not sadly, "never," and "no more,"
But from thy lips banish those falsest words;
While life remains, that which was thine before
Again may be thine; in Time's store-house lie

Days, hours, and moments. that have unknown hoards
Of joy, as well as sorrow: passing by,
Smiles comes with tears; therefore with hopeful eye
Look thou on dear things, though they turn away,
For thou and they. perchance, some future day
Shall meet again, and the gone bliss return;
For its departure then make thou no mourn,
But with stout heart bid what thou lov'st farewell;
That which the past hath given, the future gives as well.


The blossoms hang again upon the tree

As when with their sweet breath they greeted me,
Against my casement, on that sunny morn,
When thou, first blossom of my spring, wast born;
And as I lay, panting from the fierce strife
With death and agony that won thy life,
Their sunny clusters hung on their brown bough,
E'en as upon my breast, my May-bud, thou;
They seem to be thy sisters, oh, my child!
And now the air, full of their fragrance mild,
Recalls that hour; a ten-fold agony
Pulls at my heart-strings as I think of thee
Was it in vain? Oh, was it all in vain!
That night of hope, of terror, and of pain,
When from the shadowy boundaries of death,
I brought thee safely, breathing living breath
Upon my heart it was a holy shrine,

Full of God's praise they laid thee, treasure mine!
And from its tender depths the blue heaven smiled,
And the white blossoms bowed to thee, my child,
And solemn joy of a new life was spread,

Like a mysterious halo round that bed.
And now how is it, since eleven years

Have steeped that memory in bitterest tears?
Alone, heart-broken, on a distant shore,
Thy childless mother sits lamenting o'er
Flowers, which the spring calls from this foreign earth,
The twins, that crowned the morning of thy birth.
How is it with thee lost - lost precious one?
In thy fresh spring-time growing up alone?
What warmth unfolds thee? What sweet dews are shed,
Like Love and Patience, over thy young head?
What holy springs feed thy deep, inner life?
What shelters thee from Passion's deadly strife?
What guards thy growth, straight, strong, and full, and

Lovely and glorious, oh, my fair young tree?
God Father-thou who, by this awful fate,
Hast lopp'd, and stripp'd, and left me desolate!
In the dark bitter floods that o'er my soul
Their billows of despair triumphant roll,
Let me not be o'erwhelmed! Oh, they are thine,
These jewels of my life not mine-not mine!
So keep them, that the blossoms of their youth
Shall in a gracious growth of love and truth,
With an abundant harvest honour Thee.


What shall I do with all the days and hours
That must be counted ere I see thy face?
How shall I charm the interval that lowers
Between this time and that sweet time of grace?
Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,

Weary with longing shall I flee away,
Into past days, and with some fond pretence
Cheat myself to forget the present day?

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin

Of casting from me God's great gift of time?
Shall I, these mists of memory lock'd within,
Leave and forget life's purposes sublime?

Oh! how, or by what means, shall I contrive
To bring the hour that brings thee back more near?
How shall I teach my drooping hope to live
Until that blessed time, and thou art here?

I'll tell thee; for thy sake I will lay hold
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee,
In worthy deeds each moment that is told,
While thou, beloved one! art far from me.
For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try

All homeward flights, all high and holy strains,
For thy dear sake I will walk patiently
Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pains

I will this dreary blank of absence make

A noble task-time, and will therein strive
To follow excellence, and to o'ertake
More good than I have won, since yet I live.

So may this doomed time build up in me

A thousand graces which shall thus be thine;
So may my love and longing hallowed be,
And thy dear thought an influence divine.


I planted in my heart one seed of love,
Water'd with tears, and watch'd with sleepless care;
It grew, and when I look'd that it should prove
A gracious tree, and blessed harvests bear.
Blossom nor fruit was there to crown my pain,
Tears, cares and labour, all had been in vain;
And yet I dare not pluck it from my heart,
Lest, with the deep-struck root, my life depart.


Is the sixth child and youngest daughter of Francis Duke of Saxe Saalfield Cobourg, and was born August 17th, 1786. She was married to Enrich Charles, hereditary Prince of Leiningen. Her husband died in 1814, leaving her with two children, the Prince of Leiningen, and the Princess Anna Feodoronna. She was then called to the regency, and her adininistration was popular and respected. In 1818, she married the Duke of Kent, son of George III., of England, and on the 24th of May, 1819, her only child by this marriage, Victoria, Queen of England, was born in Kensington Palace.

To understand how deeply Great Britain is indebted to the Duchess of Kent, for the exceeding care she bestowed in training her illustrious daughter, so that she might be worthy to sway the sceptre of that great empire, some knowledge of the history of Victoria's father is indispensable. Edward, Duke of Kent, fourth son of George III., was, according to a reliable work,* the noblest

The Life of Field Marshal his Royal Highness Ed. ward, Duke of Kent." &c. By Erskine Neal, M. A., Rector of Kirton, &c. London: 1849.


and best of all the sons of that royal house. these virtues, particularly his unflinching truthfulness, made him dreaded, disliked and persecuted, from his youth till his death, by the influential members of the royal family. It was with the greatest difficulty that he procured the means of leaving Amorbach, (a small town in Germany, where he had been residing with his wife) for Eug

land, in time for her confinement. The Duke wished his child to be born in the country where it might be destined to rule.

The following is an extract from one of his letters, dated March 19th, 1819, to Dr. Rudge:—

"The interesting situation of the duchess causes me hourly anxiety; and you, who so well know my views and feelings, can well appreciate how eagerly desirous I am to hasten our departure for Old England. The event is thought likely to occur about the end of next month. My wish is, that it may take place on the 4th of June, as this is the birth-day of my revered father; and that the child, too, like him, may be a Briton-born."

The Duchess earnestly participated in the desire to reach England; but that "royal profligate," the prince regent, threw every possible perplexity in the way. These were at last overcome; firm, devoted, but untitled, and, comparatively speaking, humble friends, in England made the requisite remittances, and the Duke and Duchess of Kent reached Kensington Palace in time to have their daughter a Briton-born. But her royal father lived only eight months after her birth, and the bereaved widow was left to endure a thousand anxieties as well as sorrows. Her babe was delicate in constitution, and the means for educating her as the heir expectant of the most powerful monarchy in the world, were inadequately and grudgingly supplied. None but a soul of the highest order could have successfully struggled with the difficulties which beset the course of the Duchess of Kent. She was equal to her task, fortunately for humanity; the whole world is made better from having on the throne of Great Britain a sovereign who is firm in DUTY. The sketch of Queen Victoria will be found in its place- we will only add here, that, for the right formation of her character, which makes DUTY a sacred principle in her conduct, she must have been indebted, in a great measure, to her early training. Let any mother, who has endeavoured to train her own daughter to perform the duties which, in private life, and in a small circle, devolve on woman, consider what conscientious care it has required, what sacrifices of self, what daily examples as well as precepts in the right way; and then she may, partly, estimate the merits of the mother of such a woman as Victoria I. of England. How excellent must have been the character that could acquire the authority and influence necessary to direct well and wisely the education of a young Princess! This was done, too, amidst serious obstacles and many discouragements. Miss Landon in her charming way, addresses a poem to the Duchess of Kent, containing this touching allusion:

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"Oh! many a dark and sorrowing hour

Thy widow'd heart had known, Before the bud became a flower,

The orphan on a throne."

The Duchess of Kent should hold a noble rank among women worthily distinguished; she has performed great and important duties with such her a model for mothers in every rank of life. rare firmness, faithfulness and success as makes


WHOSE maiden name was Stansbury, was born in New York. At an early age she was married to Mr. William Kirkland, a scholar of great acquirements, and also highly esteemed as a man of much moral excellence of character. At the time of their marriage he resigned a professorship in Hamilton College, and established a seminary in the town of Goshen, on Lake Seneca. A few years afterwards he removed with his family to the then new State of Michigan, and made that experiment of "Forest Life," which gave opportunity for the development of Mrs. Kirkland's lively and observant genius, and also furnished material for her racy and entertaining works on Western manners and habits.



In 1839, her first book,-"A New HomeWho 'll Follow? or, Glimpses of Western Life. — By Mrs. Mary Clavers, an Actual Settler," was published in Boston. The freshness of feeling and piquancy of style displayed in the work, won the public voice at once; and its author gained a celebrity very flattering to a literary débutant. This may be considered, on the whole, Mrs. Kirkland's best production, without disparaging its succesThe New Home" has originality, wit, propriety of thought, and kindliness of feeling abounding in its pages, and it would scarcely have been possible for its author to excel again in the same line. "Forest Life," in two volumes, was the next work of Mrs. Kirkland-it has chapters of equal merit to the "New Home," but as a whole, is inferior. The most striking peculiarities of character and landscape had been already sketched with a firm and clear outline, that needed no additional touches; new views of what had been presented with so much life and spirit, seemed but the fatal "too much," which the seduction of applause often draws from genius.

In 1842, Mr. and Mrs. Kirkland returned to New York city, where Mr. Kirkland became proprietor of a journal of a religious and literary character, the editing of which was in accordance with his views and tastes. Mrs. Kirkland now engaged in that profession which we think more deserving of honour than mere literary pursuits; she became teacher and guide of a select school for young ladies, whom she received into her own family. She did not, however, abandon her pen; and in 1845, appeared "Western Clearings," a series of stories founded on her reminiscences of life in the West. These had before appeared in "Annuals," written for the occasion and without connexion, and can only be judged separately, as clever of their kind; some are very charming, and some very

humorous; we would instance "The Schoolmaster's Progress" as among the latter, and "HalfLengths from Life" as an excellent specimen of Mrs. Kirkland's sensible and just mode of thinking, and her happy manner of describing character. The sudden death of her husband devolving on Mrs. Kirkland the whole care of her children, called forth her energies as an author in a new manner. She became editor of a monthly periodical, published in New York, called The Union Magazine. In 1848, this was transferred to Philadelphia, and is now known as "Sartain's;" she still continues one of its editors.

us, hoping for the unwatched and unbridled license which we read of in regions nearer to the setting sun, find themselves marked and shunned, as in the older world.


As women feel sensibly the deficiencies of the "salvage" state, so they are the first to attempt the refining process, the introduction of those important nothings on which so much depends. Small additions to the more delicate or showy part of the household gear are accomplished by the aid of some little extra personal exertion. "Spinning-money" buys a looking-glass, perhaps, or "butter-money" a nice cherry-table. Eglantines and wood-vine, or wild-cucumber, are sought and transplanted to shade the windows. Narrow beds round the house are bright with balsams and

In 1848, Mrs. Kirkland visited the Old World; she has recorded her impressions in a work, entitled, "Holidays Abroad," a pleasant volume. Besides her natural gifts, Mrs. Kirkland is a woman of highly cultivated mind; and from her extensive | opportunities for reading and observation, we may reasonably hope for some work from her pen supe-sweet-williams, four o'clocks, poppies, and maririor to any she has yet given the public.

From "A New Home," &c.


Of the mingled mass of our country population, a goodly and handsome proportion- goodly as to numbers, and handsome as to cheeks and lips, and thews and sinews-consists of young married people just beginning the world; simple in their habits, moderate in their aspirations, and hoarding a little of old-fashioned romance, unconsciously enough, in the secret nooks of their rustic hearts. These find no fault with their bare loggeries. With a shelter and a handful of furniture, they have enough. If there is the wherewithal to spread a warm supper for "th' old man," when he comes in from work, the young wife forgets the long, solitary, wordless day, and asks no greater happiness than preparing it by the help of such materials and such utensils as would be looked at with utter contempt in a comfortable kitchen; and then the youthful pair sit down and enjoy it together, with a zest that the "orgies parfaites" of the epicure can never awaken. What lack they that this world can bestow? They have youth, and health, and love and hope, occupation and amusement, and when you have added "meat, clothes, and fire," what more has England's fair young queen? These people are contented, of course.

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Another large class of emigrants is composed of people of broken fortunes, or who have been unsuccessful in past undertakings. These like or dislike the country on various grounds, as their peculiar condition may vary. Those who are fortunate or industrious, look at their new home with a kindly eye. Those who learn by experience that idlers are no better off in Michigan than elsewhere, can find no term too virulent in which to express their angry disappointment. The profligate and unprincipled lead stormy and uncomfortable lives anywhere; and Michigan, now at least, begins to regard such characters among her adopted children with a stern and unfriendly eye, so that the few who may have cone among

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golds; and if "th' old man" is good-natured, a little gate takes the place of the great awkward bars before the door. By and by, a few appletrees are set out; sweet-briers grace the dooryard, and lilacs and currant-bushes; all by female effort at least I have never yet happened to see it otherwise, where these improvements have been made at all. They are not all accomplished by her own hand, indeed; but hers is the moving spirit, and if she do her "spiriting gently," and has anything but a Caliban for a minister, she can scarcely fail to throw over the real homeliness of her lot something of the magic of that IDEAL which has been truly sung

Nymph of our soul, and brightener of our being;
She makes the common waters musical —
Binds the rude night-winds in a silver thrall,
Bids Hybla's thyme and Tempe's violet dwell
Round the green marge of her moon-haunted cell.


This shadowy power, or power of shadows, is the "arch-vanquisher of time and care" everywhere; but most of all needed in the waveless calm of a strictly woodland life, and there most enjoyed. The lovers of "unwritten poetry" may find it in the daily talk of our rustic neighbours-in their superstitions-in the remedies which they propose for every ill of humanity, the ideal makes the charm of their life as it does that of all the world's, peer and poet, woodcutter and serving-maid.

After allowing due weight to the many disadvantages and trials of a new country-life, it would scarce be fair to pass without notice the compensating power of a feeling, inherent, as I believe, in our universal nature, which rejoices in that freedom from the restraints of pride and ceremony which is found only in a new country. To borrow from a brilliant writer of our own, "I think we have an instinct, dulled by civilization, which is like the caged eaglet's, or the antelope's that is reared in the Arab's tent; an instinct of nature that scorns boundary and chain; that yearns to the free desert; that would have the earth like the sky, unappropriated and open; that rejoices in immeasurable liberty of foot and dwellingplace, and springs passionately back to its free

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