oic mould
and of a most noble dignity of nature.

Indeed, though the English poetesses up to the time of Mrs. Browning
cannot be said to have produced any work of absolute genius, they are
certainly interesting figures, fascinating subjects for study. Amongst
them we find Lady Mary Wortley Montague, who had all the caprice of
Cleopatra, and whose letters are delightful reading; Mrs. Centlivre, who
wrote one brilliant comedy; Lady Anne Barnard, whose _Auld Robin Gray_
was described by Sir Walter Scott as 'worth all the dialogues Corydon and
Phillis have together spoken from the days of Theocritus downwards,' and
is certainly a very beautiful and touching poem; Esther Vanhomrigh and
Hester Johnson, the Vanessa and the Stella of Dean Swift's life; Mrs.
Thrale, the friend of the great lexicographer; the worthy Mrs. Barbauld;
the excellent Miss Hannah More; the industrious Joanna Baillie; the
admirable Mrs. Chapone, whose _Ode to Solitude_ always fills me with the
wildest passion for society, and who will at least be remembered as the
patroness of the establishment at which Becky Sharp was educated; Miss
Anna Seward, who was called 'The Swan of Lichfield'; poor L. E. L. whom
Disraeli described in one of his clever letters to his sister as 'the
personification of Brompton--pink satin dress, white satin shoes, red
cheeks, snub nose, and her hair _a la_ Sappho'; Mrs. Ratcliffe, who
introduced the romantic novel, and has consequently much to answer for;
the beautiful Duchess of Devonshire, of whom Gibbon said that she was
'made for something better than a Duchess'; the two wonderful sisters,
Lady Dufferin and Mrs. Norton; Mrs. Tighe, whose _Psyche_ Keats read with
pleasure; Constantia Grierson, a marvellous blue-stocking in her time;
Mrs. Hemans; pretty, charming 'Perdita,' who flirted alternately with
poetry and the Prince Regent, played divinely in the _Winter's Tale_, was
brutally attacked by Gifford, and has left us a pathetic little poem on a
Snowdrop; and Emily Bronte, whose poems are instinct with tragic power,
and seem often on the verge of being great.

Old fashions in literature are not so pleasant as old fashions in dress.
I like the costume of the age of powder better than the poetry of the age
of Pope. But if one adopts the historical standpoint--and this is,
indeed, the only standpoint from which we can ever form a fair estimate
of work that is not absolutely of the highest order--we cannot fail to
see that many