sm fixed upon them. No profession is pastime;
still less so now than ever, when so many people are "clever," though so
few are great. We would pray those especially who direct their thoughts
to literature, to think of what they have to say, and why they wish to
say it; and above all, to weigh what they may expect from a capricious
public, against the blessed shelter and pure harmonies of private
life.[A]

But we have had some--and still have some--"celebrated" women of whom we
have said "we may be justly proud." We have done pilgrimage to the
shrine of Lady Rachel Russell, who was so thoroughly "domestic" that the
Corinthian beauty of her character would never have been matter of
history, but for the wickedness of a bad king. We have recorded the
hours spent with Hannah More; the happy days passed with, and the years
invigorated by Maria Edgeworth. We might recall the stern and faithful
puritanism of Maria Jane Jewsbury; and the Old World devotion of the
true and high-souled daughter of Israel--Grace Aguilar. The mellow tones
of Felicia Heman's poetry linger still among all who appreciate the holy
sympathies of religion and virtue. We could dwell long and profitably on
the enduring patience and life-long labor of Barbara Hofland, and steep
a diamond in tears to record the memories of L.E.L. We could--alas,
alas! barely five-and-twenty years' acquaintance with literature and its
ornaments, and the brilliant catalogue is but a _Momento Mori_! Perhaps
of all this list, Maria Edgworth's life was the happiest; simply because
she was the most retired, the least exposed to the gaze and observation
of the world, the most occupied by loving duties toward the most united
circle of old and young we ever saw assembled in one happy home.

The very young have never, perhaps read one of the tales of a lady whose
reputation, as a novelist, was in its zenith when Walter Scott published
his first novel. We desire to place a chaplet upon the grave of a woman
once "celebrated" all over the known world; yet who drew all her
happiness from the lovingness of home and friends, while her life was as
pure as her renown was extensive.

In our own childhood romance reading was prohibited, but earnest
entreaty procured an exception in favor of the "Scottish Chiefs." It was
the bright summer, and we read it by moonlight, only disturbed by the
murmur of the distant ocean. We read it, crouched in the deep recess of
the nursery window; we read it unt