with the solemn voices of the worshippers, and seemed to float in a sea of happiness and calm content, from whence she seemed to look down upon her past life with the gentle commiseration and pitying tenderness we feel for one who has suffered long, but whose sufferings are now well at an end. Was this indeed, then, the only real and imperishable good, life had to offer? - the hope that never could be dimmed? - the love that was immortal, and in which all other loves were immortalized? Perish the delusive hand of happiness that had so long led her feet astray! . She raised her eyes toward the skies, and then fixed them upon the highest window of the chapel-tower. Slowly the sash was lifted, and a woman stood in the aperture, with her veil thrown back, and her face turned thoughtfully toward the glowing west. She raised the sleeve of her habit to shield her eyes from the glare of light, and in the sunset her hand shone like gold. The sleeve of her gown waved once, twice, thrice, in the wind, and she seemed to beckon, and to smile; but a cloud came over the vision of the watcher, and when the shower of tears was past and she could see once more, the sash was down and the window deserted; the sun had faded almost entirely from the convent-tower, and the song of the receding nuns grew fainter and fainter as they wound away through the distant galleries. "Gloria, O gloria!" was the last sweet solemn sound she heard ; and "Gloria, O gloria!" her spirit repeated fervently as she laid her head back upon the pillow, and turned her eyes upon the cross that was glowing yet in the last faint rays of the setting sun. WHY? Men say they rest when labors cease; As if the night brought calmness. Why? They only rest whose day is done. The stone which marks our mortal rest, And irks, they say, the slumberer. Why? They walk in silence round our feet, And round our head with muffled sigh, And in our grassy winding sheet They drown the whispered scandal. Why? Scorn, shame, and wrong are mortal banes: Nor ear nor heart hath mouldering manes. They plant the laurel where we rot, Men, idly musing starward, fain Would limn the thoughts in yonder sky; They crave to link affection's chain, And bind earth's broken fetters. Why? He craves not chains whose freedom's won: They only rest whose loving's done. THE LETTER. Go, my rosy little billet, And, if wind and tide befriend thee, When thy scented pages fill it, Kiss the hand to which I send thee. Speak, oh! speak in burning blushes, All I have not dared to breathe him, Tell him in thy rosy flushes, And with sighs of fondness wreathe him. Say, oh! say, if thou wert woman, How my jealous heart could hate thee, (For our hearts are only human,) Did such envied bliss await thee. For, when read, will he not hold thee, In his silken vest enfold thee, With his heart thy dumb heart pressing? Go, my rosy little billet, And, if wind and tide befriend thee, With my own deep passion fill it, That dear heart to which I send thee. MRS. JOSEPHINE R. HOSKINS. OW true is it that true worth and genius are like the violet, hiding from public gaze, and only discovered by its perfume, that cannot hide itself always! The subject of this article is like a " violet," as modest and unassuming as talented, and on that account not well known, for true merit goes unrewarded, while glitter mounts high on Parnassus, and sits there for a time. Mrs. Hoskins is by birth a New-Yorker, but has resided in the South for over thirty years, and known and loved "Southland" best of all other lands. Her father was a Frenchman, born of Italian parents; he came to the United States just before the war of 1812, entered the army, and served with some distinction under General Macomb, and after the close of the war was enrolled, by special compliment for services rendered, in the regular army. Her mother was a native of Philadelphia.. By Mrs. Hoskins's life has been fraught with many lights and shadows, changes and vicissitudes, interspersed with sorrows that fall more frequently to the few. When in her twenty-sixth year, she was obliged to succumb to a disease which she had fought and conquered through mere force of will and natural energy ever since her childhood. degrees it reduced her to the position of a cripple, confining her to the boundaries of four walls, and giving her a sufficient amount of suffering of various kinds to learn to "possess her soul in patience," as she expresses it. For over twenty years she has been thus afflicted, and during that time she has had trials of a far heavier kind; and yet the true woman remains, kind, gentle, and uncomplaining, pervaded with that peace which passeth human understanding. Mrs. Hoskins first wrote for publication during the last illness of her husband, in 1858; but not knowing the pathway that led to print, and being too timid to ask the way, having no confidence in her own powers, it was not until the publication of the "Southern Monthly," (Memphis,) in 1860, shortly after making New Orleans her home, that she found courage to send her articles to that journal. "Love's Stratagem," a novelette, printed in the December number (1861) and succeeding number of that monthly, was far superior to anything of the kind that appeared in that magazine. It was not so much the plot as the language, so chaste and beautiful. "Jacqueline," her nom de plume, made a reputation with her first contribution, which was increased by the publication of an essay on the "Life and Writings of Mrs. Jameson," in two articles, which, though it seemed to treat of a criticism likely to be understood but by a favored few in a country where galleries of art are not, yet it was of the literature that creates them. Her timidity caused her to veil her personelle, and who Jacqueline was remained a mystery! The capture of the city of New Orleans blockaded her avenue to print, and she remained silent and idle during the war, until, shortly after the surrender, John W. Overall started a literary journal in the city of New Orleans, called "The South," to which she contributed under the nom de plume of "Hildegarde," discovering that "Jacqueline" was known to some of her friends. That journal was a " publication of a few days"-I verily believe, "dying of dulness." Writing is very painful as a mechanical effort to her, although, from her graceful sentences and fluent style, one would hardly think so. She next appeared in the literary department of the Sunday issue of some kind of "Star;" I forget the prefix, but it proved to be a shooting one for all concerned. Its inception however, being political, makes the manner of its exit less surprising. Her next effort appeared in the "Crescent Monthly," (Wm. Evelyn, publisher, New Orleans,) anonymously, an article entitled, "Genius and Beauty - Madame de Staël and Madame de Recamier." The article appeared in the September and October issues of that monthly, and received many public and private compliments. I earnestly hope that the great public may come to know Mrs. Hoskins as a writer, for she only has to be known to be loved, and those we love surely we appreciate. Though going into the "afternoon of life," God has preserved to her in a singular manner the heart-elasticity, in many things, of youth She says: "My trouble is to realize time, rather than feeling, and to learn how to grow old gracefully." AT THE OPERA. Achille de Beaumont was a young French physician, with a great many days of leisure to be accounted for, a title, a chateau, and innumerable fertile estates, to which, on the death of his father, he would fall heir; yet strange to say, with all these golden temptations, added to a strikingly handsome person, he stood that wonder of wonders in this degenerate age, the unspoiled possessor of gifts that have driven thousands to ruin. Endowed with that high sense of honor and chivalrous sense of duty to God, his country, and fellow-man, for which the families of the ancient regime were renowned, he started life with the determination to use his time, talents, and prospects as might best promote the fulfilment of these objects. Travel possessed great attractions for him, both for the development it afforded his own mental powers, as well as for the excitement and novelty with which each new scene seemed to invest his life. Europe he knew by heart; not that he ever wearied of its innumerable pages, fraught with all that can exalt the mind, glorify art, and hallow its remembrance; but there can be at times a satiety of the beautiful — times when the mind needs rest from too much thought, and the heart grows weary with its own weight of feeling; and laboring under some such influence, Achille determined to try a newer and less exciting scene, and, with the prejudice so common among the most enlightened Europeans, he expected to find in America the repose of wood and hill, dotted here and there with peaceful hamlet and vale, little dreaming of the never-sleeping activity, noise, and confusion which would be his first greeting in the new world toward which he determined to trace his steps. It was the fourth evening after his arrival in the great Gotham, and we meet him sauntering along Broadway with his old American friend, Harold Egmont, whom he had not met since they parted last under the shadows of the mighty Pyramids; and as they clasped then each other's hands for the last time, remembering all the pleasant days they had passed in travel together, parting now, perhaps never to meet again, each felt that the shadow on their own hearts was as deep as that which, for forty centuries, these old-time monuments had thrown upon earth and sky. "Well, Achille," said Egmont, "are you weary yet of the rush and whirl of our go-ahead people, or are you still lost in wonder at what you just called our giant strides to possess all the world?" "Weary of this incessant, sleepless whirl-this wheel of Ixion - I must confess to being; but at the same time I must acknowledge that every moment only increases my amazement at the untiring velocity with which you Americans grasp everything, from a land speculation to a filibuster meeting. One might almost be tempted to think that when the archangel blows his note of doom, the American people will never think themselves included in the summons; for surely they never take time either to hear or think." "You are mistaken, my dear fellow; there are plenty of thinking minds among our people," said Egmont, with some warmth; "otherwise, where would we find the brains that furnish so many magazines, newspapers, etc., with such a fund of reading matter; besides, you must remember that we |