with as diligent and faithful love as though the world had never been purified and enriched by the treasures of their feminine wisdom; yet this does not shake our belief, that despite the spotless and well-earned reputations they enjoyed, the homage they received, (and it has its charm,) and even the blessed consciousness of having contributed to the healthful recreation, the improved morality, the diffusion of the best sort of knowledge—­the woman would have been happier had she continued enshrined in the privacy of domestic love and domestic duty.  She may not think this at the commencement of her career; and at its termination, if she has lived sufficiently long to have descended, even gracefully, from her pedestal, she may often recall the homage of the past to make up for its lack in the present.  But so perfectly is woman constituted for the cares, the affections, the duties—­the blessed duties of un-public life—­that if she give nature way it will whisper to her a text, that “celebrity never added to the happiness of a true woman”.  She must look for her happiness to HOME.  We would have young women ponder over this, and watch carefully, ere the veil is lifted, and the hard cruel eye of public criticism 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.

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.