Joanna Baillie holds that rank amongst our elder modern authors, and her poetry is so
connected with that re-awakening of our literature which took place about the
commencement of the present century, that whatever she writes, however slight, or
however unequal to the works which made her fame, has a peculiar claim to respectful
attention. Of Joanna Baillie's
intellectual strength, of her profound knowledge of the workings of passion, rendered
more extraordinary by the placidity with which she herself delineates them—of Joanna Baillie's genius and language,
which are both so essentially old-English, deep, sound, vigorous, unfeigned, and
unadulterate—we are proud to express our admiration. It would afford a subject for
a
long and not uninteresting article to point out the striking difference in the mind
and writings of the literary women of thirty and forty years ago, and the literary
women of the present time: those who have not perused their writings in connexion,
will hardly believe how great is the difference;—what a commentary the perusal
affords on the entire change that has obtained in habits, manners, feelings,
education, tastes, and life! Amongst the elders—with Joanna Baillie at their head, as regards
mind—the distinguishing features are nerve, simplicity, vigour, continuity,
unambitious earnestness, and good English. We find also elaborate and
skilfully-developed plots. Amongst our distinguished women of later date, we find
accomplishment, grace, brilliancy, sentiment, scenery poetically sketched, and
character acutely handled; talent in all shapes and ways, but not so much that can
claim the name of genius. There is nothing of what we have called continuity. Writing
little but detached tales or novels, which, however clever are only volumes of
episodes, separate scenes, and striking characters, most of them unconnected with
the
main business of the book—it is as sketchers, whether
for vivacity or pathos, nature or art; as sketchers,
whether of the country, the town, or the heart, of life or of manners, that our
gifted women are now chiefly distinguished. In the female poetry too of the present
day, fascinating tenderness, brilliancy of fancy, and beauty of feeling, stand in
the
place of sustained loftiness of imagination, and compact artist-like diction. Our
elder literary women were, in the spirit of their intellect, more essentially
masculine; our younger ones are integrally feminine—women of fashionable as well as
studious life, women generally, who not only write books but abound in elegant
accomplishments.
We have not, and are not likely to have at present, another Mary Wolstencroft (we merely speak
of her as having exhibited grasp of mind), another Mrs. Inchbald, another Mrs. Radcliffe—Joanna Baillie is their only
representative; adding, to the power of mind which they possessed, that dignified
play of fancy, that amplitude of calm, bold thought, and that "accomplishment of verse"2 which they possessed not. Modern
imaginative literature in England owes much to her 'Plays on the
Passions;'3 perhaps more than to any other
publication except 'Percy's Reliques;' at all
events, our greatest poets, who were young when her plays appeared, have nearly all
borne testimony to the advantage and delight with which they perused them. With all
this, the name of Joanna Baillie is not
buzzed and blazoned about as very inferior names are; her works do not attain the
honour of calf and gold in libraries where inferior works shine; poetical readers
of
strong sensibility and uncultivated taste do not dote upon 'Basil,' or
quote from 'Ethwald;' and we never, by any chance, saw a line of hers
transcribed in an album! One or two of her Shakespearian snatches of song have been
set to music; but, (to quote the words of an able critic,) "The celebrity of Joanna Baillie has been of a most
peculiar nature; her fame has had about it a peculiar purity. It has been the
unparticipated treasure of the world of taste and intellect."4 We know that with this illustrious authoress there is a
noble carelessness of praise, partly consequent on her years, her standing in
society, and her having simply written at the instigation of her own genius; obeying
the voice from the shrine, and not the command of the outer-court worshippers; but
still, we feel vexed to see women of later date, and, however gifted, every way
inferior to Joanna Baillie, written
about, and likenessed, and lithographed, before her—the
senior and superior of all.
These casual remarks will prove that we appreciate Joanna Baillie; we can, therefore, with
better grace express our regret that she has just published the little work, the name
of which heads this notice. It is controversial, and controversy is best left to
learned divines—certainly better left alone by ladies.