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In character she is ardent, sensitive, impulsive — the very soul of truth and honor; a worshipper of the beautiful, with a heart so radically artless as to seem abundant in art; universally admired, respected, and beloved. In person, she is about the medium height, slender even to fragility, graceful whether in action or repose; complexion usually pale; hair black and glossy; eyes a clear, luminous grey, large, and with singular capacity for expression.

LYDIA M. CHILD.

MRS. CHILD has acquired a just celebrity by many compositions of high merit, the most noticeable of which are “Hobomok,” “Philothea,” and a “History of the Condition of Women.” “Philothea,” in especial, is written with great vigor, and, as a classical romance, is not far inferior to the “Anacharsis” of Barthelemi; — its style is a model for purity, chastity and ease. Some of her magazine papers are distinguished for graceful and brilliant imagination — a quality rarely noticed in our countrywomen. ­She continues to write a great deal for the monthlies and other journals, and invariably writes well. Poetry she has not often attempted, but I make no doubt that in this she would excel. It seems, indeed, the legitimate province of her fervid and fanciful nature. I quote one of her shorter compositions, as well to instance (from the subject) her intense appreciation of genius in others as to exemplify the force of her poetic expression: —

MARIUS AMID THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE.

Pillars are fallen at thy feet,

Fanes quiver in the air,

A prostrate city is thy seat,

And thou alone art there[[.]]

No change comes o’er thy noble brow,

Though ruin is around thee;

Thine eyebeam burns as proudly now

As when the laurel crowned thee.

It cannot bend thy lofty soul

Though friends and fame depart —

The car of Fate may o’er thee roll

Nor crush thy Roman heart.

And genius hath electric power

Which earth can never tame;

Bright suns may scorch and dark clouds lower,

Its flash is still the same.

The dreams we loved in early life

May melt like mist away;

High thoughts may seem, ‘mid passion’s strife,

Like Carthage in decay;

And proud hopes in the human heart

May be to ruin hurled,

Like mouldering monuments of art

Heaped on a sleeping world;

Yet there is something will not die

Where life hath once been fair;

Some towering thoughts still rear on high,

Some Roman lingers there.

Mrs. Child, casually observed, has nothing particularly striking in her personal appearance. One would pass her in the street a dozen times without notice. She is low in stature and slightly framed. Her complexion is florid; eyes and hair are dark; features in general diminutive. The expression of her countenance, when animated, is highly intellectual. Her dress is usually plain, not even neat — anything but fashionable. Her bearing needs excitement ­to impress it with life and dignity. She is of that order of beings who are themselves only on “great occasions.” Her husband is still living. She has no children. I need scarcely add that she has always been distinguished for her energetic and active philanthropy.

THOMAS DUNN BROWN ENGLISH]].

I HAVE seen one or two scraps of verse with this gentleman’s nom de plume appended, which had considerable merit. For example:

[[“AZTHENE.”]]

A sound melodious shook the breeze

When thy beloved name was heard:

Such was the music in the word

Its dainty rhythm the pulses stirred

But passed forever joys like these.

There is no joy, no light, no day;

But black despair and night al-way

And thickening gloom:

And this, Azthene, is my doom.

Was it for this, for weary years,

I strove among the sons of men,

And by the magic of my pen —

Just sorcery — walked the lion’s den

Of slander void of tears and fears —

And all for thee? For thee! — alas,

As is the image on a glass

So baseless seems,

Azthene, all my earthly dreams.

I must confess, however, that I do not appreciate the “dainty rhythm” of such a word as “Azthene,” and, perhaps,