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, the advice and influence of Maria Edgworth. 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 Hemans' poetry
lingers still among all who appreciate the holy sympathies of religion
and virtue. We could dwell long and profitably on the enduring
patience and lifelong 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 _Memento 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