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.

ROSA VERTNER JEFFREY.

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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.)

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

their trophies in the lovely pictures which she paints; and so faultless is the skill with which they are blended, that some of these poems seem an exquisite tissue of interwoven light and shade. The style is easy and glowing, the language chosen with scrupulous taste, or rather not chosen at all, for it seems to be but an atmosphere of the thoughts which it envelopes, — the imagery is striking and appropriate, and always perfect in its analogies; the sentiment tender and noble, reflecting in beautiful harmony the radiance of intellect with the cheering warmth of true womanly feeling.

Among the poems which specially excited our admiration we may mention 'The Sunset City,' which is one of the most magnificent specimens of descriptive poetry we have ever read. Every line seems to glow with brilliant gems, and over all is thrown a gorgeous emblazonry of fancy which dazzles and deludes the mind by its sparkling splendor. 'The First Eclipse' is a poem in blank verse, of greater length and of much higher order. In it, the author conceives and describes the lofty mission of science, its noble elevation above the commoner pursuits of life, its glorious achievements and rewards, although the instrument by which its triumphs were accomplished may pass unnoted from the memory of men. The crowning jewel of the casket is "The Frozen Ship.' This beautiful story exhibits the highest order of poetic merit. The argument is most happily conceived, the surroundings are all grouped with perfect propriety, and the gradual evolution of the denouement is most artistically wrought. The piece abounds in graphic, lifelike descriptions, in delicate tenderness of expression and exquisite beauty of sentiment.

"In perusing these poems and contemplating their countless infinity of gems, we lose the power to discriminate in the general and dazzling impression of their brilliancy, like the Chaldee shepherd, who has gazed upon the starry splendors of the firmament till his overpowered vision can distinguish but one unbroken sheen of glory."

And the following is from a review of the same volume, from another source:

"The most superficial observer cannot fail to be struck with the author's exuberance of thought and imagery. In the vitality of her conceptions there are no extravagances either of sense or expression, no strained similitudes, no maudlin raptures. In her choice of subjects and method of treating them, we see everywhere the constitution of the author's mind. Her favorite themes relate to the beautiful and noble, generally bear the impress of personal experience, and always display her wealth of thought and depth of feeling. Nowhere does she excel in the retrospect of ruined hopes and blighted aspirations, of ideals shattered and trusts betrayed, concerning which, of late, so much has been said and sung. On the contrary, the buoy