report the death, at Amsterdam, aged seventy-two, of a
marine painter of eminence, M. KOCKKOEK, father of the distinguished
landscape painter of the same name.

* * * * *

JOANNA BAILLIE, whose literary life reached back into the last century,
and whose early recollections were of the days of Burke, Dr. Johnson,
Goldsmith, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and the great men who figured before the
French Revolution, died at Hampsted, near London, on the evening of
Sunday, the twenty-third of February, at the great age of nearly ninety
years. During the principal part of her life she lived with a maiden
sister, Agnes--also a poetess--to whom she addressed her beautiful
_Birthday_ poem. They were of a family in which talent and genius were
hereditary. Their father was a Scottish clergyman, and their mother a
sister of the celebrated Dr. William Hunter. They were born at Bothwell,
within a short distance of the rippling of the broad waters of the
Clyde. Joanna's child-life and associations are beautifully mirrored in
the poem to which we have alluded. Early in life the sisters removed to
London, where their brother, the late Sir Matthew Baillie--the favorite
medical adviser of George III.--was settled as a physician, and there
her earliest poetical works appeared, anonymously. When she began to
write, she tells us in one of her prefaces, not one of the eminent
authors of modern times was known, and Mr. Hayley and Miss Seward were
the poets spoken of in society. The brightest stars in the poetical
firmament, with very few exceptions, have risen and set since then; the
greatest revolutions in empire and in opinion have taken place; but she
lived on as if no echo of the upturnings and overthrows which filled the
world reached the quiet of her home; the freshness of her inspirations
untarnished; writing from the fulness of a true heart of themes
belonging equally to all the ages. Personally she was scarcely known in
literary society; but from her first appearance as an author, no woman
commanded more respect and admiration by her works; and the most
celebrated of her contemporaries vied with each other in doing her
honor. Scott calls her the Shakspeare of her sex:

----"The wild harp silent hung
By silver Avon's holy shore,
Till twice a hundred years roll'd o'er,
When SHE, the bold enchantress, came
With fearless hand and heart on flame,--
From the pale willow snatched the treasure