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Then out spake another angel, nobler, brighter than the rest,
As with strong arm, but tender, he caught her to his breast:—
“Ye have made her all too lovely for a child of mortal race,
But no shade of human sorrow shall darken o'er her face :
“Ye have tuned to gladness only the accents of her tongue,
And no wail of human anguish shall from her lips be wrung,
Nor shall the soul that shineth so purely from within
Her form of earth-born frailty, ever know a sense of sin.

“Lull'd in my faithful bosom, I will bear her far away,
Where there is no sin, nor anguish, nor sorrow, nor decay;
And mine a boon more glorious than all your gifts shall be—
Lo! I crown her happy spirit with immortality"
Then on his heart our darling yielded up her gentle breath :
For the stronger, brighter angel, who loved her best, was DEATH .


This accomplished writer, whose maiden name was Prince, was born in a village near Portland, Maine, and traces her descent, both on her father's and mother's side, to the early Puritans. She early showed uncommon powers of mind, and before she could write she would compose little stories, and print them in her rude way. At an early age she was married to Mr. Seba Smith, editor of the “Portland Advertiser,” who in 1839 removed to New York." Her first published book was entitled Riches without Wings, written for the young, but interesting to readers of all ages. In 1842, she published a novel, The Western Captire, founded on traditions of Indian life. In 1844 appeared The Sinless Child, and other Poems, which was very favorably received, and passed through several editions. She then turned her attention to tragedy, and published The Roman Tribute, founded on a period in the history of Constantinople when Theodosius saved it from being sacked by paying its price to Attila, the Hun; and Jacob Leisler, founded upon a dramatic incident in the colonial history of New York in 1680. In 1848 appeared a fanciful prose tale, The Salamander, a Legend for Christmas : and in 1851, Woman and Her Needs, a volume on the “Woman's Rights" question, of which Mrs. Smith has been a prominent advocate. Her publication entitled Bertha and Lily, or the Parsonage of Beech Glen, a Romance, is a story of American country-life, which was followed by The Newsboy, being a picture of the life of a too much neglected class. This work was the first public appeal in their behalf, and led to efficient measures for their improvement and relief; and so popular was it that it passed through a dozen editions the first year. Mrs. Smith now resides in New York, still actively employing her useful pen in magazines and other periodicals.

! See page 361.


A mariner sat in the shrouds one night,
The wind was piping free;
Now bright, now dimm'd was the moonlight pale,
And the phosphor gleam'd in the wake of the whale,
As it flounder'd in the sea;
The scud was flying athwart the sky,
The gathering winds went whistling by,
And the wave, as it tower'd, then fell in spray,
Look'd an emerald wall in the moonlight ray.

The mariner sway’d and rock'd on the mast,
But the tumult pleased him well:
Down the yawning wave his eye he cast,
And the monsters watch'd as they hurried past,
Or lightly rose and fell—
For their broad, damp fins were under the tide,
And they lash'd as they pass'd the vessel's side,
And their filmy eyes, all huge and grim,
Glared fiercely up, and they glared at him.

Now freshens the gale, and the brave ship goes
Like an uncurb’d steed along;
A sheet of flame is the spray she throws,
As her gallant prow the water ploughs,
But the ship is fleet and strong;
The topsails are reef'd, and the sails are furl’d,
And onward she sweeps o'er the watery world,
And dippeth her spars in the surging flood:
But there cometh no chill to the mariner's blood.

Wildly she rocks, but he swingeth at ease,
And holds him by the shroud;
And as she careens to the crowding breeze,
The gaping deep the mariner sees,
And the surging heareth loud.
Was that a face, looking up at him,
With its pallid cheek, and its cold eyes dim?
Did it beckon him down 2 Did it call his name 2
Now rolleth the ship the way whence it came.

The mariner look'd, and he saw, with dread,
A face he knew too well;
And the cold eyes glared, the eyes of the dead,
And its long hair out on the waves was spread—
Was there a tale to tell ?
The stout ship rock'd with a reeling speed,
And the mariner groan'd, as well he need—
For ever down, as she plunged on her side,
The dead face gleam'd from the briny tide.

Bethink thee, mariner, well of the past:
A voice calois loud for thee:

There's a stifled prayer, the first, the last;
The plunging ship on her beam is cast—
Oh, where shall thy burial be 2
Bethink thee of oaths, that were lightly spoken;
Bethink thee of vows, that were lightly broken;
Bethink thee of all that is dear to thee,
For thou art alone on the raging sea.

Alone in the dark, alone on the wave,
To buffet the storm alone;
To struggle aghast at thy watery grave,
To struggle and feel there is none to save 1
God shield thee, helpless one
The stout limbs yield, for their strength is past;
The trembling hands on the deep are cast;
The white brow gleams a moment more,
Then slowly sinks—the struggle is o'er.

Down, down where the storm is hush'd to sleep,
Where the sea its dirge shall swell;
Where the amber-drops for thee shall weep,
And the rose-lipp'd shell its music keep;
There thou shalt slumber well.
The gem and the pearl lie heap'd at thy side;
They fell from the neck of the beautiful bride,
From the strong man's hand, from the maiden's brow,
As they slowly sunk to the wave below.

A peopled home is the ocean-bed;
The mother and child are there :
The fervent youth and the hoary head,
The maid, with her floating locks outspread,
The babe, with its silken hair:
As the water moveth, they lightly sway,
And the tranquil lights on their features play:
And there is each cherish'd and beautiful form,
Away from decay, and away from the storm.


All day, like some sweet bird, content to sing
In its small cage, she moveth to and fro–
And ever and anon will upward spring
To her sweet lips, fresh from the fount below,
The murmur'd melody of pleasant thought,
Unconscious utter'd, gentle-toned and low.
Light household duties, evermore inwrought
With placid fancies of one trusting heart
That lives but in her smile, and turns
From life's cold seeming and the busy mart,
With tenderness, that heavenward ever yearns
To be refresh'd where one pure altar burns.
Shut out from hence the mockery of life,
Thus liveth she content, the meek, fond, trusting wife.


CAmolix E M. Kirkla Nd, whose maiden name was Stansbury, is a native of the city of New York, where her father was a bookseller and publisher. After his death the family removed to the western part of the State, where she was married to Mr. William Kirkland." After residing in Geneva for some years, Mr. and Mrs. Kirkland removed to Detroit, Michigan, where they resided for two years, and for six more in the interior, about sixty miles west of Detroit. This gave our authoress an opportunity to observe Western life and manners; and how well she improved it was soon seen in her New Home, Who'll Follow for Glimpses of Western Life, by Mrs. Mary Clarers, published in 1839, which made an immediate impression upon the public, by its keen observation and delightful humor. In 1842 appeared Forest Life, soon after which she returned with her husband to New York, where he commenced, in conjunction with Rev. II. W. Bellows, a weekly journal, called the “Christian Inquirer.” Early in 1846 appeared Western Clearings, a collection of tales and sketches illustrative of Western life. After publishing An Essay on the Life and Writings of Spenser, Mrs. Kirkland undertook, in July, 1847, the editorship of the “Union Magazine,” which the next year was transferred to Philadelphia, where it was published under the title of “Sartain's Magazine,” edited jointly by Prof. John S. Hart and Mrs. Kirkland. In 1848, she visited Europe, and has recorded her impressions in a work entitled Holidays Abroad, or Europe from the West. In 1853 she published successively The Erening Book, or Fireside Talk on Morals and Manners, with Sketches of Western Life; Autumn Hours; and The Hone Circle; and the same year appeared The Book of Home Beauty, a gift for the holidays, containing the portraits of twelve American ladies, the text of which, however, has no reference to the “portraits,” but consists of a story of American society, with occasional poetical quotations. Her latest work—Memoirs of Washington—presents a most lifelike and winning picture of the private as well as public life of that great man. The chaste and simple dedication shows its object:-" To all my young friends, known and unknown, and particularly to my own Sons and Daughters, this attempt to introduce WAshingtoN to their more intimate knowledge and tenderer regard, and so to make his goodness and patriotism irresistibly inspiring to them, is affectionately inscribed.”

1 Mr. Kirkland was the son of the Hon. Joseph Kirkland, who lived in Utica, New York. He was at one time a professor in Hamilton College, and is the author of “Letters from Abroad,” written after a residence in Europe. He was also a contributor to “The Columbian,” and to “Hunt's Merchants' Magazine.” He died in October, 1846.

* This book may be confidently and warmly commended to all “Young America,” as giving an impression of Washington's everyday life far more beautiful, because more truthful, than some works of much higher pretensions.

“Mrs. Kirkland's writings are all marked by clear comunon sense, purity of style, and animated thought. Her keen perception of character is brought to bear on the grave as well as humorous side of human nature; on its good points as well as its foibles; and her satire is directed against the false refinements of artilicial life as well as the rude angularities of the backwoods.”—Du Yokix, A.


We touched on authority as the basis of household happiness, a proof how antiquated are our notions. But if the very mention of authority, even in connection with the training of children, give an air of mustiness to our page, how shall we face the reader of to-day, when we avow that we judge no family to be truly and rationally happy, unless the head of it possess absolute authority, in such sense that his known wish is law, his expressed will imperative? Is this an anti-democratic sentiment? By no means. The ideal family supposes a head who is himself under law, and that of the most stringent and inevitable kind. It supposes him to hold and exercise authority under a deep sense of duty, as being something with which God clothed him when he made him husband and father, and which he is, therefore, on no occasion or account, at liberty to put off or set aside as a thing indifferent. This power is necessary to the full development and exercise of that beautiful virtue of obedience, without which the human will must struggle on hopelessly forever, being forbidden by its very constitution to know happiness on any other terms. It is an ill sign of the times, that the old-fashioned promise of obedience in the marriage ceremony is now only a theme for small wit. Those wise fathers who placed it there knew the human heart better than we suppose. They knew that, as surely as man and wife are one, so surely do they thus united become a Cerberus-like monster if they retain more than one head. The old song says:—

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A house in which this question remains undecided is always a pitiable spectacle, for both nature and religion are set aside there.

We had not dared to touch on this incendiary topic if we had not been sure of such support as admits not of gainsaying. Shakspeare's shrewdness, his knowledge of the human heart, his high ideal of woman as wife and mother, not to speak of his poetic appreciation of the beauty of fitness, render his opinion peculiarly valuable on this ticklish point. Hear him :—

“Thy husband is thy life, thy lord, thy keeper,
Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee,
And for thy maintenance: commits his body
To painful labor both by sea and land, -
To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,
While thou liest warm at home, secure and safe:
And craves no other tribute at thy hands
Than love, fair looks, and true obedience—
Too little payment for so great a debt '''

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