the year 1826, in England. It was re-published in this country, in 1827; and, we are informed, is now out of print. The name of the Professor who is mentioned in this sketch, is not given. He is spoken of as Professor M-, of the University of Glasgow. It was at his lodgings in Dawlish, Devonshire, that the author met Joanna Baillie and her sister.] THERE is something exceedingly striking in the appearance of Joanna Baillie. Though she is no longer young, and her features have lost the glow and freshness of youth, the rays of beauty still linger about her countenance, and over its expression the tyrant has had no power. Her face is decidedly tragic-not altogether unlike that of Mrs. Siddons and capable of portraying the strongest and deepest emotion. Her air is lofty and reserved, and if there be a dash of hauteur in her manner, amounting at times almost to sternness, there is, on the other hand, something delightfully winning in the tones of her deep, fine voice. Her eye-I hesitated long before I could decide its hue, and, after all, I am not quite certain whether it be a dark blue or a hazelhas a most melancholy expression; though time has not quenched its fire, or bent, in the slightest degree, her erect but attenuated form. She appeared about fifty; thin, pale, and dressed with Quaker-like simplicity. And though some might be inclined to say she is too conscious of her powers, and to quarrel with the precision of her manner, there is much of the majesty of genius about her; and, in person altogether, she is one, who once seen, is not easily to be forgotten. Miss Grizzie-so I think the Professor styled her-is as complete a contrast to her sister as can well be imagined. She appeared a good humored, lively, rattling woman-not altogether indisposed towards the good things of this life-without professions and without pretensionsthe beau ideal of an attentive auditor, satisfied to see her sister take the lead in conversation, and possess the ear of the company, without preferring, on her own part, any claim to attention-and ready to acknowledge her superiority and bow to her decision, without the slightest feeling of envy or uneasiness. And the conversation of Joanna Baillie well merited attention. It was indeed charming. More imaginative than argumentative often highly poetical, and always in good taste-I should style it equi-distant from the dogmatism and learned pedantry of Madame de Stael, and the glitter, and tinsel, and perpetual effort to be striking, of Lady Morgan. There was a description which I well remember she gave us, of her visiting the interior of Exeter Cathedral by moonlight-of the witching effect of the sacredness of the place combined with the stillness of the hour-of the tranquilizing feelings which perforce stole over the spectator, as he watched the moonbeams, now streaming through the painted windows, now falling, in rich gushes, over the prelates, and warriors, and nobles, "who, after life's fitful fever," slept below-how it seemed to hush every turbulent passion-to subdue every unholy feeling-and to recall to the recollection even of the most thoughtless and indifferent, "that dim and distant world,” where, after the pageantry of life has passed, we must be, and be-forever. The idea may be mournful, but there is a kind of sublimity mingled with A GLIMPSE OF JOANNA BAILLIE. 15 its melancholy. Under its impression, our hearts involuntarily become better; and the cares, and jealousies, and anxieties, and animosities of life, seem to sink unperceived from our bosoms. I may not do her justice. Indeed, I feel I cannot. But it was a burst of genuine feeling; and only wanted metre to be a passage of the finest poetry. Nor, in recalling the incidents of that memorable evening, must I pass over an anecdote, very sportively told, of the mother of Mrs. Grant, of Laggan, the intelligent authoress of "Letters from the Mountains." The old lady-Miss Baillie described her as on the verge of eighty-when the novel of "Waverly" came out, informed her morning visiters, in the most confidential manner, and as a very great secret, that "in reality it was written by her daughter!" The truth was, she had, over and over again, been asked if such was the fact; and with the dotage of age, had firmly persuaded herself it was so. The gar rulity and pertinacity of the old lady-the wonder and amazement of her guests, who hearing the fact strenuously asserted on one side, and as positively denied on the other, knew not what conclusion to arrive at-and the extreme distress and utter confusion of her daughter, were most laughably and cleverly depicted. The same may be said of a little sketch she gave us of a Mrs. Hector Macpherson, an old Scotch lady, who was method and punctuality personified. Alas! in an evil hour, she invited a "niece" to stay with her, who had never known what it was to be exact in her life! For eight and forty hours, the old lady bit her lips, and saw, with the air of a martyr, her whole household deranged, and every rule she had ever made disregarded, by "that ne'er do weel lassie, her husband's brother's half-sister's child." But on the second morning after her arrival, when Mrs. Hector had waited breakfast for her guest, only an hour and three quarters, she observed in a tone of grave displeasure" My dear, it is well you are not at the Court of Hayti!" "Hayti, Ma'am?" "Yes, my dear. The Emperor Christophe would have taught you the lesson of punctuality. Exact to an instant himself, he insisted upon precision in others. I well remember, while I resided there, with my husband, seeing one of the black duchesses step out of a prison, where she had been confined a week and whipped twice, by order of the Emperor, for being a quarter of an hour too late at court!" But beyond all question, the greatest treat of the evening, was hearing Joanna Baillie discuss the "Waverly Novels." To listen to one highly gifted genius, good-humoredly and yet critically passing an opinion upon the productions of a kindred spirit-and this in no light and common-place manner, but with a depth of feeling and solidity of remark, which proved her intimately acquainted with their beauties and keenly alive to their defects-was a matter of no ordinary gratification. My memory, unfortunately, will only serve me with a few particulars. The Professor "felt confident that the Waverly Novels,' popular as they were, would not go down to posterity;" and stated, at some length, the grounds on which this opinion was formed. From his premises and conclusion, the dramatist differed in toto. She was "satisfied they would last as long as the English language should endure." She "felt some degree of difficulty in persuading herself they were all written by the same person; and this, as much from their extreme 6 inequality, as from the rapidity with which they succeeded each other." I laughed in my sleeve at this last observation, as peculiarly characteristic of the woman; for Miss Baillie, as the Edinburgh Review quaintly enough observed, at the beginning of a most unmerciful review of her "Plays on the Passions," Miss Baillie "writes very slowly." "Ivanhoe" she placed first, as the most faultless; and next, though at a considerable interval, "Guy Mannering"-which, I remember hearing from Mr. Constable's lips, in the year 1819, was the author's favorite, but which, singular enough to say, had, up to that time, sold the worst. LITERARY NOTICES. [The limits of this magazine, and our want of critical abilities, alike forbid any articles that could be dignified with the name of reviews; but we hvae thought that occasional, brief notices, of books new and old, might be acceptable and useful, at least to some of our young readers.] Memorials of Mrs. Hemans, with illustrations of her literary character, from her private correspondence. By Henry F. Chorley. 21mo. 2 vols. New-York: Saunders & Olley. 1836. MRS. HEMANS was one of those who "feed on thoughts that voluntary move harmonious numbers." She wrote from the heart. Poetry was with her an impulse, an inspiration, before she devoted herself to it as an art. Memorials of such an one must, of course, be interesting. And these volumes are full of interest. The greater and by far the most valuable portion of the work, consists of extracts from Mrs. Hemans' letters to her friends. The account of her visit to Wordsworth, and the pages devoted to Miss Jewsbury, interested us more than any thing else in the work, except the last three chapters. The book is very handsomely printed, but disfigured by numerous typographical errors. Each volume is adorned with an engraving—in the first volume, is a likeness of Mrs. Hemans, which represents her as "beautiful exceedingly;" in the second, a view of her residence at Rhyllon, near St. Asaph, Wales. We commend the work to our readers-especially to those who are familiar with the poetry of Mrs. Hemans. Philothea. A Romance. By Mrs. Child. Author of The Mother's Book,' &c. Boston: Otis, Broaders & Co. 1836. 12mo. pp. 284. THIS is a beautiful Grecian story, of the days of Pericles; and we venture to say it will be decidedly the most useful book that Mrs. Child has written. We believe that her genius had its free course in "Philothea," more entirely than in any thing else she has produced; and, as we think such minds as hers should write only that to which they are urged by a strong inward impulse, we trust she will go on in this path, and no more step aside into regions where her spirit is a stranger. We hope all our young readers will obtain this work, and read it with the attention it deserves. Nature. Boston: James Munroe & Co. 1836. 12mo. pp. 95. THIS is indeed a refreshing and delightful book, written in a beautifully simple and transparent style. We know not where, at least among recent publications, can be found so much of truth and beauty, in so small a compass. The author seems to breathe "an ampler ether and diviner air," than is common to most writers of this or any other age. In the latter part of the work, there are some things that we do not understand, and others that we do not approvebut, taken as a whole, we can hardly find words to express our delight in it. We commend the volume to the thoughtful perusal of our readers; believing that no one who reads it attentively, and with a right spirit, will fail to become wiser and better through its influence. VOL. III. THE MICROCOSM. DECEMBER, 1836. No. 2. MY COUSIN CLARA. THERE is nothing about my cousin Clara at all uncommon, excepting that she never wished to be thought anything extraordinary. But though it may seem strange, this very indifference to applause, is not only much admired, but supplies to my cousin many of those advantages for which others wish to be admired. Her face and figure can never be praised as beautiful, and indeed, are never called more than pretty-but her countenance wins every heart with its lovely expression-always charming, whether sparkling with unaffected gayety, or cast down with unaffected pensiveness. Her fig. ure, also, appears uncommonly graceful, from the perfect ease and art lessness of all its attitudes. She is universally loved, on account of her habitual politeness, or rather, kindness--for, not being accustomed to think of herself, while she never claims attention from any one, and is not offended if it is withheld from her, she is left free to make others happy-and her kindness pleases the more, because it is plain she does not seek by it the good opinion of others but their enjoyment. Her talent for conversation is surprising, as she is not generally supposed to possess any uncommon brilliancy of mind-but this, also, I think is owing to her humility. Her constant cheerfulness, as well as benevolence of manner, does undoubtedly, give to her discourse a peculiar charm; though independently of this, it possesses others of a more intellectual nature. While we, her unfortunate companions, are taxing our powers in or der to say something smart, and thinking partly of ourselves, and partly of the subject of conversation, and are, of course, unable to think naturally or well, Clara is making, without the slightest effort, remarks that are listened to by every one with admiration, for which, ungrateful being as she is, she does not care a snap. The originality and ease of her conversation, I am determined to ascribe to her freedom from that most perplexing of all cares-the wish of shining. I remember once telling her she was like the dog in the manger, in keeping from us that admiration which, though it was nothing to her, was to us the very breath of life. She would not laugh, however, and very coldly thanked me for my compliment, though I was sure I had seen, in the first instant, a pleased expression in her eyes. I observed her, for the next five minutes, endeavoring to stifle the first faint feeling of pleasure, as if it were a crime-and I never afterwards dared to pay her the most indirect praise. But in describing my cousin's advantages, I have only mentioned No those which are nothing to her, or which she wishes to consider as nothing. Her mind is as pure and happy as her countenance. wounded pride, no envy, no discontent rankle there; and peace of mind must not be considered as mere negative happiness-it gives purity and vividness to every pleasure. I have often envied Clara's calmness and tenderness of delight, when looking upon a fine natural scene, or on any of those places she loves the best-and still more have I envied the pure happiness of her affection, unsullied by envy or rivalry. What would I not give to resemble my cousin Clara! Greenfield High School, July 7th, 1830. INVOCATION TO VANITY. O THOU! the true, the only muse, I need not ask thy presence here- That thou wilt ever thence depart. But come, with thy reviving power,— Till fancy from her slumber break. Persuade me, that within my heart Then, soon shall my enraptured soul And sparkling thoughts without control, Dew-drops, and stars, and roses, then,— All falling from my ready pen, Shall lie in rich confusion there. |