and which, by
the virtue of their very nature, prescribe hope for the Future. I have
mentioned with satisfaction seeing some persons who illustrated
the past dynasty in the progress of thought here: Wordsworth, Dr.
Chalmers, De Quincey, Andrew Combe. With a still higher pleasure,
because to one of my own sex, whom I have honored almost above any,
I went to pay my court to Joanna Baillie. I found on her brow, not
indeed a coronal of gold, but a serenity and strength undimmed and
unbroken by the weight of more than fourscore years, or by the scanty
appreciation which her thoughts have received.

I prize Joanna Baillie and Madame Roland as the best specimens which
have been hitherto offered of women of a Roman strength and singleness
of mind, adorned by the various culture and capable of the various
action opened to them by the progress of the Christian Idea. They are
not sentimental; they do not sigh and write of withered flowers of
fond affection, and woman's heart born to be misunderstood by the
object or objects of her fond, inevitable choice. Love (the passion),
when spoken of at all by them, seems a thing noble, religious, worthy
to be felt. They do not write of it always; they did not think of it
always; they saw other things in this great, rich, suffering world. In
superior delicacy of touch, they show the woman, but the hand is firm;
nor was all their speech, one continued utterance of mere personal
experience. It contained things which are good, intellectually,
universally.

I regret that the writings of Joanna Baillie are not more known in
the United States. The Plays on the Passions are faulty in their
plan,--all attempts at comic, even at truly dramatic effect, fail; but
there are masterly sketches of character, vigorous expressions of wise
thought, deep, fervent ejaculations of an aspiring soul!

We found her in her little calm retreat at Hampstead, surrounded by
marks of love and reverence from distinguished and excellent friends.
Near her was the sister, older than herself, yet still sprightly and
full of active kindness, whose character and their mutual relation she
has, in one of her last poems, indicated with such a happy mixture of
sagacity, humor, and tender pathos, and with so absolute a truth of
outline. Although no autograph collector, I asked for theirs, and when
the elder gave hers as "sister to Joanna Baillie," it drew a tear from
my eye,--a good tear, a genuine pearl,--fit homage to that fai