After the death of Mr. Johnson, leaving her with four children, she resided with her adopted parents until her marriage to Alexander Jeffrey, Esq., a native of Edinburgh, Scotland.

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. Johuson, 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 envelops, 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 de

scriptive 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."

In the spring of 1864, Mrs. Jeffrey published, through Sheldon & Co., New York, a novel entitled "Woodburn," of which we give the following review.

(From the "Louisville Journal.")

WOODBURN: A Novel. Several weeks ago, in announcing this work as forthcoming, we said:

"Where its scene is laid, or what its plot is, or who is its hero or heroine, are points upon which the public as yet have received no inkling; but those who are acquainted with the genius and taste of the fair authoress must feel assured, that, in respect to the scene and plot, as well as in all other respects, the production will be brimful of charm. Her legion of admirers feel a world of curiosity respecting the work, but no solicitude. They confide implicitly, as they well may, in her rare and beautiful powers.'

"We are now able to say that this implicit confidence was not misplaced. It has been nobly justified: Woodburn, in respect to the scene and plot, as well as in all other respects, is indeed brimful of charm. In support of this judgment, we beg to adduce the following notice from the Hartford Courant, which is one of many favorable notices that we might cite, and which throws quite as much light on the scene and plot and principal characters, as we think a person who has not read the novel is entitled to receive.

"It is refreshing to meet, in these days of the sensational Braddon-Wood school of fiction, a story possessing so much real ability as "Woodburn." The scenes are, for the most part, laid at the South; and the many fine pictures of its sunny landscapes, with which the book abounds, relieve the

intense interest of the story. Most of the characters are drawn with great cleverness, and a few in such clear outlines that we feel assured we have met them in real life. The hero and heroine, Mr. Clifford and Ethel Linton, are fine characters. Both possess the noblest qualities of mind and heart, and the reader will be in love with them from the first. The villain of the story, who bears the harsh-sounding name of Basil Thorn, is a real villain. For unmitigated scoundrelism and remorseless hatred it would be hard to match him. His miserable death in the woods is a relief to us. Rachel Thorn, a sort of Becky Sharp, but without Becky's triumphs, is a powerfully drawn character. One of the best personages in the book is the narrator herself, Amy Percy-bright, shrewd, honest—a girl who, disappointed in her first love, does n't believe in breaking her heart therefor. The plot is ably managed, and the secret that hangs about Doctor Foster and the maniac, is so skilfully concealed until the denouement, that it is impossible to guess at it. There is much acuteness displayed in many of the author's reflections and observations. Her style is clear, compact, and animated, and with occasional 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 expres sion, 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 has several novels in MS., and a poem which she thinks possesses more merit than anything she ever wrote, entitled "Florence Vale." Claxton, Remsen & Haffelfinger, Philadelphia, publish in the winter of 1870, "Daisy Dare, and Baby Power," a poem illustrated. Mrs. Jeffrey's residence is Lexington, Kentucky.

October, 1870.

EXTRACTS FROM "FLORENCE VALE.”*

I have been blest, so fully blest-that, basking in the light
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.

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,

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