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garet persevered in the restrictions imposed by her physicians against composition and study for six months; but was so unhappy in her inactive state, that with her mother's consent she resumed her usual habits. In May, 1837, the family returned to Ballston. In the fall an attack of bleeding at the lungs necessitated an order from her physicians that she should pass the winter within doors. The quiet was of service to her health. We have a pleasant and touching picture of her Christmas, in one of her poems written at the time.

TO MY MOTHER AT CHRISTMAS.

Wake, mother, wake to hope and glee,
The golden sun is dawning!
Wake, mother, wake, and hail with me
This happy Christmas morning!
Each eye is bright with pleasure's glow,
Each lip is laughing merrily;
A smile hath passed o'er winter's brow,
And the very snow looks cheerily.
Hark to the voice of the awakened day,
To the sleigh-bells gaily ringing,
While a thousand, thousand happy hearts
Their Christmas lays are singing.
'Tis a joyous hour of mirth and love,
And my heart is overflowing!
Come, let us raise our thoughts above,
While pure, and fresh, and glowing.
"Tis the happiest day of the rolling year,
But it comes in a robe of mourning,
Nor light, nor life, nor bloom is here
Its icy shroud adorning.

It comes when all around is dark,
'Tis meet it so should be,

For its joy is the joy of the happy heart,
The spirit's jubilee.

It does not need the bloom of spring,
Or summer's light and gladness,

For love has spread her beaming wing,
O'er winter's brow of sadness.
"Twas thus he came, beneath a cloud
His spirit's light concealing,
No crown of earth, no kingly robe
His heavenly power revealing.
His soul was pure, his mission love,
His aim a world's redeeming;
To raise the darkened soul above
Its wild and sinful dreaming.
With all his Father's power and love,
The cords of guilt to sever;

To ope a sacred fount of light,

Which flows, shall flow for ever.
Then we shall hail the glorious day,
The spirit's new creation,
And pour our grateful feelings forth,
A pure and warm libation.

Wake, mother, wake to chastened joy,
The golden sun is dawning!
Wake, mother, wake, and hail with me
This happy Christmas morning.

The winter was occupied by a course of reading in history, and by occasional composition. In May the family removed to Saratoga. Margaret fancied herself, under the balmy influences of the season, much better-but all others had abandoned hope. It is a needless and painful task to trace step by step the progress of disease. The clos

ing scene came on the 25th of the following No

vember.

The poetical writings of Lucretia Davidson, which have been collected, amount in all to two hundred and seventy-eight pieces, among which are five of several cantos each. A portion of these were published, with a memoir by Professor S. B. F. Morse, in 1829. The volume was well received, and noticed in a highly sympathetic and ludatory manner by Southey, in the Quarterly Review. The poems were reprinted, with a life by Miss Sedgwick, which had previously appeared in Sparks's American Biography.

Margaret's poems were introduced to the world under the kind auspices of Washington Irving. Revised editions of both were published in 1850 in one volume, a happy companionship which will doubtless be permanent.

A volume of Sélections from the Writings of Mrs. Margaret M. Dwidson, the Mother of Lucretia Maria and Margaret M. Davidson, with a preface by Miss C. M. Sedgwick, appeared in 1844. It contains a prose tale, A Few Eventful Days in 1814; a poetical version of Ruth and of Ossian's McFingal, with a few Miscellaneous Poems.

Lieutenant L. P. Davidson, of the U. S. army, the brother of Margaret and Lucretia, who also died young, wrote verses with elegance and ease.t

EMMA C EMBURY.

MRS. EMBURY, the wife of Mr. Daniel Embury, a gentleman of wealth and distinguished by his intellectual and social qualities, a resident of Brooklyn, New York, is the daughter of James R. Manly, for a long while an eminent New York physician. She early became known to the public as a writer of verses in the columns of the New York Mirror and other journals under the signature of “Janthe." In the year 1828 a volume from her pen was published, Guido, and Other Poems, by Ïanthe. This was followed by a volume on Female Education, and a long series of tales and sketches in the magazines of the day, which were received with favor for their felicitous sentiment and ease in composition. Constance Latimer is one of these, which has given title to a collection of the stories, The Blind Girl and Other Tales. Her Pictures of Early Life, Glimpses of Home Life or Causes and Consequences, are similar volumes. In 1845 she contributed the letter-press, both prose and verse, to an illustrated volume in quarto, Na

The following lines were addressed from Greta Hall, in 1842, by Caroline Southey, "To the Mother of Lucretia and Margaret Davidson.”

Oh, lady! greatly favored! greatly tried!
Was ever glory, ever grief like thine,

Since her's,-the mother of the Man divine-
The perfect one-the crowned, the crucified?
Wonder and joy, high hopes and chastened pride
Thrilled thee; intently watching, hour by hour,
The fast unfolding of each human flower,
In hues of more than earthly brilliance dyed-
And then, the blight-the fading-the first fear-
The sickening hope-the doom-the end of all;
Heart-withering, if indeed all ended here.

But from the dust, the coffin, and the pall,
Mother bereaved! thy tearful eyes upraise-
Mother of angels! join their songs of praise.

Some lines from his pen, entitled Longings for the West, are printed in the South Lit. Mess. for Feb. 1843.

ture's Gems, or American Wild Flowers. She has also written a volume of poems, Love's TokenFlowers, in which these symbols of sentiment are gracefully interpreted. In 1848 appeared her volume, The Waldorf Family, or Grandfather's Legends, in which the romantic lore of Brittany is presented to the young.

Emrend C. Contrary

These writings, which exhibit good sense and healthy natural feeling, though numerous, are to be taken rather as illustrations of domestic life and retired sentiment than as the occupation of a professed literary career.

Of her poetry, her songs breathe an air of nature, with much sweetness.

**Mrs. Embury died at Brooklyn, Feb. 10, 1863. A volume of her Poems was published in 1869.

BALLAD,

The maiden sat at her busy wheel,
Her heart was light and free,
And ever in cheerful song broke forth
Her bosom's harmless glee:
Her song was in mockery of love,
And oft I heard her say,

"The gathered rose and the stolen heart
Can charm but for a day."

I looked on the maiden's rosy cheek,
And her lip so full and bright,

And I sighed to think that the traiter love
Should conquer a heart so light:
But she thought not of future days of woe,
While she carolled in tones so gay-
"The gathered rose and the stolen heart
Can charm but for a day."

A year passed on, and again I stood
By the humble cottage door;
The maid sat at her busy wheel,

But her look was blithe no more;
The big tear stood in her downcast eye,
And with sighs I heard her say,
"The gathered rose and the stolen heart
Can charm but for a day.”

Oh, well I knew what had dimmed her eye,
And made her cheek so pale:
The maid had forgotten her early song,

While she listened to love's soft tale;
She had tasted the sweets of his poisoned cup,
It had wasted her life away-
And the stolen heart, like the gathered rose,
Had charmed but for a day.

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In this sweet city of the dead
I fain would sleep,

Where flowers may deek my narrow bcd,
And night dews weep.

But raise not the sepulchral stone

To mark the spot;

Enough, if by thy heart alone "Tis ne'er forgot.

ABSENCE.

Come to me, love; forget each sordid duty
That chains thy footsteps to the crowded mart,
Come, look with me upon earth's summer beauty,
And let its influence cheer thy weary heart.
Come to me, love!

Come to me, love; the voice of song is swelling
From nature's harp in every varied tone,
And many a voice of bird and bee is telling
A tale of joy amid the forests lone.

Come to me, love!
Come to me, love; my heart can never doubt thee,
Yet for thy sweet companionship Ii..e;
Oh, never more can joy be joy without thee,
My pleasures, even as my life, are thine.
Come to me, love!

OH! TELL ME NOT OF LOFTY FATE.

Oh! tell me not of lofty fate,

Of glory's deathless name;
The bosom love leaves desolate,
Has naught to do with fame.
Vainly philosophy would soar-
Love's height it may not reach;
The heart soon learns a sweeter lore
Than ever sage could teach.

The cup may bear a poisoned draught,
The altar may be cold,

But yet the chalice will be quaffed-
The shrine sought as of old.

Man's sterner nature turns away

To seek ambition's goal!

Wealth's glittering gifts, and pleasure's ray,
May charm his weary soul;

But woman knows one only dream-
That broken, all is o'er;

For on life's dark and sluggish stream
Hope's sunbeam rests no more.

CAROLINE LEE HENTZ.

MRS. HENTZ is a daughter of General John Whiting, and a native of Lancaster, Massachusetts. She married, in 1825, Mr. N. M. Hentz, a French gentleman, at that time associated with Mr. Bancroft in the Round Hill School at Northampton. Mr. Hentz was soon after appointed Professor in the college at Chapel Hill, North Carolina, where he remained for several years. They then removed to Covington, Kentucky, and afterwards to Cincinnati and Florence, Alabama. Here they conducted for nine years a prosperous female Academy, which in 1843 was removed to Tuscaloosa, in 1845 to Tuskegee, and in 1848 to Columbus, Georgia.

While at Covington, Mrs. Hentz wrote the tragedy of De Lara, or the Moorish Bride, for the prize of $500, offered by the Arch Street Theatre, of Philadelphia. She was the successful competitor, and the play was produced, and performed for several nights with applause. It was afterwards published.

In 1843 she wrote a poem, Human and Divine Philosophy, for the Erosophic Society of the University of Alabama, before whom it was delivered by Mr. A. W. Richardson.

In 1846 Mrs. Hentz published Aunt Patty's Scrap Bag, a collection of short stories which she had previously contributed to the magazines. This was followed by The Mob Cap, 1848; Linda, or the Young Pilot of the Belle Creole, 1850; Rena, or the Snow Bird, 1851; Marcus Warland, or the Long Moss Spring; Eoline, or Magnolia Vale, 1852; Wild Jack; Helen and Arthur, or Miss Thusa's Spinning Wheel, 1853; The Planter's Northern Bride, two volumes, the longest of her novels, in 1854.

Mrs. Hentz has also written a number of fugitive poems which have appeared in various periodicals. Her second tragedy, Lamorah, or the Western Wilds, an Indian play, was performed, and published in a newspaper at Columbus. The scenes and incidents of her stories are for the most part drawn from the Southern states, and are said to be written in the midst of her social circle, and in the intervals of the ordinary avocations of a busy life.

THE SNOW FLAKES.

Ye're welcome, ye white and feathery flakes,
That fall like the blossoms the summer wind shakes
From the bending spray-Oh! say do ye come,
With tidings to me, from my far distant home?
"Our home is above in the depths of the sky-
In the hollow of God's own hand we lie-
We are fair, we are pure, our birth is divine-
Say, what can we know of thee, or of thine?”
I know that ye dwell in the kingdoms of air-
I know ye are heavenly, pure, and fair;
But oft have I seen ye, far travellers roam,
By the cold blast driven, round my northern home.

"We roam over mountain, and valley, and sea,
We hang our pale wreaths on the leafless tree:
The herald of wisdom and mercy we go,
And perchance the far home of thy childhood we
know.

"We roam, and our fairy track we leave,
While for nature a winding sheet we weave-
A cold, white shroud that shall ma t'e the gloom
Till her Maker recalls her to glory and bloom."
Oh! foam of the shoreless ocean above!
I know thou descendest in mercy and love:
All chill as thou art, yet benign is thy birth,
As the dew that impearls the green bosom of
Earth.

And I've thought as I've seen thy tremulous spray,
Soft curling like mist on the branches lay,
In bright relief on the dark blue sky,

That thou meltest in grief when the sun came nigh,

66

Say, whose is the harp whose echoing song Breathes wild on the gale that wafts us along? The moon, the flowers, the blossoming tree, Wake the minstrel's lyre, they are brighter than we."

The flowers shed their fragrance, the moonbeams their light,

Over scenes never veiled by your drap'ry of white; But the clime where I first saw your downy flakes fall,

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My own native clime is far dearer than all.

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"We fade, we melt into crystalline spheres-
We weep, for we pass through a valley of tears;
But onward to glory-away to the sky-
In the hollow of God's own hand we lie."

This esteemed author, whose numerous works of fiction, drawn from incidents of American life, and endeared to a large class of readers by their portrayal of domestic feelings, always received a kindly welcome from the public, died of an attack of pneumonia, at her home at Marianna, Florida, February 11, 1856.

Her later years after 1852, when she joined her elder children, who were settled in that region, were shaded by many cares and trials of sorrow in the loss of relatives and the illness of her husband, yet she continued to employ her pen to the last, sending forth new collections of her writings and new works of fiction. In addition to the titles already given, may be mentioned Love after Marriage, and other Stories; The Banished Son; The Victim of Excitement ; The Parlor Serpent, and other novelettes; The Flowers of Elocution, a class-book; a collection of poems, dialogues, debates, &c., in 1855; Robert Graham, a sequel to Linda, in 1856, and her last volume, Ernest Linwood, finished shortly before her death. Her latest composition, written five days before her death, was a little poem, marking her pious resignation, entitled, "No Cross, no Crown."

Her husband, Professor Hentz, to whose protracted illness she had ministered in Florida with great anxiety, did not long survive her, dying at the residence of his son, Dr. Charles A. Hentz, at Marianna, November 4, 1856. Ile was French by birth, and a gentleman of many accomplishments. He had held the professorship of the Belles-Lettres and Modern Languages at Chapel Hill, North Carolina, and is highly spoken of for his devotion to the natural sciences and his attainments as an entomologist.

Since Mrs. Hentz's decease, a volume including her somewhat remarkable Juvenile Poems and her dramatic writings has been published by Mr. T. B. Peterson, of Philadelphia, prefaced by an appreciative biographical sketch from the pen of the Rev. W. C. Langdon.

HERMANN ERNST LUDEWIG,

A pioneer in the work of American Bibliography, was born at Dresden, in Saxony, October 14, 1809. He early acquired a taste for bibliographical pursuits, issuing at his own cost, in 1837, a publication entitled, Livre des Ana, Essai de Catalogue Manuel. He also published a treatise entitled, Bibliothekonomie. A few years later, he contributed to Naumann's "Serapeum,

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discourses learned and philosophical, frequently enlivened by wit and sarcasm; his delivery calın, melodious, and effective.

**Mr. Phillips succeeded to the presidency of the Anti-Slavery Society on the resignation of Mr. Garrison, and held that office until the

dissolution of the Society in 1870. In the latter

year he was the candidate of the "Labor Reform Party" for Governor of Massachusetts. A new edition of his Speeches, Lectures, and Letters appeared in 1869.

SARAH HELEN WHITMAN.

Mr. Ludewig came to the United States, and made the city of New York his residence, about 1842. Having studied law in Germany, he devoted himself to that profession in his adopted city, and soon acquired a profitable practice among its German population. Pursuing his taste for literature, and especially historical study, he was enlisted as a member of the National Institution at Washington, and of the American Ethnological Society at New York. His valuable volume, The Literature of American Local History, a Bibliographical Essay, was printed in 1846, and a "Supplement of American Local History" was added in a pamphlet, in 1848. In the preparation of these works, Mr. Ludewig had the assistance of the valuable collection of Mr. Peter Force, of Wash-husband practised law with eminent success. ington, and of Mr. George Brierly, of Hartford. He was also a special student of antiquities and of philology, and was about publishing, with Tuebner, in London, a work entitled, Bibliotheca Glottica, when he died suddenly, at Brooklyn, New York, December 12, 1856. The volume,

MRS. WHITMAN is a daughter of Mr. Nicholas Power, of Providence, a direct descendant of a follower of Roger Williams in his bani-hment. She was married in 1828 to Mr. John Winslow Whitman, a descendant of Governor Winslow, with whom she removed to Boston, where her

In 1833 he was attacked by a disease which in a brief period closed his life. His widow returned to her native city of Providence, where she has since resided.

left unfinished in the printer's hands by Mr. Larch Helen Whitman

Mrs. Whitman published in 1853 Hours of Life and Other Poems, a few of which are translations from the German. She has also written in con

Ludewig, received additions and corrections by the late Professor W. W. Turner, and the whole, edited by Mr. Nicholas Tuebner, was published in 1858, by the London house of Tuebner & Co.. in an octavo volume with the title, The Litera-nection with her sister, Miss Anna Power, two ture of American Aboriginal Languages. A fairy ballads entitled Cinderella, and The Sleepbrief memoir of Mr. Ludewig, by the editor, pre-ing Beauty. Revised editions of these, prepa

faces the work.

tory to their issue in an illustrated volume, were Of a vigorous physical frame, his tempera- printed in 1867-8. She has also contributed to ment was warm and hearty, and his diligence leading American periodicals elaborate critical and unaffected philanthropy, combined with his articles on German and other authors of modern prepossessing appearance and manners to endear him to his friends. His extensive biblio-Europe, in the chief languages of which she is a proficient. graphical and ethnographical library was sold, two years after his death, by Bangs, Merwin & Co., at their auction rooms in New York.

WENDELL PHILLIPS.

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Wendell Phillips was born in Boston, Mass., November 29, 1811. His father, John Phillips, was mayor of the city. Wendell was educated at Harvard College, graduating in 1831, where he pursued his studies at the Cambridge law school, and, at the conclusion of his course of study in 1833, was admitted to the Suffolk bar. In 1835 he became a prominent member of the rising Abolition party, and from that time has devoted himself earnestly to the cause. lection of his writings, entitled Speeches, Lectures, and Letters by Wendell Phillips, was published at Boston in 1863. The volume is exclusively occupied with the author's discussion on various occasions of prominent questions relating to the subject of slavery and the aggressions of the slave power. During the progress of the war for the suppression of the great rebellion of 1861, Mr. Phillips delivered numerous orations, and, though occupying an ultra position on many points, with great popular influence. As a rhetorician, he possesses high merits. style is polished and pointed; the matter of his

His

Mrs. Whitman's volume of poems is a book of a rare passionate beauty, marked by fine mental characteristics. The chief poem, "Hours of Life,' is a picture of the soul in its progress through time, and its search out of disappointment and experience for peace and security. Its learned philosophical spirit is not less remarkable than its tenderness and spiritual melody.

The volume also contains numerous descriptions of scenery and poems of sentiment, in which passion is intimately blended with nature. Several of these are devoted to the memory of the late Edgar A. Poe, whose wild poetic creations and melancholy career have awakened in the author's mind a peculiar sympathy and imaginative interest. In 1860 appeared Edgar Poe and his Critics, which Mr. George W. Curtis has termed "not a eulogy, but a criticism which is profound by the force of sympathy, and vigorous for its clear comprehension.

QUEST OF THE SOUL-FROM THE HOURS OF LIFE.

O'erwearied with life's restless change
From extacy to agony,

Its fleeting pleasures born to die,
The mirage of its phantasie,
Its worn and melancholy range
Of hopes that could no more estrange

The married heart of memory,
Doomed, while we drain life's perfumed wine,
For the dull Lethean wave to pine,
And, for each thrill of joy, to know
Despair's slow pulse or sorrow's throe-
I sought some central truth to span
These wide extremes of good and ill-
I longed with one bold glance to scan
Life's perfect sphere,-to rend at will
The gloom of Erebus,-dread zone-
Coiled like a serpent round the throne
Of heaven, the realm where Justice veils
Her heart and holds her even scales,-
Where awful Nemesis awaits
The doomed, by Pluto's iron gates.

In the long noon-tide of my sorrow,
I questioned of the eternal morrow;
I gazed in sullen awe

Far through the illimitable gloom

Down-deepening like the swift mælstroom,
The doubting soul to draw

Into eternal solitudes,

Where unrelenting silence broods
Around the throne of Law.

I questioned the dim chronicle

Of ages gone before—

I listened for the triumph songs

That rang from shore to shore,

Where the heroes and the conquerors wrought

The mighty deeds of yore

Where the foot-prints of the martyrs

Had bathed the earth in gore,

And the war-horns of the warriors.

Were heard from shore to shore.

Their blood on desert plains was shed-
Their voices on the wind had fled-
They were the drear and shadowy DEAD!

Still, through the storied past, I sought
An answer to my sleepless thought;
In the cloisters old and hoary
Of the medieval time-
In the rude ancestral story
Of the ancient Runic rhyme.

I paused on Grecian plains, to trace
Some remnant of a mightier race,
Serene in sorrow and in strife,
Calm conquerors of Death and Life,
Types of the god-like forms that shone
Upon the sculptured Parthenon.

But still, as when Prometheus bare
From heaven the fiery dart,

I saw the "vulture passions" tear
The proud Caucasian heart-
The war of destiny with will

Still conquered, yet conflicting still.

I heard loud Hallelujas
From Israel's golden lyre,

And I sought their great Jehovah
In the cloud and in the fire.

I lingered by the stream that flowed

"Fast by the oracle of God"

I bowed, its sacred wave to sip

Its waters fled my thirsting lip.

The serpent trail was over all

Its borders, and its palms that threw
Aloft their waving coronal,
Were blistered by a poison dew.

Serener elements I sought,

Sublimer altitudes of thought,

The truth Saint John and Plato saw,

The mystic light, the inward law;
The Logos ever found and lost,
The aureola of the Ghost.

I hailed its faint auroral beam

In many a Poet's delphic dream,

On many a shrine where faith's pure flame
Through fable's gorgeous oriel came.
Around the altars of the god,

In holy passion hushed, I trod,
Where once the mighty voice of Jove
Rang through Dodona's haunted grove.
No more the dove with sable plumes*
Swept through the forest's gorgeous glooms;
The shrines were desolate and cold,
Their peans hushed, their story told,
In long, in glorious silence lost,
Like fiery tongues of Pentecost.

No more did music's golden surge
The mortal in immortal merge:
High canticles of joy and praise
Died with the dream of other days;

I only heard the Mænad's wail,

That shriek that made the orient pale:
Evohe!-ah evohe!

The mystic burden of a woe

Whose dark enigma none may know; †
The primal curse-the primal throe.
Evohe-al-evohe!

Nature shuddered at the cry
Of that ancient agony.

Still the fabled Python bound me-
Still the serpent coil enwound me--
Still I heard the Mænad's cry,
Evohe!-ah-evohe!

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Wearied with man's discordant creed,
I sought on Nature's page to read
Life's history, ere yet she shrined
Her essence in the incarnate mind;
Intent her secret laws to trace
In primal solitudes of space,
From her first, faint atomic throes,
To where her orbéd splendor glows
In the vast, silent spheres that roll
For ever towards their unknown goal.

I turned from dull alchemic lore
With starry Chaldeans to soar,
And sought, on fancy's wing, to roam
That glorious galaxy of light

Where mingling stars, like drifting foam,
Melt on the solemn shores of night;
But still the surging glory chased
The dark through night's chaotic waste,
And still, within its deepening voids,
Crumbled the burning asteroids.

Long gloating on that hollow gloom,
Methought that in some vast mælstroom,

*

"The priestesses of Dodona assert that two black pigeons flew from Thebes in Egypt; one of which settled in Lybia, the other among themselves: which latter, resting on a beechtree, declared with a human voice that here was to be the oracle of Jove."-Herodotus. Book II, ch, 52.

"The Mænads, in their wild incantations, carried serpents in their hands, and with frantic gestures, cried out Eva! Eva! Epiphanius thinks that this invocation related to the mother of mankind: but I am inclined to believe that it was the word Epha or Opha, rendered by the Greeks, Ophis, a serpent. I take Abaddon to have been the name of the same ophite God whose worship has so long infected the world. The learned Heinsius makes Abaddon the same as the serpent Python."-Jacob Bryant's Analysis of Ancient Mythology.

While Mænads cry aloud Evoe, Evoe!
That voice that is contagion to the world.
Shelley's Prometheus.

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