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"THE PICTURE."

When the first stunning effects of his cousin's death passed away, Arden endeavored to take a calm survey of his unhappy position, and to gather such materials for his defence as might influence the minds of those who were to sit in judgment upon him.

A young lawyer called on him, and offered his services in his behalf, but Arden courteously declined them, believing that he could speak much better in his own defence than an inexperienced tyro. At the request of his uncle, the artist had at one time studied law with the intention of adopting it as his profession; but all his natural tastes were antagonistic to its practice, and he returned with renewed ardor to his first love-his beautiful art; thus, in all probability, giving that offence to Mr. Carlyle which caused him merely to name him in his will as the heir to so insignificant a sum as was scarcely worth claiming.

Arden's knowledge of the law of evidence revealed to him the dangerous position he held, and the small chance of escape which existed. Few cases of circumstantial evidence afforded a stronger array of facts than those which could be brought to bear against him, as presumptive proof of guilt. He reviewed them again and again in the solitude of his prison, until hope died within him, and he felt that all his beautiful dreams, his high aspirations, must end in a felon's doom.

How his soul writhed under this conviction; how earnestly he prayed that light might be thrown upon this mysterious transaction, words may not reveal. He had no friend that he could summon to his side in this crisis of his destiny, for Frederick Carlyle was the only one he had ever claimed; in the distant town in which they had been reared, the eccentric habits of the elder Carlyle, and his aversion to strangers, had prevented both young men from forming such intimacies as are common to their years.

The world judges the unfortunate harshly, and Arden felt that even the most candid mind might be influenced against him by the unfortunate concurrence of circumstances which seemed to fix the crime of the murder upon him. He had been reckless in his resolution to inhabit the cottage; he had probably decoyed his cousin to this secluded spot for the purpose of bringing about the catastrophe which had occurred, in the belief that he would be acquitted through lack of positive evidence against him, and be free to enjoy the fortune so nefariously obtained.

His thoughts revolved in the same circle, always coming back to the same dreary conviction, until he began to fear that his mind would unsettle itself by this monotonous dream of misery. He must occupy himself; -he requested that his painting materials might be brought to him; in his art he would seek solace and temporary forgetfulness; yet the first thing he attempted to paint only brought back more vividly the events of that dreadful morning which had wrecked his youth.

Arden had spent many hours in contemplating the picture obtained in so remarkable a manner, and he now undertook to take a copy from it, as seen through his magnifying glass. The head was certainly beautiful, in spite of the expression of horror which disfigured the features; and the artist gazed for hours upon his own work, as if he sought to gain from the lifeless image the dire secret of her presence at that scene of violence and blood. The longer he gazed, the more impossible it seemed to him that the original could have been guilty of the crime of murder; the face was one of extreme refinement, and every line in it seemed to express pity and horror combined. Yet if she were indeed innocent, how came she there at such a crisis? why was her lovely face the last object on which the eyes of the dead man had consciously rested?

When the picture was completed, he placed it in such a position against the wall that the light fell fully upon it, and in his restless promenades to and fro, for hours every day, his glance ever fell upon her features as he turned in that direction; at first he criticised them, and endeavored to trace in them the traits which would have prompted her to commit the crime of which he stood accused; but day by day the face exerted a stronger fascination over him, until he began to think himself base to impute such evil to a creature so fair; a being thus physically perfect could not be morally degraded. There was an expression of purity and girlish sweetness upon the broad, fair brow, which seemed to contradict the suspicion that evil could be harbored in her nature; and gradually Arden began to feel as if it would be sinning unpardonably against her to bring forward that picture in court, and ask the jury to believe the original guilty of murder.

Calmer reflection, when the enchanting face was not looking down upon him, convinced him that this was madness; the fact of obtaining this likeness was the only thing that stood between himself and destruction; for if the jury refused to believe his story, he knew that his fate was sealed. He placed a curtain before the seductive beauty that seemed to exercise a magnetic power over him, and for days refused to lift it; but he would then return to its contemplation with renewed zest, though he felt that his spirit became each hour more deeply enthralled by its strange loveliness.

In the silence and solitude of his life, his worship of the picture became a monomania with him. He determined to reproduce this charming head with all the effect coloring could give it. Then, he thought, he could more surely recognize the original, should he ever meet with her, than from the shadowy form which seemed to flit and fade away as the polished plate was turned in different lights.

The sculptured features were soon transferred to canvas, and an accurate copy made, so far as the mere outlines went; but the daguerreotype gave no clue to the color of the hair and eyes. Arden painted her with blonde hair and blue eyes, but he was not satisfied with the result; and he made a second copy, to which he gave dark eyes and raven tresses. Whether this came

nearer his own ideal of what the unknown should be, or was really true to the original, there were no means of deciding, but the artist was better satisfied with it, and finished it very carefully. He hung this in the place of the former one; and then a new idea seized him, he would paint the face with the natural and smiling expression of youth; and then it would indeed be worth possessing.

Arden put away all the pictures he had made, and only retaining the ideal image stamped upon his own mind, set to work at once. So rapidly did he proceed, that his brush seemed to wake almost to breathing life a creature of such rare loveliness as must have arrested the gaze of the most careless observer - have caused the coldest heart to acknowledge the fascinating power of transcendent beauty.

The artist grew enamored of his work, and when it was completed, he sprang up, exclaiming with maniac excitement:

"Eureka! I have her at last! O beautiful being-only less than divine; I take back my accusation against thee! Never was thy hand raised against my kinsman's life. Could those enchanting lips sever to acknowledge the deed, I would not credit the treason they would speak against the angelic nature that must animate thy form."

His dreary confinement, his wretchedness of mind, had produced their natural result; Arden was in the first stages of a violent brain-fever, and when the jailer came in toward evening, he found him kneeling before the image his own skill had evoked, entreating her to speak to him, to save him from the fearful fate that menaced him; and these entreaties were mingled with ardent protestations of passionate devotion toward herself.

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ROSA VERTNER JEFFREY.

OSA VERTNER JEFFREY was born Rosa Vertner Griffith. Her father, John Griffith, lived near Natchez, was a man of elegant culture, and wrote very pretty little tales and poems, many of his Indian stories having been published in the first-class Annuals, years ago, and several of them highly complimented in England, ("The Fawn's Leap," and "Indian Bride," were quite celebrated.)

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Rosa inherits her talents from him; his brother, Wm. T. Griffith, was one of the most eminent lawyers at the bar of Mississippi, in his day. All of the Griffiths are gifted, having graceful manners were charming people. "Rosa" is a granddaughter of Rev. Dr. James Abercrombie, whose memory is highly revered in Philadelphia, and indeed throughout the United States, as an Episcopal minister. Her mother, who was a Miss Abercrombie, was beautiful and accomplished, but died early, leaving four little children; and it was then that Rosa's maternal aunt, Mrs. Vertner, adopted her, and was all that an own mother could be. Her early childhood was passed at a beautiful country place near Port Gibson, Miss., called "Burlington," and owned by her adopted father. She loved that home as she has never loved another, "for the attachments of imaginative children to localities are stronger than those formed in after-life." Some idea of her attachment to that lovely spot may be formed by the perusal of her beautiful poem, "My Childhood's Home." When only ten years of age, she was taken to Kentucky for the purpose of completing her education, and the parting from "Burlington" was her first sorrow. She was educated at the seminary of Bishop Smith, at Lexington, Ky.; was married, at the early age of seventeen, to Claude M. Johnson, a gentleman of elegant fortune.

A friend of Rosa from childhood, says: "Rosa was one of the most beautiful women, physically, that I ever knew; her head and face were perfect as a Greek Hebe. She is large and full, with magnificent bust and arms; eyes, real violet-blue; mouth, exquisite, with the reddest lips; and perfect features; her hair, dark-brown, glossy, curling and

waving over a nobly proportioned brow. She is bright, gay, joyous, and perfectly unaffected in manner, full of fun and even practical jokes, and with the merriest laugh." Such was Rosa the girl.

She is a capital housekeeper, good mother, and was a good wife. She was the mother of six children by Mr. Johnson, two of whom have passed from earth, and has three babies by her last marriage, — "a lovely band," of which the mother is justly proud; and although losing a large fortune by the war, she is very, very happy.

Alexander Jeffrey, Esq., her husband, is a native of Edinburgh, Scotland, but has resided in the South for fifteen years, and having married a Southern woman, is now identified with the South.

In 1850, under the signature of "Rosa," she became a contributor to the "Louisville Journal," of which Geo. D. Prentice was editor. A great number of her poems appeared in this journal, although from time to time she contributed to the principal literary journals of the country. In 1857, her poems were published in a volume by Ticknor & Fields, Boston, and elicited from the press throughout the country the warmest tributes of praise.

The following pretty complimentary notice of "Poems by Rosa," was written by the lamented hero-poet, Theodore O'Hara:

"If in the general distribution of blessings, Providence has been impartial, and so bestowed its favors as to equalize the condition of human beings, there are instances in which exceptions seem to occur that utterly overthrow the idea of universal equity. The author of these exquisite lyrical gems furnishes an example in point. Young, beautiful, accomplished, with every enjoyment which health can covet, or admiration afford, or fortune procure, she might have been denied, without injustice, those brilliant gifts which often alleviate the ills of poverty, or light the darkness of misfortune. But Nature, as if to illustrate the munificence of her bounty, and signalize the object of her favor by a prodigality of blessings, has bestowed upon Mrs. Johnson, in addition to great personal beauty, gentleness of disposition, vast fortune, and all the joys of domestic life, the lofty attributes of genius. We have read this volume with the deepest pleasure. There is scarcely a line which does not breathe the inspiration of true poetry. There is no pretension, no straining after effect, no stilted phraseology, seeking in its pompous flow to dignify, by mere word-draping, trivial commonplace impressions, but a genuine outpouring of that exquisite sensibility which gives to the occurrences of daily life the fascination of romance. We have seldom seen developed in a higher degree that subtile power which clothes with a mantle of tenderness and beauty every object which it touches. Memory and imagination mingle

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