lowed it, with her early tutor,
Langhorne, the translator of Plutarch. On occasion of an anticipated
visit from her, Langhorne wrote a very pretty poem, beginning,

Blow, blow, my sweetest rose!
For Hannah More will soon be here;
And all that crowns the ripening year
Should triumph where she goes.

Joanna Baillie and Sir Walter Scott were deeply attached friends.
United by a generous admiration for genius, by esteem for exalted
worth and by community of tastes, they were drawn still more closely
together by many mutual kindnesses, visits, and frequent
correspondence. A copy of Scott's "Marmion," fresh from the press,
was placed in Joanna's hands. She cut the leaves and began to read it
aloud to a small circle of friends, when she suddenly came upon the
following magnificent and electrifying tribute to herself:

Or, if to touch such chord be thine,
Restore the ancient tragic line,
And emulate the notes that rung
From the wild harp that silent hung
By silver Avon's holy shore
Till twice an hundred years rolled o'er;
When she, the bold enchantress, came
With fearless hand and heart in flame,
From the pale willow snatched the treasure,
And swept it with a kindred measure,
Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove
With Monfort's hate and Basil's love,
Awakening at the inspired strain,
Deemed their own Shakespeare lived again!

Joanna, though taken by surprise, read on in a firm voice, till she
observed the uncontrollable emotion of a friend by her side. Then she
too gave way. It is delightful to partake by sympathy in so generous
a gift of joy. What a pity it is that such a loving magnanimity as
that of glorious Sir Walter is not more frequent among authors! The
chief advantage of Fox over Pitt consisted in the fascinating
demonstrativeness of his heart and manners. This won him hosts of
idolizing friends, foremost among whom were many of the choicest
ladies of the kingdom.

Pre-eminent among these were the two dazzlingly lovely women, ardent
friends of each other too, Mrs. Catherine Crewe and Georgiana
Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire. They were indefatigable in
canvassing for him. On one occasion, when the conflict for votes was
intense, a butcher offered to vote for Fox on condition that the
Duchess of Devonshire would allow him a kiss. The enthusiastic
canvasser, perhaps the most beautiful woman then living, granted it
amid deafening cheers. Nor was Mrs. Crewe less efficient. At a
private banquet in honor of