of devotion and in books of theology; and the same varied erudition.  Only one of them seems to have been an accomplished Hebraist, but both were good Latin and Greek scholars; and both were familiar with Italian, Spanish, French, and German.  Even in Sara Coleridge’s admiration and reverence for her father, Mrs. Hopkins was in full sympathy with her.  She lacked, indeed, that poetic fancy which belonged to the author of “Phantasmion;” nor did she possess her mental self-poise and firmness of will; but in other respects, even in physical organization and certain features of countenance, they were singularly alike.  And they both died in the fiftieth year of their age.

Louisa Payson was born at Portland, February 24, 1812.  Even as a child she was the object of tender interest to her father on account of her remarkable intellectual promise.  He took the utmost pains to aid and encourage her in learning to study and to think.  The impression he made upon her may be seen in the popular little volume entitled “The Pastor’s Daughter,” which consists largely of conversations with him, written out from memory after his death.  She was then in her sixteenth year.  The records of the next eight years, which were mostly spent in teaching, are very meagre; but a sort of literary journal, kept by her between 1835 and 1840, shows something of her mental quality and character, as also of her course of reading.  She was twenty-three years old when the journal opens.  Here are a few extracts from it: 

BOSTON, Nov. 18, 1835.

Last evening I passed in company with Mr. Dana. [1] I conversed with him only for a few moments about Mr. Alcott’s school, and had not time to ask one of the ten thousand questions I wished to ask.  I have been trying to analyse the feeling I have for men of genius, Coleridge, Wordsworth and Dana, for example.  I can understand why I feel for them unbounded admiration, reverence and affection, but I hardly know why there should be so much excitement—­painful excitement—­mingled with these emotions.  Next to possessing genius myself would be the pleasure of living with one who possessed it.

Nov. 19th.—­I have read to-day one canto of Dante’s Inferno and eight or ten pages of Cicero de Amicitia.  In this, as well as in de Senectute which I have just finished, I am much interested.  I confess I am not a little surprised to find how largely the moderns are indebted to the ancients; how many wise observations on life, and death, the soul, time, eternity, etc, have been repeated by the sages of every generation since the days of Cicero.

Jan. 14th, 1836.—­I spent last evening with Mr. Dana, and the conversation was, of course, of great interest.  We talked of some of the leading Reviews of the day, and then of the character of our literature as connected with our political institutions.  This led to a long discussion of the latter subject, but as the same views are expressed in Mr. D.’s article on Law, I shall pass it over. [2] I differed from him in regard to the French comedies, especially those of Moliere; however, he allowed that they contain genuine humor, but they are confined to the exhibition of one ridiculous point in the character, instead of giving us the whole man as Shakespeare does.