Tho' hostile gold or hostile steel Have long that bliss destroy'd? The meanest drudge will sometimes vaunt Of independent sires, who bore Names known to fame in days of yore, 'Spite of the smiling stranger's taunt; But recent freedom lost-what heart Can bear the humbling thought-the quick'ning, madd'ning smart! Yes, Caledonian hearts did burn, thought away, Tho' musing in lone cave or forest deep, Some generous youths might all indignant weep; Or in the vision'd hours of sleep, But in the woods of Allerslie, To drive the tyrant from the land. Pass'd not away with passing sleep; And still the bolder grew. pp. 8, 9. The fierce indignant dreams which nourished indignation, and were a prelude to its breaking out in action, are here described with much force, and in a manner that indicates great knowledge of human nature. There, midmost in the warlike throng, With portly mien, and ample breast, p. 15. Nothing can be finer than the picture of the hero here presented; its archetype is to be found in the chronicles of the times, and its reflection in every truly Scottish heart. Thus on the field with clans and liegemen good, England's great King, and Scotland's Warden stood. That Monarch proud, did rightly claim That Warden was the noblest man The English and Scottish leaders are here happily pourtrayed, and, in a manner, distinctly brought before our eyes. At sight of noble Wallace bound, The Southrons raised a vaunting sound, As if the bands which round his limbs they drew, Had fetter'd Scotland too. They gaz'd and wonder'd at their mighty thrall; Then nearer drew with movements slow, "Whose threat'ning frown the boldest did appal !" And, as his clanging fetters shook, As doubting if in verity Such limbs with iron might holden be: While boldest spearmen by the pris'ner's side With beating heart and haggard visage ride. p. 73. Here, again, is a fine and powerful passage, in which there is not even the permitted exaggeration of poetry, the historians of the time, Wellwood, more particularly, describing the effect of the habitual terror with which the enemies of his country regarded Wallace, in terms of scarce less energy. And much he strove with Christian grace, Of those who Scotland's foes had been, His soul's strong hatred to efface, A work of grace, I ween! Meekly he bow'd o'er bead and book, And every worldly thought forsook. p. 76. The Christian hero preparing, with humble piety, to divest himself of earthly thoughts, and even virtuous indignation, when preparing to appear before his Almighty Judge, is a noble and natural representation of a character too great for the assumption of artificial courage, and too well accustomed to seek aid from the God of Battles to affect an indifference to the solemn change which was to determine his future unchangeable destiny. We are surprised Miss Baillie has not made use of a circumstance mentioned by Wellwood and some other writers, who relate that our hero was brought into Westminster Hall, set on an elevated chair, crowned in mockery, with laurel, and there bitterly reproached with crimes committed against the English, and that he justified his past deeds with perfect composure and noble firmness. We have to thank our poetess for many wellchosen notes, and extracts from Blind Harry, illustrative of her work. We have made too many extracts, which speak most eloquently for themselves, to indulge any further in the numerous reflections and observations suggested by this seductive theme. The next in succession is a greater character than even a virtuous patriot, in so far as the world at large, particularly every European country, has benefited by the profound wisdom, unwearied patience, unshaken fortitude, and unvarying rectitude, of this mighty mind. He stands aloof from all other benefactors and ornaments of the human race, because there was not, or could not be, such another. Though all the great talents and mild virtues that harmonized so happily in his character could have been combined in another, there was but one world concealed beyond the mighty waters, and only one Columbus could discover it. While we contemplate with mingled awe and admiration the mild grandeur of this truly exalted character, we cannot but lament the hard fate which made him, like many others who have been the benefactors or protectors of their respective countries, Close his long glories with a sigh, to find The unwilling gratitude of base mankind. POPE. It is consoling to reflect that his capacious mind rested not in the Old World, which was the scene of his sufferings, nor in the New, that of his past triumph and future renown :his views extended further, and his hopes soared higher, hopes which pointed to a better country, which is in Heaven; and preserved his equanimity undiminished, and his heart unbroken, under all the wrongs that the basest calumny and the bitterest malignity could inflict. There is no theme can be more lofty, or of more deep and extensive inte The rest, than the life and discovery of O! who shall lightly say that fame Whilst in that sound there is a charm The young, from slothful couch will start, A desert bare, a shipless sea? They are the distant objects seen,The lofty marks of what hath been. O! who shall lightly say that fame To earth-worn pilgrim's wistful eye p. 180, 181. From whose dear hand which, to no hireling leaves Its task of love, your age sweet aid receives, Who reckless marks youth's waning faded bue, And thinks her bloom well spent, when spent for you;— character our Scottish maids and matrons have been allowed to partake in no common degree. But in no instance have fortitude and tenderness, light hearted cheerfulness, and unwearied and energetic exertion, playful gaiety, and heroic courage, been more happily blended, or more powerfully called into action by the most trying circumstances, than in the character of Lady Griseld Baillie. In the pleasing task of recording congenial virtues, Miss Baillie seems quite at home, and peculiarly inspired by her subject. We dare not, after the liberal extracts we have been al ready tempted to make, give the whole of the introductory verses to our readers. They begin with a sketch of the higher masculine character, marking the instances in which it partakes of feminine delicacy and gentleness, and those in which the female mind rises in strength and dignity beyond the level of the sex. In the irresistible quotation below, the true feminine character is drawn with matchless beauty and delicacy. But she of gentler nature, softer, dearer, Of daily life the active, kindly cheerer; With generous bosom, age, or childhood shielding, And in the storms of life, tho' mov'd, unyielding; Strength in her gentleness, hope in her sor sprightly, Bearing the press of evil hap so lightly, Till evil's self seems its strong hold betraying To the sweet witch'ry of such winsome playing; Bold from affection, if by nature fearful, With varying brow, sad, tender, anxious, cheerful, This is meet partner for the loftiest mind, With crown or helmet graced,-yea, this is womankind! p. 208, 209. Can any thing be more exquisite? The verses on the same subject that follow do not fall short of the excellence of these. We can only afford room for a few lines, but they contain a great deal. And ye, who in a duteous child have known A daughter, help-mate, sister, blent in one, Come all, whose thoughts such dear remembrance bear, And to my short and faithful lay give ear. p. 210. well be drawn by the hand of a neThis beautiful portrait could not fashionable daughter. To such a one, gligent, or, what is much the same, a the delineation must have suggested gine a harder penance inflicted on cona severe reproach. One cannot imascious deficiency, than to be forced to celebrate the performance of those failed. It gives us pleasure to add, very duties in which we have most that we have long known, from the mirable authoress, like Longinus, most authentic sources, that our adWho is himself the great sublime he draws, was herself a pattern of filial duty, exalted, tender, and devoted, like that of her heroine; like hers, too, called into exertion, by circumstances of a But we draw very peculiar nature. back from the sacred recesses of domestic privacy, having, however, an apology of some weight to offer for the intrusion. We could not, possessed of this knowledge, withhold such a lesson, we may add, such a triumph from the sex. To know that, the object of general admiration for powerful and original genius has, in the quietest seclusion, practised in their homefelt virtues that she knows so full extent all those homebred and well to describe, is praise beyond what genius itself could either deserve or bestow. In comparison with merit like this, Wit dies a jest, and poetry a sound. What then does the sex owe-what do we all owe to her who has so ably illustrated these virtues which she has so diligently, yet so silently, practised? We have not even traced the outline of this delightful legend, concluding that the skeleton of a memoir preserved by Lady Murray, Lady Griseld Baillie's daughter, must be now pretty generally known. The There are large extracts from this memoir in our Numbers for April and May 1818. following stanza introduces the meeting of this affectionate daughter with her father in the family vault below the parish church, where he was concealed during the time of the cruel persecution which proved fatal to his friend Jerviswood and so many other of the martyrs to principle, who fell victims to the tyranny of the day: But to describe their tender meeting, Tears shed unseen, affection utter'd In broken words, and blessings mutter'd, With many a kiss and kindly greeting, I know not; would my feeble skill Were meeter yoke-mate to my will! p. 222. Lady Griseld, then very young, dared alone the terrors of darkness, the haunted churchyard, and the more actual dangers of meeting the watchful spies with which the country was infested, to carry food to her father, and remained with him in his dreary abode till near day, not only comforting, but cheering and amusing him with all the minutiae of the household at home. The basket's store of viands and bread, Produced with looks of kind inviting, Her hands with busy kindness spread; And he her kindly care requiting, Fell to with thanks and relish keen, Nodded and quaff'd her health between, While she his glee return'd, her smiles with tears uniting. so fondly sweet. No lordling at his banquet rare E'er tasted such delicious fare; No beauty on her silken seat, With lover kneeling at her feet, E'er wept and smiled by turns with smiles p. 223. The subsequent flight of the family to Holland, and those unwearied exertions by which the gay and gentle heroine cheered the face of poverty and softened the sorrows of exile, form a picture as unique as it is admirable. But we shall no farther anticipate the pleasure every reader must have in perusing a narrative in which the unblemished form of truth is dressed in the softest and fairest colours of poetry. We cannot withhold a stanza descriptive of the glimpses of enjoyment which threw a transient radiance over the gloom of poverty and exile, and were animated by the same elastic mind which supported the family un der so many hardships. But when the toilsome sun was set, VOL. VIII. Her feet still in the dance mov'd lightest, Her eye with merry glance beam'd brightest, Her braided locks were coil'd the neatest, MRS JOHN HUNTER. ing task of expressing our estimate of HAVING now concluded the pleasthe conduct and the genius of two admirable persons, of what we almost scruple, in our present mood, to call the weaker sex, we proceed to the melancholy one of recording the late departure, the sterling worth, and intellectual graces of another lady, in her day not a little signalised. We consideration, from the near alliance, are the more naturally led to this cemented by intimate friendship, which subsisted betwixt Miss Joanna Baillie and the lamented subject of this brief memoir. Mrs Hunter, whose death we recorded in our last month's obituary, in an elegant notice of that event taken from the New Monthly Magazine, was the widow of John Hunter the anatomist, uncle to that much respected family of which Miss Baillie is a member. She was also sister to the present Sir Everard Home. Her parents were both the descendants of ancient and honourable Scotch families. They offended their respective connections by a very early and not very prudent love marriage. The disappointment on the side of the lady's friends was great indeed. Her distinguished beauty and other advantages were such as led them to expect she might grace a higher rank than even the respectable one to which they belonged. Mr Home was bred a physician, and being a younger brother, had to depend upon his own exertions. The only provision that was made for him was obtaining the surgeoncy of a regiment, where for some time he continued, having little else to depend upon for the support of his family. This circumstance redounds to the credit of those parents, who, thus limited, could yet find means to give their children a very superior education, so as to do ample justice to the talents they possessed. They were, indeed, remarkable for eleganco Ll of manners, and various accomplish inents. To Miss Home, when she became Mrs Hunter, had it in her power to display her uncommonly good taste, both in her household arrangements, and in the selection of her society, which comprehended many individuals in the upper classes noted for intelligence and virtue. Indeed, few could exert, with a better grace, those powers which add a charm to the usual attractions of society. great beauty she added no less grace and considerable powers of conversation; her manners were easy and polished, and her talents varied and cultivated. She sung and played admirably well, and had a talent for poetry, chiefly exerted in producing songs, which were very much admired for a refinement and delicacy of thought and expression, of which she set the example, that class of-writing being then pretty much limited to either passionate or witty and ingenious songs, with the exception of those convivial strains that are often better forgotten. The smooth versification and pure taste of Mrs Hunter's lyrics made them for some time very popular, and a volume of poems which she published in 1806 partook of the same character. During her husband's life they lived in a liberal and hospitable manner. Mr Hunter was too much devoted to science to attend much to his worldly affairs, and too careless of money to be rich. He did not leave his family in affluence, yet so circumstanced, that his widow always supported a most respectable appearance, and was visited by the best society. Her most particular friend, who regarded her with an affection almost maternal, was the venerable and excellent Mrs Carter, whose friendship was distinction, because it was never bestowed but where highly deserved. The graces of Mrs Hunter's person and manners, the charms of her conversation, and the activity of her mind, continued undiminished to a very late period, and she had the happiness to have her last hours soothed by the piety of filial affection. This tribute, slight as it is, we could not withhold from the memory of one so good and so amiable, to whose friendship we have been indebted for much kindness, and whose talents and virtues were universally acknowledged. Mrs Hunter left a son and daughter, the former a major in the army; the latter is widow of General Campbell, son of the late Sir James Campbell of Inverniel. We are grateful for having been permitted to present our readers with a little unpublished poem of this ingenious lady. It is a very fair specimen of the elegance and feeling which distinguished her genius. When we read it, it brought, in a lively manner, to our recollection, times long gone by, when, perhaps, we may have heard these very music of that expressive voice which words conveyed in the rich is now for ever silent. It is with some of the happiest remembrances of our boyish years, that Mrs Hunter's kindness and accomplishments are associated in our minds, and around her distant image many other lovely or venerated forms likewise revolve. By a singular fatality, we have never seen her since that early period, yet the knowledge that she was still in life, threw a delightful spell of freshness and existence over places and persons which seemed merely to have disappeared, with her, from our eyes. The talisman is at last broken, and the memory of these scenes is now only peopled to us with the phantoms of the dead! WHEN hope lies dead within the heart, By secret sorrow close conceal'd, We shrink; lest looks or words impart What must not be reveal'd. 'Tis hard to sinile, when one could weep, To speak, when one would silent be, To wake, when one should wish to sleep, And wake to agony ! Yet such the lot by thousands cast Who wander in this world of care; And bend beneath the bitter blast, To save them from despair. But Nature waits her guests to greet, Where disappointment cannot come ; And Time guides with unerring feet, The wearied wand'rers home. |