CONTENTS. Of the numerous female writers of our country, Mrs. Stephens is deservedly classed among the first. Her pen, chiefly devoted to historic romance and poetry, is a living instrument of good. It would require but a single visit to her residence in Cottage Place, to become convinced of her great popularity as a writer, simply from the demands you might witness on her time and talent, though you had had no other proof of her preeminence. For the last fifteen years her name has appeared monthly, in one or more of the popular magazines of the day, and in some instances her contributions have constituted almost the sole vitality of the work in which they have appeared. 4. Mrs. Stephens was born at Humphreysville, in the town of Derby, Connecticut, in 1811. Her father was a successful woolen manufacturer, associated with Col. David Humphreys, and a man of great moral excellence, industrious habits, and endearing worth. His thoughts were early turned to the education of his daughter, and having availed himself of all the advantages for her in her native village, he sent her to school in New Haven, where she enjoyed every opportunity for improvement. Living as she did, within sight of the finest natural scenery, her spirit became early endued with the love of nature, so necessary to the development of the fine descriptive powers, and the highly cultivated fancy of which she is possessed. Being married at the age of twenty, she removed from the paternal residence to Portland, Maine, where she passed four years in a manner most conducive to intellectual improvement. Mr. Stephens was engaged in mercantile pursuits, and in easy circumstances, thus rendering the domestic duties of his lady comparatively light, and affording her ample time for reading and study. This opportunity she embraced with earnest devotedness. The large circulating library of that city, she had free access to, and the records of the librarian attest that nearly the whole number of books it contained, had been charged to her. She is said to have read through two volumes a day, upon an average, for four successive years. And notwithstanding the rapidity with which her eye run over them, she read with critical observation. The fruit of this careful study first manifested itself in a new periodical commenced by her in 1835, and published by Mr. Stephens at Portland. Mrs. Stephens' ability as an editor, soon became apparent from the success which crowned her enterprise. Having obtained for the "Portland Magazine" a wide circulation in that region, she was obliged, on account of ill heath, to abandon it. After a journey through the western states, her health was so far restored, that she was able to resume her duties as an editor, though she did not return to Portland. The reputation she there acquired had reached New York, and on going to the city in 1837, she took the editorial charge of the "Ladies' Companion," a work which had then been in existence about two years. The circulation of that work increased under her auspices, from three thousand to seventeen thousand. From that time to the present she has resided in New York, and has contributed many articles of thrilling interest, both to "Graham's" and the "Ladies' National Magazine," and of the latter she has long been the editor. To afford the reader an example of her style, we will here introduce a story from her pen, the incidents of which, in the main, relate to her own native village. THE OLD DEACON. "She loved not wisely, but too well." It was a balmy pleasant Sabbath morning; so green and tranquil was our valley home, that the very air seemed more holy than on other days. The dew was floating in a veil of soft mist from the meadows on School Hill, where the sunshine came warmly, while the wild-flowers in the valley lay in shadow, still heavy with the night rain. The trees which feathered the hill sides, were vividly green, and Castle Rock towered-a magnificent picture-its base washed by the water, and darkened by unbroken shadow, while a soft fleecy cloud, woven and impregnated with silvery light, floated among its topmost cliffs. The two villages lay upon their opposite hills, with the deep river gilding between, like miniature cities, deserted by the feet of men; not a sound arose to disturb the sweet music of nature, for it was the hour of morning prayer, and there was scarcely a hearthstone which, at that time, was not made a domestic altar. At last a deep bell-tone came sweeping over the valley from the Episcopal steeple, and was answered by a cheerful peal from the belfry of our new academy. The reverberations were still sounding, mellowed by the distant rocks, when the hitherto silent village seemed suddenly teeming with life. The dwelling-houses were flung open, and the inhabitants came forth in smiling family groups, prepared for worship. Gradually they divided into separate parties. The Presbyterians walked slowly toward their huge old meeting-house, and the more gaily-dressed Episcopalians seeking their more fashionable house of worship. It was a pleasant sight -those people, simple in their habits, yet stern if not bigoted sectarians, gathering together for so good a purpose. Old people were out-grandfathers and grandmothers, with the blossom of the grave on their aged temples. Children, with their rosy cheeks and sunny eyes, rendered more rosy and more bright with pride of their white frocks, pretty straw bonnets, and pink wreaths. It was pleasant to see the little men and women striving in vain to subdue their bounding steps, and school their sparking faces to a solemnity befitting the occasion. There might be seen a pewly-married pair walking bashfully apart, not daring to venture on the unprecedented boldness of linking arms in public, yet feeling very awkward, and almost envying another couple who led a roguish little girl between them. She a mischievous little thing-all the time exerting her baby strength to wring that chubby hand from her mother's grasp -pouting her cherry lips when either of her scandalized parents checked her bounding step or too noisy prattle, and, at last, subdued only by intense admiration of her morocco shoes, as they flashed in and out like a brace of wood lilies, beneath her spotted muslin dress. Apart from the rest, and, perhaps, lingering along the greensward which grew rich and thick on either side of the high way, another group, perchance, was gathered: Young girls, schoolmates and friends with their heads bending together, and smiles dimpling their fresh lips, all doubtless conversing about sacred themes befitting the day. Such was the aspect of our village on the Sabbath, when the subject of this little sketch takes us to the old Presbyterian meeting-house on School Hill, a sombre, ancient pile, already familiar to those of our readers who have read the Home Sketches" preceeding this. Our academy bell had not ceased ringing, when the congregation came slowly in through the different doors of the meeting-house, and arranged themselves at will in the square pews which crowded the body. The minister had not yet arrived, a circumstance which occurred to some of the congregation as somewhat singular. Twenty years he had been their pastor, and during that time, had never once kept his congregation waiting. At length he appeared at the southern entrance, and walked up the aisle followed by the grey-headed old deacon. The minister paused at the foot of the pulpit stairs, and with a look of deep and respectful reverence, held the door of the "Deacon's Seat," while the old man passed in. That little attention went to the deacon's heart; he raised his heavy eyes to the pastor with a meek and heart-touching expression of gratitude, that softened many who looked upon it, even to tears The minister turned away and went up the stairs, not in his usual sedate manner, but hurriedly, and with unsteady foot-. steps. When he arrived in the pulpit, those who sat in the gallery saw him fall upon his knees, bury his face in his hands, and pray carnestly, and, it might be, weep, for when he arose, his eyes were dim and flushed. |