name was Sarah G. Clarke, which was changed by her marriage with Mr. Leander K. Lippincott, of Philadelphia, in October, 1853; but the appellation by which she will be best known in American literature will be that under which she made her first appearance as an author. While she was a school girl, her parents removed to Rochester, where she enjoyed the excellent educational advantages of that place. In 1843, she removed with her parents to New Brighton, Pennsylvania, where she resided until her marriage, although spending a considerable portion of her time in Washington, Philadelphia, and other eastern cities. Soon after her removal to New Brighton, she appeared as an authoress, under the signature of “Grace Greenwood," in the columns of "The New York Mirror," then under the editorial care of George P. Morris and N. P. Willis. Among her poetical pieces which attracted most admiration, were "Ariadne," the "Horseback Ride," and "Pygmalion." These were succeeded by various prose compositions, some of which appeared in "The National Era," published in Washington. In connection with her other literary labors, she was the editor of "The Lady's Book" for a year. Her first volume, entitled "Greenwood Leaves," was published in 1850. In 1851, she published a volume of "Poems," and an admirable juvenile story book, called "History of my Pets." A second series of "Greenwood Leaves" was issued the following year; and also another juvenile work, called "Recollections of my Childhood." In the spring of 1852, she visited Europe, and spent fifteen months in England and on the continent. Soon after her return, she published a record of her travels, entitled "Haps and Mishaps of a Tour in Europe." In October, 1853, she entered upon the editorship of "The Little Pilgrim,” a monthly magazine for children, published in Philadelphia, by Mr. Leander K. Lippincott, to whom about this time she was married. In the fall of 1855, she published "Merrie England," the first of a series of books of foreign travel for children. In the spring of 1856, a volume, entitled "A Forest Tragedy, and other Tales," appeared; and in the fall of 1857, "Stories and Legends of History and Travel," being the second of the series mentioned above.

It will thus be seen that Mrs. Lippincott's life is anything but an idle one; and we rejoice that she is thus keeping her talent bright by use, charming all her readers, both old and young, by her fine thoughts, expressed in a style of great ease, simplicity, and beauty.

See some account of this in a note, page 492.

THE HORSEBACK RIDE.

When troubled in spirit, when weary of life,

When I faint 'neath its burdens, and shrink from its strife,
When its fruits, turned to ashes, are mocking my taste,

And its fairest scene seems but a desolate waste,
Then come ye not near me, my sad heart to cheer,

With friendship's soft accents, or sympathy's tear.

No pity I ask, and no counsel I need,

But bring me, O, bring me, my gallant young steed,
With his high archéd neck, and his nostril spread wide,
His eye full of fire, and his step full of pride!

As I spring to his back, as I seize the strong rein,

The strength to my spirit returneth again!

The bonds are all broken that fettered my mind,
And my cares borne away on the wings of the wind;
My pride lifts its head, for a season bowed down,
And the queen in my nature now puts on her crown!

Now we're off-like the winds to the plains whence they came, And the rapture of motion is thrilling my frame !

On, on speeds my courser, scarce printing the sod,
Scarce crushing a daisy to mark where he trod!
On, ou like a deer, when the hound's early bay
Awakes the wild echoes, away, and away!
Still faster, still farther, he leaps at my cheer,
Till the rush of the startled air whirls in my ear!
Now long a clear rivulet lieth his track-

See his glancing hoofs tossing the white pebbles back!
Now a glen, dark as midnight-what matter?—we'll down,
Though shadows are round us, and rocks o'er us frown;
The thick branches shake, as we're hurrying through,
And deck us with spangles of silvery dew!

What a wild thought of triumph, that this girlish hand
Such a steed in the might of his strength may command!
What a glorious creature! Ah! glance at him now,
As I check him awhile on this green hillock's brow;
How he tosses his mane, with a shrill, joyous neigh,
And paws the firm earth in his proud, stately play!
Hurrah! off again, dashing on as in ire,

Till the long, flinty pathway is flashing with fire!

Ho! a ditch-Shall we pause? No; the bold leap we dare,

Like the swift-wingéd arrow we rush through the air!

O, not all the pleasures that poets may praise,

Not the wildering waltz in the ball-room's blaze,

Nor the chivalrous joust, nor the daring race,

Nor the swift regatta, nor merry chase,

Nor the sail, high heaving waters o'er,

Nor the rural dance on the moonlight shore,
Can the wild and thrilling joy exceed

Of a fearless leap on a fiery steed!

LONGFELLOW-FREDRIKA BREMER-KOSSUTH.1

I am reminded of an incident, or rather the incident of yesterday an accidental meeting with the poet Longfellow.

Aside from mere curiosity, of which I suppose I have my woman's share, I have always wished to look on the flesh and blood embodiment of that rare genius, of that mind stored with the wealth of many literatures, the lore of many lands-for in Longfellow it is the scholar as well as the poet that we reverence. The first glance satisfied me of one happy circumstance -that the life and health which throbbed and glowed through this poet's verse had their natural correspondences in the physical. He appears perfectly healthful and vigorous-is rather English in person. His head is simply full, well-rounded, and even, not severe or massive in character. The first glance of his genial eyes, which seem to have gathered up sunshine through all the summers they have known, and the first tones of his cordial voice, show one that he has not impoverished his own nature in so generously endowing the creations of his genius-has not drained his heart of the wine of life, to fill high the beaker of his song.

Mr. Longfellow does not look poetical, as Keats looked. poetical, perhaps; but, as Hood says of Gray's precocious youth, who used to get up early

"To meet the sun upon the upland lawn"

"he died young." But, what is better, our poet looks well, for, after all, health is the best, most happy and glorious thing in the world. On my Parnassus, there should be no half-demented, long-haired, ill-dressed bards, lean and pale, subject to sudden attacks of poetic frenzy-sitting on damp clouds, and harping to the winds; but they should be a hearty, manly, vigorous set of inspired gentlemen, erect and broad-chested, with features more on the robust than the romantic style-writing in snug studies, or fine, large libraries, surrounded by beauty, elegance, and comfort.

I heard yesterday that Fredrika Bremer had really arrived

Extract from a letter.

in New York. I hope that it is so. She has hosts of admirers all over our country, and is actually loved as few authors are loved, with a simple, cordial, home affection-for she is especially a writer for the fireside, the family circle, and thas addresses herself to the affections of a people whose purest for and deepest interests centre in domestic life. America wil take to her heart this child of genius and of nature-her home shall be by every hearth in our land, which has been made a dearer and a brighter place by her poetry, her romance, ard her genial humor. She will be welcomed joyfully by every nature which has profited by her pure teachings, and received her revelations by every spirit which has been borne upward by her aspirations, or softened by the spring breath, the st warmth and light of her love.

To woman has the Swedish novelist spoken, and by woman must she be welcomed and honored here; but to the men ! America comes one whose very name should cause the blood to leap along their veins-he, the heart's brother of freen all over the world-the patriot, prophet, and soldier, the Lero of the age-Kossuth the Hungarian!

How will he be received here? How will the deep, intense. yet mournful sympathy, the soul-felt admiration, the generous homage of the country, find expression? Not in parades and dinners, and public speeches, for Heaven's sake!

Would you feast and fête a man on whose single heart is 1:31 the dead, crushing weight of a nation's sorrow-about whose spirit a nation's despair makes deep, perpetual night?

I know not how my countrymen will meet this glorious exile; but were I a young man, with all the early love and fresh enthusiasm for liberty and heroism, I would bow reverently, and silently kiss his hand. Were I a pure and tried statesman, al honest patriot, I would fold him to my breast. Were I an old veteran, with the fire of freedom yet warming the veins whose young blood once flowed in her cause, I should wish to look on Kossuth and die.

Who can say this man has lived in vain? Though it was not his to strike the shackles from his beloved land till she should stand free and mighty before Heaven, has he not struggled and suffered for her? Has he not spoken hallowed and immortal words words which have gone forth to the nations, a power and a prophecy, which shall sound on and on, long after his troubled life is past-on and on, till their work is accomplished in great deeds-and the deeds become history, to be read by free men with quickened breath, and eyes that lighten with el

ultation? And it is a great thing that Europe, darkened by superstition and crushed by despotism, has known another hero -a race of heroes, I might say, for the Hungarian uprising has been a startling and terrific spectacle for kings and emperors. And "the end is not yet." There must be a sure, a terrible retribution for the oppressors-a yet more fearful finale to this world-witnessed tragedy. While the heavens endure, let us hold on to the faith that the right shall prevail against the wrong, when the last long struggle shall come, that the soul of freedom is imperishable, and shall triumph over all oppressions on the face of the whole earth.

GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.

THIS brilliant and fascinating writer, and graceful and eloquent orator, is the son of George Curtis, of Providence, R. I., and was born in that city in 1824. At six years of age, he was placed in a school in Boston, and after being there five years, he returned to Providence, where he pursued his studies till he was fifteen, when his father removed to New York. Here he entered a large mercantile house, but, after remaining in it a year, he returned to his studies for two years, when, at eighteen, he joined the celebrated Association at Brook Farm, West Roxbury, Mass. Here he remained a year and a half, and then, after spending the winter in New York, being still enamored of the country, he went to Concord, Mass., and lived in a farmer's family, working hard, a portion of every day, upon the farm, enjoying the society of Emerson, Hawthorne, and others of kindred literary tastes, and perfecting himself in various literary accomplishments.

In 1846, Mr. Curtis sailed for Europe, and after visiting, with a scholar's eye, all the southern countries, went to Berlin, to pursue his studies, and in 1848 matriculated at the University. After this, he travelled through Italy again, visited Sicily, Malta, and the East, and returned home in the summer of 1850. In the autumn of that year, he published the "Nile Notes of a Howadji," a great part of which was written on the Nile. In 1852, "The Howadji in Syria" appeared, and also "Lotus Eating, a Summer Book ;" and the same year he became connected with "Putnam's Magazine," and wrote that series of brilliant, satiric sketches of society, called "The Potiphar Papers," which were afterwards collected and published in a volume.