sional exuberance reminding us of Miss Prescott. "Woodburn" will add largely to Mrs. Jeffrey's fame, and in the difficult field of fiction-writing she will take high rank.'

"This is very high praise, but not too high. It is rather below than above the merits of 'Woodburn.' The fascination of the story is complete. No reader who crosses the threshold will pause short of the recesses which enshrine the mystery. Nor is the style unworthy of the story. On the contrary, the story blazes in the style like a gem in its setting. 'Woodburn' is a success. Considered as a first effort in the field of fiction, it is a brilliant success."

Here is a word-picture of the heroine :

"Ethel Linton was the most superb beauty I ever saw. At that time past the bloom of early youth, being twenty-five, yet her loveliness had ripened — matured — losing not freshness, yet gaining depth and tenderness of expression, in its growth to full perfection. She was tall and elegantly formed, a wavy, graceful figure, yet so round, there were no harsh angles there to mar its stately symmetry; fair, very fair, with large, lustrous hazel eyes, into whose clear depths you might gaze long and earnestly, and while gazing, feel as well assured that the soul within was a temple of purity and truth, as in watching the stars, we know those blue steeps which they adorn are boundary-lines to a world of angels. The features were regular, yet not with the severe perfection of a Grecian statue. And it was the ever-changing lights and shades of expression, that constituted Ethel's chief attraction; - the glow, the beam of intellect, the bewitching smiles or laugh of gayety · - at times almost childish in its ringing merriment, and then, a shadow of mournfulness flitting over her face, eclipsing its light like wreaths of purple vapor, that sometimes start suddenly across the glory of a summer sky, breaking into shimmering gleams the glow of sunshine on some enchanting landscape, yet shading it so softly, so dreamily, that we know not which to deem most lovely, the living picture bathed in light, or shadowed by its veil of purple cloud. My sister's hair was her crowning beauty. Golden-brown, silky, and abundant, it rippled in shining waves over her white brow, and, braided into a mass at the back of her regal head, shone like a halo — illuminating her whole form."

Here is a beautiful stroke of pathos:

"Still, Cecil Clare continued to preach-Sunday after Sunday rising up with that white, still face, whose very calmness told a tale of fearful, inward struggle; and once, when the prayers of the congregation were requested for Pearl, (when the fever was at its height,) his voice grew so low and tremulous, we knew that it swept over a well of unshed tears, like the sad wailing wind of Autumn, when through some lone valley it comes, with a sobbing sound, drearily sweeping over deep, still waters."

And here are acute reflections:

"Poor, dear, beautiful Ethel!—if they could only have met before her first miserable marriage! Yet when I suggested this to Cecil Clare the other day, he looked very grave, and said: 'Don't suppose, because events are contrary to what our feeble judgment may deem best, that it is so, or that we could better the order of things by arranging them to suit ourselves; for, by cultivating such thoughts, we put our little mite of earthly wisdom up in opposition to that Almighty One who never has erred and never can err. Had your cousin met Mr. Clifford in her early youth, they might not have been congenial in disposition and temper, as they now appear to be, for she has doubtless been softened and strengthened by early trials; and, though we know nothing of his history, there is a sad, firm, calm look about Mr. Clifford, which indicates that he has borne some heavy weight of sorrow patiently, and met reverse of fortune bravely as a man - resignedly as a Christian. Perhaps they both needed this to make them what they now are, and (if destined for each other) it is far better they never met until now; for God orders all things well. Suppose you, or I, or any other human being, had the government and direction of everything, even on this little globe of ours (to say nothing of the boundless universe) for one day, how would it end? In misery, confusion, and ruin. Let us not then presume, in the weakness of human folly, to doubt the wisdom of God.'"

Mrs. Jeffrey is now contributing novelettes and poems to literary journals, and among others to the "Land we Love." She has written a poem which she thinks possesses more merit than anything she ever wrote, and are her favorite verses. I am pleased to give a few stanzas from "Florence Vale," and hope the poem may shortly be given to the public.

Her residence is still in the pleasant town of Lexington, Ky.

Of purple joy-grief was to me like a wild stormy night

To those who sweep silk curtains back, and watch the shut-out gloom Amid the rosy atmosphere of a luxurious room.

*These extracts are taken at random from the MSS. poem.

I knew that death was in the world, and woe, and bitterness,
But insolent in happiness—I thought of sorrow less

Than children think of cold, who gaze on painted polar seas 'Mid Syrian roses 'neath the shade of balmy citron-trees.

And when it came- Heaven dealt the blow with an unsparing hand: I dreamed in Eden; to awake 'mid wastes of burning sand,

Life's dreary waste, which 'neath a load of hate, I've wandered through, Weary, as 'neath his Saviour's curse, speeds on the "Wandering Jew."

As scattered graves, that dot with gloom the eastern traveller's way,
So grief and pain do sadly mark life's high-road as we stray;
And for that time has Memory raised an altar of regret,
Among the joys, along my path, like golden mile-stones set.

A glorious type of womanhood, whose very waywardness
Beguiled my lips ere they could chide, to smile on her bliss.
A nature with no hidden shoals, but clear as waves that show
To mariners, through crystal deeps, the coral-reefs below!

I hate, aye, loathe, the very thought, that Love's blest name is given To passions scarce more like to it than Hell is like to Heaven.

By one, the feelings are refined, as streams are purified

In sparry caves, or shining sands, through which they ofttimes glide.

The other is like some foul spring, where (lured by thirst) we drink,
To find a noxious, burning tide, with ashes on its brink,

And lo! it doth pollute the soul, as erst the God-cursed Nile
With waves of blood the sunny lands of Egypt did defile.

And from that time, above the wreck of hopes so bright and blest,
Within my heart revengeful hate upreared his snaky crest,
And on each tender, prayerful thought a foul pollution shed,
Like blood upon a battle-field, staining the daisies red.

LILLA CLARE.

Wearily, drearily, mournfully fair,

By a deep river roves young Lilla Clare

At midnight-oh, why is she wandering there?

Gently the long jetty tresses unfurl

And veil her white bosom with many a curl,
Like dark waters, drifting o'er islands of pearl;

And the fair brow, 'neath their glorious shroud, Gleams white as yon moon, in his watch-tower proud, Looking to earth, o'er a rampart of cloud,

From her storm-castle, (whose battlement mars
The wondrous flash from Night's turret of stars,)
Sad, as a victim through dull prison-bars.

Shivering, quivering, plaintively there,
O'er that sweet river, comes wailing the air,
Dying in gusts, like wild shrieks of despair.

And 'neath the frost-tinted grove, where she stood, Tall, trembling trees dropped their leaves in a flood, Crimson leaves, dropping like showers of blood,

As if the lightning had cleft with its dart,
One of bright Autumn's full, warm veins apart,
Leaving the rich drops to gush from her heart.

Soon o'er the moon and the stars seem to creep
Huge inky clouds, like the billows that sweep
Where stately armadas go down in the deep.

But the night's darkness, and wind's dismal wail,
Of her who stands shuddering there in the gale
Tell not, whose eyes look so mournful a tale.

Beautiful! frail! while the storm-cannons boom,
Graceful she stands by that river's deep gloom,
Like a parian vase, by a rain-darkened tomb.

Lamps in yon castle a gay throng reveal,

Floods of soft light through its high windows steal, And on the night wind, hark! music's loud peal!

See! 'tis a bridal, for there, side by side,
Haughty Lord Alfred and fair Effie Clide
Stand to be wedded, in beauty and pride.

Scarcely less bright than the coronal there,
Gleameth the lustre of Effie's soft hair,

And 'neath rare pearls is her bosom most fair.

Their hands were united;

the holy man said:

"Can any find cause why they should not be wed?" And through the halls a deep silence was shed.

Breathless, oppressive! and then loud and clear,
Shrieked a voice loudly, "Oh, let me come near,
Lilla, his wife, I am here, I am here.

"Fearfully, tearfully, blushing with pride, From the gray chapel, I came forth his bride; Lord Alfred, now dare you wed Effie Clide?

"Secret our bridal-ah, weary and sad

My warm heart has grown, once hopeful and glad.” "Away!" (cried Lord Alfred,) "away, she's mad!"

For lo! in the midst of that company fair,

The rain oozing out from her cloud of black hair,
Cold as a statue, stood young Lilla Clare.

To "her mate" she had flown like a storm-beaten dove, And found him deserting the ark of her love,

Ah! whither now shall her weary wing rove?

Wretched! forsaken! and yet did he say

"She's mad, away with her,” — they turned to obey, But she swept past them, and went on her way,

Mournfully, scornfully. Stern man, hast thou
Forgotten her fondness, thine own solemn vow?
Where hast thou driven that proud victim now?

Fair Effie wept, till her perjured lord swore
He never had seen crazy Lilla before,
Then was the priest interrupted no more.

The tempest passed by, and morning did fold
The earth in her vesture of purple and gold,
But in the village the chapel-bell tolled.