telligent society of the city and to the strangers whose positions or abilities secured for them a presentation at Dr. Græme's house. At one of these parties she became acquainted with Mr. Hugh Henry Ferguson, a young gentleman who had recently arrived in the country from Scotland; and though he was ten years younger, her personal attractions and the congeniality of their tastes soon led to their marriage. Her father died in a few weeks after, and they retired to Græme Park; but the approach of the Revolution, and the adhesion of Mr. Ferguson to the British party, in 1775, induced a speedy and perpetual separation.

Mrs. Ferguson's position made her an object of respectful consideration to individuals of both parties during the war. Her domestic relations were principally with the enemy, but she was by birth a Pennsylvanian, and her old friends, some of whom were leading patriots, treated her with kindness. She appears in the public history of the time as the bearer of an extraordinary letter from the celebrated Dr. Duché to General Washington, and as the agent by whom Governor Johnstone made those overtures to General Joseph Reed which were answered by the famous declaration-"My influence is but small, but were it as great as Governor Johnstone would insinuate, the king of Great Britain has nothing in his gift that would tempt me."*

The remainder of Mrs. Ferguson's life was passed chiefly at Græme Park, in the pursuits of literature, in domestic avocations, and in offices of friendship. Her income was greatly reduced, but her charities were never interrupted, nor was she ever known to murmur at the changed and comparatively desolate condition of her later years. She cherished an unhesitating faith in the Christian religion, and was familiar with the masters of divinity. It is related that she transcribed the whole Bible, to impress its contents more deeply in her memory.

More than twenty years after the comple

*Sparks's Washington, v. 95, 476; William B. Reed's Life of President Reed, i, 381; American Remembrancer, vi., 238, &c.

tion of her translation of Telemachus, she rewrote the four volumes, adding occasional notes and observations. In some memoranda dated at Græme Park, May 20, 1788, she says of the copy which received her last corrections: "This is meant for a particular friend, but if I live I intend to give a more correct version, and perhaps, if I meet with encouragement, shall have it printed. I am now quite undetermined as to all my plans in life. I have little reason to think I am to remain here long; but at present I am at this place with only my old and faithful friend Eliza Stedman." She lived until the 23d of February, 1801, but it does not appear that she ever again revised the work, and it has not yet been printed.

She endeavored to make the translation as literal as the poetical form and the genius of our language would permit; it is, however, somewhat diffuse, the twenty-four books making twenty-nine thousand and six hundred lines. I have read Mrs. Ferguson's manuscript (which has been deposited by her heirs. in the library of the Philadelphia Library Company), and have compared parts of it with the original and with other translations. She had command of a fine poetical diction, and all the learning necessary for the just apprehension and successful illustration of her author; and it appears to me that Fénélon has not been presented in a more correct or pleasing English dress.

Some of the minor poems, and a considerable number of the letters and other composi tions of Mrs. Ferguson, have been published, and they all evince a delicate and vigorous understanding, and an honorable character.

A talent for versification was at that period not uncommon among the educated women of the country, but it was principally exercised in the expression of private feeling or for the amusement of particular circles. Some verses by Mrs. Stockton, welcoming Washington to New Jersey, have been preserved by Marshall, and in the monthly magazines of Philadelphia, New York, and Bos

ton, appeared many anonymous poems, evidently by female authors, which were eminently creditable to their literary abilities.

INVOCATION TO WISDOM.

PREFIXED TO THE AUTHOR'S TRANSLATION OF THE ADVENTURES OF TELEMACHUS.

GRAVE WISDOM, guardian of the modest youth,
Thou soul of knowledge and thou source of truth,
Inspire my muse, and animate her lays,
That she harmonious may chant thy praise.

O could a spark of that celestial fire,
Which did thy favored Fénélon inspire,
Light on the periods of my fettered theme,
And dart one radiant, one illumined beam,
Then struggling Passion might its portrait view,
And learn from thence its tumults to subdue.

This was the pious prelate's great design: As rays converged to one bright point combine, So do the fable and the tale unite The path of Truth by Fancy's torch to light; Each to one noble, generous aim aspires, And the rich galaxy at once conspires To catch the fluttering mind and fix the sense. The end can justify the fine pretence, For youthful spirits abstract reasonings shun, And from grave precept void of life they run. Though heathen gods are introduced to signt, "Tis one Great Being radiates every light; Seen through the medium of a lesser guide, From one pure fount is each small rill supplied; Then, rigid Christian, be not too severe, Nor think great Cambray in an error here. In parable the holy Jesus taughtUnwound the clue with mystic knowledge fraught. He knew the frailties of man's earthly lot, That truths important were too soon forgot; He screened his purpose in the pleasing tale, Then tore aside the heavenly-woven veil, Showed his design-the perfect, sacred planAnd raised to angel what he found but man; By nice gradation in this scale divine The glorious meaning did illustrious shine. Like his great Master, pious Cambray taught, And all the good of all mankind he sought: Through his Telemachus he points to view What youth should fly from and what youth pursue. He makes pure Wisdom leave the realms above To screen a mortal from bewitching love, To lead him through the thorny ways below, And all those arts of false refinement show Which end in fleeting joy and lasting wo; He paints gay Venus in tumultuous rage, Yet shows her baffled by the guardian sage, Who draws his pupil from Idalian groves, From blooming Cyprus and from melting loves. Passion and Wisdom hold perpetual strife Through the strange mazes of man's chequered life. Of all the evils our frail nature knows, The most acute from Love's emotions flows. The utmost efforts of the brave are seen, To check the transports of the Paphian queen; Minerva gives an energy of soul Which does the tide of Passion's rage control, Nor damps that fire which generous youth should But only tempers the high-finished steel: For metal softened, polished, and refined,

Is like th' opening of the ductile mind,

[feel,

Moulded by flame, made pliant to the hand,
Turned in the furnace to each just command:
This fire is disappointment, grief, and pain,
Which, if the soul with fortitude sustain,
The furnace of affliction makes more bright;
Yet higher burnished in Jehovah's sight,
And it at last shall joyfully survey
The tangled path to where perfection lay,
And bless the briers of life's thorny road
That led to peace, to happiness, and God!

THE PROCESSION OF CALYPSO. FROM THE FIRST BOOK OF TELEMACHUS.

SHE moved along

Environed by a beauteous female throng.
As some tall oak, the wonder of the wood,
That long the glory of the grove has stood,
Raises its head superb above the rest,
Of the green forest stands the pride confest,
So does Calypso tower in state supreme,
And darts around her an illumined beam.
The royal youth doth her soft charms admire,
And the rich lustre of her gay attire.
Her purple robes hung negligent behind,
Her hair in careless ringlets met the wind,
Her sparkling eyes shone with a vivid fire,
Yet showed no unsubdued, impure desire.
With modest silence the young prince pursued
At awful distance, cautious to intrude;
With downcast eyes the reverend sage came last:
Thus the procession through the green grove past.

At length they reached the rural goddess' grot,
And as they entered the delightful spot,
Telemachus was much amazed to find
How Nature's beauty could allure the mind.
An elegant simplicity here reigned,
Which all the rules of studied art disdained:
No massy gold, no polished silver, glowed,
No stone that life in all its passions showed,
No lively tints spread vigor o'er a face
And spoke the picture's animating grace;
No Doric pillars, no Corinthian style,
Rose in the turrets of a lofty pile.

Scooped from a rock the concave grotto lay,
Where Nature's touches thousand freaks display;
There shells and pebbles the rough sides adorned
That rigid method and dull order scorned;
A vine luxuriant round its tendrils flung;
Beneath its foliage ladened branches hung.
This vernal tapestry careless seemed to hide
The craggy roughness of its rocky side;
The softest zephyrs made meridian suns
Cool as when Sol his morning progress runs;
Meandering fountains stole along the green,
And amaranths adorned the sprightly scene;
The purple violet shed a richness round,
And strewed its beauties on the chequered ground;
The flowery chaplets wreath around the lake,
And in small basins mimic baths they make;
The flowers that spring and glowing summer yield,
In gay profusion ornament the field.

Not very distant from the grotto stood
A tufted grove of fragrant vernal wood;

The tempting fruit shone rich like burnished gold,
A dazzling lustre charming to behold:
The blossoms white as pure untrodden snow,
Their edges shining with the scarlet's glow;
They bloom perpetual, and perpetual bear,
And waft their incense to the yielding air.
So close their branches, and so near entwined,
They scarcely trembled to the active wind;
No piercing sunbeams could their shades annoy,
No busy eye their sacred peace destroy;
No sounds were heard but sprightly birds that sing,
And the fleet skylark mounting early wing;
A tumbling cascade, in which broken falls
Gushed down in torrents from the rocks' sharp walls,
But softly gliding ere it met the green,
Smooth as a mirror, painted back the scene.

Not on the mountain's top the grot was placed,
Nor yet too lowly at its feet debased;
From all extremes the charming cave was free,
At a small distance from the briny sea,
Where oft you viewed it, softened, calm, and clear,
Like the lulled bosom when no danger's near;
Sometimes enraged, its angry waves were found
Dashing the rocks and bursting every bound.

Your eyes you turn, and from the other side You see a river roll its ample tide. There scattered islands rose to charm the sight, And by the change of novelty delight; Lindens fall, blooming, ladened flowers sustain, And raise their heads in lofty, high disdain; In wanton circles the smooth fountains run, And gayly glistered in the midday sun; In rapid motion some their streams unfurled, While others gently with the zephyrs curledBy various windings met their former track, And slowly murmuring, crept all lazy back. Then in a distant view in groups were seen Blue, misty mounts, and hills of doubtful green; Their lofty summits lost above the skies, And like the clouds deluded wandering eyes, As pleasing fancy changed its different mode And whim and caprice did each object robe.

The neighboring mountains were more highly
graced:

There liberal Nature clustering vines had placed;
In noble branches the grand bunches hung,
And purple raisins burst beneath the sun;
The foliage sought their lovely charge to hide,
Yet the rich grapes shone through in gorgeous pride.
Then low beneath, mixed with the golden grain,
The fig and olive overspread the plain;
Its tempting fruit the pomegranate displayed,
And globes of gold burst through the vernal shade:
The whole retreat was a delightful grove,
A soft recess for friendship's sweets or love.

APOLLO WITH THE FLOCKS OF KING ADMETUS.

FROM THE SAME.

BENEATH the shady elms, where fountains played,
The listening shepherds here his rest invade;
Th' informing song new polished every soul,
But bound their passions in a soft control....

Swiftly the music and the theme would change To vivid meads where sparkling fountains range, Whose glittering waters the gay plains adorn, And all the rules of art-drawn channels scorn; Winding they sport: the meadows seem to smile, Their verdure heightened, and enriched their soil. Hence the enraptured swains began to know That joys serene from moral pleasures flow; The happy rustic pitied now the king, That could not, like the cheerful shepherd, sing; Their lowly roofs began the great to draw To view the cottage humbly thatched with straw. Courtiers too oft are strangers to delight: They rise unhappy from the restless night; But here the graces sweetly were arrayed, Here lovely females every charm displayed— Soft Innocence and ever-blooming Health, That cheerful triumph o'er the slaves of wealth; No torturing envy here the peace invades Of the mild shepherd in the greenwood shades; Each day superior shone with new delight, And gentle slumbers crowned the sportive wight; The fluttering birds put forth their liveliest notes, And stretched to music their expanded throats; The fragrant zephyrs undulate the trees, And fan to music the enamored breeze; The rills pellucid murmured to the sound, And floating harmony rolled all around; The muses band, the sacred virgin train, Inspired the numbers of the tuneful swain: But not supine they dwell in idle joys; An active vigor, too, their limbs employs: To run, to wrestle, to obtain the prize, And chase the stag as he o'er mountains flies, Was oft the business of a vacant day,

As through the green grove they betook their way. The gods looked down from great Olympus' height, And almost envied man's supreme delight.

THE INVASION OF LOVE. FROM THE SEVENTH BOOK OF TELEMACHUS.

CALYPSO dwelt on Cupid's blooming face, And clasped him to her in a fond embrace; Though goddess born, she feels love's soft alarms As close she strains him in her circling arms......

The thoughtless nymphs all felt the subtle flame, But for the strange sensation knew no name, Yet innate modesty and latent fear Whispered some power of wondrous force was near. In silence they the newborn blaze concealed, And, blushing, dreaded it might be revealed; The spreading fire a latent heat imparts And flings its influence o'er their tender hearts.

The princely youth, most careless, too, surveyed The jocund sweetness which in Cupid played, Saw all his little freaks with fond surprise, His thoughtless frolics, and his laughing eyes, With pleasing transport his fine features traced, And on his knees the little urchin placed, Views all the changes in his boyish charms, Nor feels suspicion of impending harms.

MRS. ANNE ELIZA BLEECKER, a daughter of Brandt Schuyler, of New York, was born in that city in 1752, and when seventeen years of age was married to John J. Bleecker of New Rochelle. After residing about two years in Poughkeepsie, Mr. Bleecker removed to Tomhanick, a secluded little village eighteen miles from Albany, where five years were passed in uninterrupted happiness.— Mrs. Bleecker's mother, and her half-sister, Miss Ten Eyck, passed much of the time with her, and her husband saw the fruition of his hopes in the success of plans which had drawn him from the more populous parts of the colony. It was in this period that Mrs. Bleecker wrote most of her poems which have been preserved. Before her marriage, her playful or serious verses had amused or charmed the circle in which she movedone of the most intelligent and accomplished then in America- and she now found a solace for the absence of society in the indulgence of a taste for literature. The following extract from one of her poems not only illustrates her style, but gives us a glimpse

of her situation:

From yon grove the woodcock rises,
Mark her progress by her notes;
High in air her wings she poises,
Then like lightning down she shoots.
Now the whip-poor-will beginning,
Clamorous on a pointed rail,
Drowns the more melodious singing
Of the cat-bird, thrush, and quail.
Cast your eyes beyond this meadow,
Painted by a hand divine,
And observe the ample shadow

Of that solemn ridge of pine.
Here a trickling rill depending,
Glitters through the artless bower;
And the silver dew descending,
Doubly radiates every flower.
While I speak, the sun is vanished,
All the gilded clouds are fled,
Music from the groves is banished,
Noxious vapors round us spread.
Rural toil is now suspended,

Sleep invades the peasant's eyes,
Each diurnal task is ended,

While soft Luna climbs the skies. Some lines addressed to Mr. Bleecker while on a voyage down the Hudson, suggest the

changes of three quarters of a century in the travel and culture along the most beautiful of rivers. She says:

Methinks I see the broad, majestic sheet Swell to the wind; the flying shores retreat: I see the banks, with varied foliage gay, Inhale the misty sun's reluctant ray; The lofty groves, stripped of their verdure, rise

To the inclemence of autumnal skies. [woods Rough mountains now appear, while pendant Hang o'er the gloomy steep and shade the floods; Slow moves the vessel, while each distant sound The caverned echoes doubly loud rebound. It was a custom for the lazy sloops occasionally to rest by the hunting-grounds or in the highlands, but she implores her husband not to tempt

Fate, on those stupendous rocks Where never shepherd led his timid flocks, and dreams that instead of the musket-shot, she can hear

The melting flute's melodious sound, Which dying zephyrs waft alternate round; While rocks, in notes responsive, soft complain, And think Amphion strikes his lyre again. Ah! 'tis my Bleecker breathes our mutual loves, And sends the trembling airs through vocal groves.

The approach of the British army under General Burgoyne, in 1777, was the first event to disturb this repose. Mr. Bleecker left Tomhanick to make arrangements for the removal of his family to Albany; but while he was gone, hearing that the enemy was but two miles distant, she hastily started for the city, bearing her youngest child in her arms, and leading the other, who was but four years of age, by the hand. A single domestic accompanied her, and they rested at night in a garret, after a dreary and most exhausting walk through the wilderness. The next morning they met Mr. Bleecker coming from Albany, and returned with him to the city. The youngest of the children died a few days after, and within a month Mrs. Bleecker's mother expired in her arms, at Redhook. The death of her child is commemorated in the following lines, which evince genuine feeling, and are in a very natural style:

WRITTEN ON THE RETREAT FROM BURGOYNE.

Was it for this, with thee, a pleasing load, I sadly wandered through the hostile woodWhen I thought Fortune's spite could do no more,

To see thee perish on a foreign shore?
Oh my loved babe! my treasures left behind
Ne'er sunk a cloud of grief upon my mind;
Rich in my children, on my arms I bore
My living treasures from the scalper's power:
When I sat down to rest, beneath some shade,
On the soft grass how innocent she played,
While her sweet sister from the fragrant wild
Collects the flowers to please my precious child,
Unconscious of her danger, laughing roves,
Nor dreads the painted savage in the groves!
Soon as the spires of Albany appeared,
With fallacies my rising grief I cheered:
"Resigns I bear," said I, "Heaven's just reproof,
Content to dwell beneath a stranger's roof-
Content my babes should eat dependent bread,
Or by the labor of my hands be fed.

What though my houses, lands, and goods, are gone,
My babes remain-these I can call my own!"
But soon my loved Abella hung her head-
From her soft cheek the bright carnation fled;
Her smooth, transparent skin too plainly showed
How fierce through every vein the fever glowed.
-In bitter anguish o'er her limbs I hung,
I wept and sighed, but sorrow chained my tongue;
At length her languid eyes closed from the day,
The idol of my soul was torn away;
Her spirit fled and left me ghastly clay!

Then-then my soul rejected all relief,
Comfort I wished not, for I loved my grief:

Hear, my Abella," cried I, "hear me mourn! For one short moment, oh, my child! return; Let my complaint detain thee from the skies, Though troops of angels urge thee on to rise". My friends press round me with officious care, Bid me suppress my sighs, nor drop a tear; Of resignation talked-passions subdued— Of souls serene, and Christian fortitudeBade me be calm, nor murmur at my loss, But unrepining bear each heavy cross.

"Go!" cried I, raging, "stoic bosoms, go! Whose hearts vibrate not to the sound of wo; Go from the sweet society of men, Seek some unfeeling tiger's savage den, There, calm, alone, of resignation preachMy Christ's examples better precepts teach." Where the cold limbs of gentle Lazarus lay, I find him weeping o'er the humid clay; His spirit groaned, while the beholders said, With gushing eyes, “ See how he loved the dead!" Yes, 'tis my boast to harbor in my breast The sensibilities by God exprest; Nor shall the mollifying hand of Time, Which wipes off common sorrows, cancel mine.

From this time a pensive melancholy took the place of the quiet gayety that had previously distinguished her manners; but her life was not marked by any event of particular interest until the summer of 1781, when her husband was taken prisoner by a party of tories, and her sensitive spirit was crushed in despair. She fled to Albany, where he rejoined her at the end of a week; but his sud

den restoration produced an excitement even deeper than that occasioned by his supposed death, and she never regained her health, nor scarcely her composue. She returned to Tomhanick, and in the spring of 1783 revisited New York, in the hope that a change of scene and the society of her early friends would restore something of her strength and happiness; but war had changed the pleasant places she remembered, and her dearest friends were dead. She went back with her husband to Temhanick, where she died on the 23d of the following November. Her last return to her home is commemorated in these pleasing verses:

Hail, happy shades! though clad with heavy At sight of you with joy my bosom glows; [snows, Ye arching pines that bow with every breeze, Ye poplars, elms, all hail, my well-known trees! And now my peaceful mansion strikes my eye, And now the tinkling rivulet I spy ;My little garden, Flora, hast thou kept, And watched my pinks and lilies while I wept? Ah me! that spot with blooms so lately graced, With storms and driving snows is now defaced: Sharp icicles from every bush depend, And frosts all dazzling o'er the beds extend; Yet soon fair spring shall give another scene, And yellow cowslips gild the level green; My little orchard, sprouting at each bough, Fragrant with clust'ring blossoms deep shall glow: Oh! then 't is sweet the tufted grass to tread, But sweeter slumb'ring in the balmy shade; The rapid humming-bird, with ruby breast, Seeks the parterre with early blue-bells drest, Drinks deep the honeysuckle dew, or drives The lab'ring bee to her domestic hives; Then shines the lupin bright with morning gems, And sleepy poppies nod upon their stems; The humble violet and the dulcet rose, The stately lily then, and tulip, blows. ... But when the vernal breezes pass away, And loftier Phoebus darts a fiercer ray, The spiky corn then rattles all around, And dashing cascades give a pleasing sound; Shrill sings the locust with prolongéd note, The cricket chirps familiar in each cot; The village children, rambling o'er yon hill, With berries all their painted baskets fill: They rob the squirrels' little walnut store, And climb the half-exhausted tree for more. Or else to fields of maize nocturnal hie, Where hid, th' elusive watermelons lie Then load their tender shoulders with the prey, And laughing bear the bulky fruit away.

Mrs. Bleecker possessed considerable beauty, and she was much admired in society. A collection of her posthumous works, in prose and verse, was published in 1793, and again in 1809, with a notice of her life by her daughter, Mrs. Margaretta V. Faugeres.