her nature, soon attracted the attention of the literati of this country, one of the most distinguished of whom, the late George D. Prentice, did not hesitate to pronounce her the most extraordinary woman of America; “for,” said he, “if she can’t find a word to suit her purpose, she makes one.”  While some of her earlier poems may have lacked the artistic finish and depth of meaning of those of mature years, they had a beauty and freshness peculiar to themselves, which captivated the minds and rarely failed to make a deep impression upon the hearts of those who read them.

In 1855, the family came to Port Deposit, where they remained about two years, and then went West, Emma having secured a good paying position on the Missouri Republican, for which she wrote her only continued story, “Not Wanted.”  For the last twenty years she has been a regular contributor to the New York Ledger.

In 1864, Emma came East and was married to Captain J. Lewis Beaver, of Carroll county, Maryland, whose acquaintance she made while he was a wounded invalid in the Naval School Hospital at Annapolis.  After her marriage, she continued to write under her maiden name, and has always been known in the literary world as Emma Alice Browne, though all the rest of the family spell the name without the final vowel.  Her marriage was not a fortunate one, and the writer in deference to the wishes of his relative, will only say she is now a widow, with three sons, the youngest of whom seems to have inherited much of his mother’s poetic talent, and who, though only about ten years of age, has written some very creditable verses, which have been published.

Within a year or two, Emma has developed a talent for painting, which seems to have been overshadowed and dwarfed by her poetic faculty, but which now bids fair to make her as famous as an artist as she has long been as a poetess.  She resides in Danville, Illinois, and is about publishing a volume of poems, which will be the first book from her pen.

The following selections have been made with the view of showing the versatility, rather than the poetic beauty and power of their author.  Most, if not all, of those designated as earlier poems were written more than thirty years ago.

EARLIER POEMS.

MY BROTHER.

    Oh, brier rose clamber;
    And cover the chamber—­
The chamber, so dreary and lone—­
    Where with meekly-closed lips,
    And eyes in eclipse,
My brother lies under the stone.

    Oh, violets, cover,
    The narrow roof over,
Oh, cover the window and door! 
    For never the lights,
    Through the long days and nights,
Make shadows across the floor!

    The lilies are blooming,
    The lilies are white,
Where his play haunts used to be;
    And the sweet cherry blossoms
    Blow over the bosoms
Of birds in the old roof tree.