MRS. JOSEPHINE R. HOSKINS. How 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. . . . 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. By 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 66 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 are the greatest reading people in the world, though I must confess that an awful amount of trash is consumed in the process; but after you get out of this bedlam, and visit some of our interior and less cosmopolitan cities, your opinion will take a wider range, and your views do us more justice. But let me see! I think you are a little ennuied with being already lionized by Fifth Avenue eyes: what do you say to a look at Grisi in ‘Norma' to-night? after that a petit supper and quiet tête-à-tête about home scenes and old times?" "That will suit me exactly. True, I have not much curiosity to hear Grisi, because the critics say she is but the shadow of her former self; and as I last heard her in the very zenith of her greatness and glory, I do not quite fancy destroying the spell she then cast around me. But Grisi can never be mediocre; and in 'Norma,' to see her is of itself a picture that needs no sound of voice to interpret its vraisemblance - - so let us be off." - Arrived at the opera-house, finding it early and no sign of a crowd, they stood on the pavement watching the comers and continuing their conversation, when their attention was attracted by a handsome private carriage drawing up immediately under the gas-light by which they were standing. A middle-aged gentleman stepped out, and stood looking down the street, as if waiting for some one; in a moment, two men, bearing an arm-chair, were seen to approach; observing which, the gentleman turned to the carriagedoor, saying audibly to some one within, “All right, Alice; they are here, and only a few persons about; so we are in good time, and you will not have many eyes to encounter." The curiosity of our friends was somewhat excited by this little occurrence, only, however, to be greatly increased when they saw the gentleman take tenderly in his arms the slight figure of an apparently young girl, and place her in the arm-chair, behind which stood respectfully the two men. As she was seated, she raised her eyes, and cast a hurried look around: both the young men uttered an involuntary exclamation of surprise, for from those eyes beamed forth a beauty rarely seen, and Achille felt that a face more beautiful in its wondrous regularity of features and expression he had never met, even in his long wanderings, from the cold, stately English beauty, to the warmer and softer loveliness of the daughters of Italy and Spain. Keenly impressionable to that type of beauty wherein the soul speaks through the eyes, he felt, as he gazed, that, for the first time, he beheld the ideal for which he had so long and vainly sought. Grasping Egmont's arm, he hurried him up the steps, his eye fixed on the chair, which was borne to one of the private boxes. Grisi was forgotten he only thought of finding a position from whence he could gaze, unnoticed, upon this new-found revelation, and thus determine how far first impressions could be relied upon for future judgment. They had not to wait long in the parquette before the party in question made its appearance within range of their unlorgnetted vision. The lady was again assisted from the chair in which she had been carried to a large, comfortably cushioned fauteuil placed in front of the box, evidently for some such purpose. The pallor of her face, and the anxiety of her friends in arranging her seat, spoke the invalid, and proved that they feared her strength being overtasked. In a few moments she raised her head from the back of the chair, where she had rested it, smiled upon her attendants, and then, as she was relieved of her wrappings, cast her large black, luminous eyes around the house with evident curiosity and interest. A mass of white gossamer floated about and around her head like a cloud, here and there revealing a braid of black, glossy hair. A white opera-cloak enveloped her form, just sufficiently bared at the throat to show its swan-like proportions, graced by a few strands of pearls, to which was attached a cross of the same. Her manner, her attitude evidenced her nervous sensibility, and the eye of the young doctor saw with pain yet interest the many sudden quick starts that every rush of the coming crowd into the fast-filling house occasioned her. He had seen enough in the constant play of her expressive features to satisfy him of the truth of Lavater's theory, and the beauty and purity of the inner life seemed revealed to him as if by magic. As he thus gazed, weaving his golden dream-woof, the overture began; but he did not hear it: the curtain rose, and the grand Druid chorus filled every ear and soul save one in that house. Finer and newer study for him was that nature, which, keenly alive to the highest sense of the beautiful, hears and sees for the first time its true delineation. He sees that every nerve pulsates to the great harmony; her eyes grow lustrous; her cheek flushes; her hands twitch nervously, and her whole being is alive with its new-found utterance. A shout of welcome, and behold-Grisi. She might almost imagine herself amid the art-enthusiasm of her own bright land, rather than gazing into the faces of a strange people-reputed, too, as only a money-loving people. Achille, for the first time in his life, felt as if he possessed a duplicate of the senses; his ears drank in every note of the Casta Diva so divinely rendered; he saw every pose of the priestess's pliant form, and yet he never lost a change of that other countenance, so varied by the new-dawning light with which this heavenly power now for the first time flooded her soul. Grisi was an old story- but that fragile woman, so young, so beautiful, the victim of a hard fate, was a new leaf never before turned for his reading. How eagerly, anxiously, every nerve strung to its utmost tension, did she follow the whole scene! Now her face expressed admiration for the noble, gifted priestess, now sympathy for the forsaken, sorrowing woman, while horror depicts itself in every lineament as she beholds Norma bend with her dagger over her sleeping babes, followed by triumph when she sees the avenger yield to the true and stronger instinct of the mother's undying love. When, in the last scene, Grisi concentrates all the trusting, forgiving woman, the loving wife and mother led to the sacrifice, all hearts forget, through the power of her matchless delineation, that the golden sickle no longer severs the mistletoe for pro |