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dense body. Bacon's fourth table accordingly proposes to exhibit an example of this exclusion or rejection of natures from the form of heat,—that is, a rejection of those things as the causes of heat in which it evidently cannot exist." Bacon's meaning may be thus explained.-Although heat is felt in the sun's rays, yet as a common fire contains heat, the sun is not the essential cause of heat, "and he excludes celestial and terrestrial nature." Light and splendour are rejected as essential to heat, because water, air, and solid bodies, will receive or conduct heat without being ignited, and so on. The fifth and last table is quaintly entitled, "The first vintage concerning the Form of Heat;" that is, a rough and general specimen of a conclusion derived from the foregoing investigation. Bacon concludes here, that from an examination of all the instances, "separately and collectively, the nature whose limitation is heat, appears to be motion," which he attempts to prove from the view he took of the facts. It is almost unnecessary to observe, that the nature of heat is yet unknown; for all the experiments that have yet been made have failed to set the question at rest.
"Why, of that, this," said Hector, fiercely: "that I would as soon throw myself from the top of Dunavarty as enter the same house-much less sit down at the same table with Kilmoran. I have sworn to be his death, and therefore will not break bread at the same board with him. You have sworn a similar oath, Norman. How can you reconcile it with your conscience to sit down in pretended peace with the man?"
"Fair and softly, brother," replied Norman, in his usual quiet tone; you are hot-headed-you are rash, Hector. It is not the most dangerous dog that barks most. If I keep a fair side to Kilmoran, it is that I may make the more sure of my revenge when the fitting opportunity presents itself."
"And how long do you propose waiting for that opportunity?" said Hector, impatiently, and with a slight expression of contempt, which he could not suppress, for his more cautious brother's tardiness in executing their common vengeance.
"Till it comes," replied Norman, calmly but emphatically. "You know that we dare not attack him openly; otherwise, we should give mortal offence to the duke, and thereby bring down ruin on ourselves. We must, therefore, bide our time.'"'
Umph!" rejoined Hector, turning on his heel, and, without further remark, quitting the apartment in which the conversation took place.
The third part relates to the "Doctrine of Instances or Facts as regards the Discovery of Forms." It must be obvious to every one that facts are not all of equal value in the discovery of truth. Some of them show the thing sought for in its highest degree,others in its lowest; some exhibit it simple and uncombined,-in others it appears confused with a variety of circumstances; and so on. This led the author to consider what he calls Prerogative Instantiarum,-Prerogative Instances; or the comparative value of facts as means of discovery, or instruments for finding truth He enumerates twenty-seven different specii, and divides them into three classes,—which are denominated, those which address themselves to the understanding; those which assist the senses; and those which conduce to practice. Into the peculiar properties of each species he enters at some length; but it is impossible in this place to follow the illustrious author through all the instances which he adduces; only a very few of the most important can be Availing ourselves of the opportunity which this incident pregiven. The first place is assigned to what are called solitary in-sents, we will here introduce a word or two of explanation constances, and they are of two kinds; those in which bodies differ in cerning the parties whom we have, rather abruptly perhaps, just all things but one, and those in which they agree in all things but introduced to the reader, and of the circumstances in which they one. 2. Instantie Migrantes, or travelling instances, are those stood with regard to each other. in which one quality is lost and another is produced; or, in which the nature or quality inquired into exhibits changes and degrees, passing from less to greater, or from greater to less. Let whiteness in bodies that are of this colour be the subject of inquiry. Glass and water are adduced by Bacon as examples. Glass when whole is without colour, but when reduced to powder becomes white; and water in its natural state is colourless, but in the states of foam or snow is white. 3. In the third place are the Instantia Ostensive, or facts which show some peculiar nature or quality in its highest state of power or energy. The thermometer is very judiciously chosen as an example, that instrument exhibiting the expansive power of heat in a manner more distinct and measurable than in common cases. 4. The Instantiæ Clandestina, or obscure instances, may be considered as opposed to the last. They show some power or quality just as it is beginning to exist, and in its weakest state.
Such are a few of the species of instances described in the Novum Organum, the composition of which work by Lord Bacon entitles him to the homage and admiration of the whole human race now and for ever, as one of the greatest benefactors of mankind. In that work he has done more than any single individual ever achieved to promote the final triumph of truth over error, and to hasten that consummation so devoutly to be wished, when, in the magnificent language of a great poet, TRUTH, though
The two brothers, Hector and Norman M'Dougal, were the sons of Alexander M'Dougal of Kinallan, a gentleman of considerable property in the West Highlands; they were neither of them very young men, both being considerably above thirty. As may, in part, have been gathered from what has been already said, the brothers, although agreeing in the atrocious resolve which forms the subject of our tale, were of very different dispositions. Hector was fierce, irascible, and outspoken, and although capable of entertaining the most deadly hatred against those who offended him, was incapable of concealing it; all the savage nature of the man was expressed in his bold and determined countenance. It was otherwise with Norman: equally vindictive with his brother, he was more cautious and guarded; quiet and reserved in his manners, slow and deliberate in his proceedings, it was not easy to discover whom he liked, or whom he disliked. Nor, so carefully did he conceal his resentments, were the objects of his hatred always aware of the enmity he bore them: on the contrary, deceived by his civil speech, his ready smile, and apparently placid temperament, they often knew not of their danger, till circumstances having, by some sudden turn, put them in his power, they felt the sting which he had hitherto so carefully concealed. He never struck until sure that his blow would not only find, but tell upon his victim.
Kilmoran, again,- -we adopt the Highland custom of distinguishing persons by the name of their property or place of residence,-was a neighbouring laird, with whom the family of the M'Dougals had been long at feud, and who had recently added to
his offences by securing, through his influence with the Duke of Argyle, with whom he was in great favour, a certain farm which the M'Dougals had made some strenuous efforts to obtain.
Soonart, again, or the Laird of Soonart, as he was called,-was also a neighbour, although not a very near one, his residence being about five miles distant from those of the M'Dougals and Kilmorans, which were within a quarter of a mile of each other.
Having mentioned these particulars, we proceed with our tale. Agreeably to the resolution which he had expressed to his brother, Norman, shortly after the conversation with the former which we recorded at the outset of our story, mounted his horse, and set off for Soonart; the merry-making to which he had been invited, and to which we formerly alluded, being to take place on the afternoon of the day on which our tale opens.
Soonart, or Castle Soonart, as it was sometimes called, although scarcely deserving so dignified a title, was an ancient building in the style of the sixteenth century, turreted and battlemented, with steep grey roofs and deeply-indented ledges. It stood on the summit of a rugged, precipitous cliff, whose base was washed by the sea; its white-crested waves, in stormy weather, howling around, and leaping upon the majestic rock, like a flock of hungry wolves. On the land side, however, the house was of easy access, being connected with the main land by a broad natural mound or isthmus. In ancient times, this neck of land was intersected by a deep moat at a short distance from the building; but it had been allowed to fill up, and was at the time of which we write but just discernible by faint outlines.
The greater number of the party invited to Soonart had already arrived, when Norman M'Dougal presented himself in the large dining-hall of the mansion; and amongst those assembled there was Kilmoran. On Norman's entrance, the latter, who was a good-natured, kind-hearted man, and who had always anxiously desired to be at peace with his neighbours the M'Dougals, instantly made up to him, and offered him the hand of friendship. "It was readily accepted by his treacherous enemy, and apparently with as much cordiality as it was given. The ready but quiet smile of Norman replied to the half-jocular, half-serious remonstrances of Kilmoran on the subject of their ancient enmity; and a significant shrug of the shoulders, accompanied by words of kindness, expressed-or were meant to express-his perfect willingness to entertain Kilmoran's proposal that they should forget the past, and live in friendship for the future.
Soon after, the guests having all assembled, the party sat down to table, to partake of the good things provided for them by their host. Leaving them thus agreeably employed, we shall return for a time to the residence of the M‘Dougals, and take up the part about to be enacted by Hector in the tragical drama of the evening. Brooding over the grudge he bore Kilmoran, and which had been stirred into fresh activity by the incident of their common invitation to Soonart, and in part also by the late conversation he had had with his brother on the subject, Hector M'Dougal was suddenly struck with one of those atrocious ideas that so frequently present themselves to desperate and revengeful men, and fill the world with crime. He determined on that very night to waylay and murder Kilmoran on his return from Soonart, which he calculated would be somewhere about midnight. Having come to this hellish resolution, he armed himself with his rifle-with which he was an unerring shot, as the deer of his native mountains knew by fatal experience, and hasted away to seek a favourable situation for executing the dreadful deed he contemplated.
Stealing secretly out of the house, and afterwards taking a quiet and circuitous route, he made for a certain copse on the face of a rising ground, that overlooked the road by which Kilmoran must return home; this road iying between the rising ground alluded to and a beautiful lake that slept in the hollow of the hills. Entering the copse, M'Dougal pushed through it until he reached the skirt nearest the way by which Kilmoran would pass, and which brought him to within fifty or sixty yards of it. Here con
cealing himself amongst the thick underwood, and with a paling in front on which to lean his rifle, M'Dougal awaited the appearance of his victim. It was a bright moonlight night, and as the horse Kilmoran always rode was a very light grey, approaching almost to white, and in this respect somewhat remarkable, there would be no difficulty in at once recognising him.
Leaving the assassin thus watching for his prey, we shall return to Soonart, to see how the evening was passing with the festive party there assembled. It was passing pleasantly: the banquetroom of the old mansion rung with the burst of hilarious merriment which the facetious jest and humorous song were ever and anon eliciting, and the wine-flagon was pacing it merrily round the festal board.
The time came, however, when the jest and the song were heard more rarely, and when the wine-flagon began to make its rounds with a more tardy motion. It was getting late; the spirits of the party were flagging, and a general movement amongst the guests to break up the party was the result. It did break up; when, hurrying out of the apartment in merry and somewhat obstreperous confusion, the guests sought the stables for their horses, all of them having come from a distance. Kilmoran was amongst the party who sallied out in quest of their steeds, but it was merely to see his friends mounted he accompanied them, as he had been prevailed upon by his host to remain with him all night, in order to join him in a hunting-party which had been made up for an early hour of the following morning. This was altogether an unexpected circumstance on the part of Kilmoran, who had originally intended to return home that night.
On the party reaching the stable, it was found that Norman M'Dougal's horse was dead lame in two of his legs, and consequently unable to walk a single step. How this had happened could not be at the moment ascertained; some sinews strained, it was supposed, or some injury sustained in the feet. But whatever might be wrong with the animal, or in whatever way he might have come by his injuries, it was clear he was quite unable to carry his master home that night. Seeing this, Kilmoran, in the same spirit in which he had made up to M'Dougal on his first arrival at Soonart, pressed him to take the use of his horse; adding, goodhumouredly, that if he did not think he could presume to take a horse of his to his father's house, seeing the ancient enmity that was between them, he might ride him to Kilmoran, leave him there, and walk home, a distance of only about half a mile.
M'Dougal would have refused to accept the proffered kindness; but, besides his own wish to deceive Kilmoran with regard to his feelings towards him, there were too many witnesses present for him to feel safe in exhibiting any, the slightest, symptom of the dislike he bore that person; and his rejection of his offered civility on the present occasion, he feared, might be looked upon in that light, and be remembered afterwards if anything should happen to Kilmoran. Reasoning thus, and reasoning as quick as thought, M'Dougal, with many expressions of thanks, accepted the offer of Kilmoran's horse, mounted him, and rode off. Fifteen minutes' smart riding brought him to the margin of the lake formerly alluded to; a few minutes more saw him enter on and proceed along the road that skirted it.
Unconscious of peril, M'Dougal rode on, and had attained somewhere about half the length of the lake, when the sharp report of a rifle rung in the copse, and in the same instant Norman M'Dougal fell from his horse a dead man-a rifle-ball having passed right through his head. Deceived by the horse he rode, his brother had directed against him that shot which he intended for Kilmoran.
Unaware of the dreadful mistake he had committed, M'Dougal hastened home, and, unperceived by any one, entered the house and retired to bed. Morning came, and with it much surprise to the midnight assassin that his brother had not returned. Leaving his couch, on which he had spent but a restless night, he approached the window of his bedchamber to look abroad on the morning. He had not done so for many seconds, when he saw a
crowd of people slowly approaching the house, and bearing along what appeared to be a heavy burden. In a few minutes he made out that it was a human body they were carrying, and, not doubting that it was the corpse of Kilmoran, he summoned his utmost resolution to meet the report of that gentleman's murder with as unmoved and unconscious a manner as possible. But why bring the body of the murdered man to his house? Why not take it to Kilmoran? The proceeding confounded him, and filled his guilty bosom with a thousand indefinable terrors. In the mean time, the persons bearing the corpse approached; they passed beneath the window at which M'Dougal was standing, and in the livid and ghastly upturned face of the murdered man he recognised the face of his brother. Suspicions of the dreadful truth flashed across his mind, and he sank into a chair, powerless and all but insensible.
In a few minutes, one of the men who had brought the body home entered his apartment, and with a sorrowful countenanceand not aware that he had seen the body pass-informed him that his brother had been killed.
"How?" said M'Dougal in a sepulchral voice. "Shot through the head," replied the man.
nineteen at his father's death, after which event he retired to Holland, where he continued till he returned with the Prince of Orange at the Revolution.
Lady Grissel Baillie, the eldest daughter of Sir Patrick Home of Polwarth, afterwards Earl of Marchmont, was born at Redbraes Castle on the 25th of December, 1665. Her early trials, and admirable bearing under them, have thrown a romantic cast over a character in which so much of strength and gentleness were combined; and the beautiful sketch given of her career in the "Metrical Legends" of Joanna Baillie, who, we believe, claims kindred with her heroine, rendered her merits more generally and highly estimated. Lady Grissel's daughter, Lady Murray of Stanhope, left behind her in manuscript a memoir of her mother, which, although one of the most beautiful memorials ever raised by a child to the virtues of a parent, was not published entire until the year 1822. It is to this work that we are indebted for our materials.
Sir Patrick Home, who possessed the same principles with Baillie, lived in the strictest friendship with him, and was exposed to the same dangers, although, more happy than his friend, he was enabled to surmount them. "In the troubles of King Charles
"Where was the body found?" again asked M'Dougal, with the Second's time, his daughter began her experience of afflicting white, parched, and quivering lip.
and terrifying hardships; though," says Lady Murray, "I have
By the side of the loch, near the Clachanmore," answered the often heard her say she never thought them any. At the age of
All that day M'Dougal kept his apartment, and would neither himself come forth, nor would he allow any one to enter. When the morning came, he was missing; he had disappeared through the night, and none could then, or ever after, tell whither he had gone. It was supposed by some that he had thrown himself into the lake; by others, that he had left the country and gone abroad: this last rumour being followed up by a report, some years after, that he had fallen in the American war--it was said, in the battle of Bunker's Hill.
LADY GRISSEL BAILLIE.
THE name of Robert Baillie, of Jerviswood, is familiar as that of one of the victims of the unjustifiable measures pursued by the government of Charles II. in the persecution of all who were suspected of offering opposition to their schemes for establishing arbitrary power.
Baillie, who had long been a marked man as a stanch friend of civil liberty and the Protestant cause, had more than once suffered imprisonment on account of his opinions, when he and two other gentlemen were sent up to London by the Scottish malcontents to concert measures with Monmouth, Russell, Sidney, and the other English leaders implicated in what is called the Rye-house plot, for a simultaneous rising in the North, to support the proposed insurrection in London and other places in England. When the conspiracy was discovered, Baillie was immediately seized and sent to Scotland, although not a tittle of evidence could be found against him; and on his refusing to answer, on oath, any questions the Privy Council might please to propound, a fine of six thousand pounds was imposed upon him, and he was kept in such a cruel confinement in the prison on the Bass rock and elsewhere, that his health was utterly broken; and when at length, by the examination of other prisoners under torture, evidence of the share he had taken in the conspiracy was procured, and sentence pronounced upon him, he was in so weak a condition that the judges ordered it to be carried into execution the same day, lest their victim should escape them. Yet even this was not the limit of their vindictive fury; for, with unexampled barbarity, his two sons were compelled to be present on the scaffold, and even placed so near the block that their clothes were covered with the blood of the father.
The eldest of these sons, George, who afterwards became the husband of Lady Grissel, the subject of this sketch, was only
twelve she was sent by her father from their country-house to Edinburgh, a long journey, when Mr. Baillie was first imprisoned, to try if, by her age, she could get admittance into the prison unsuspected, and slip a letter into his hand, of advice and information, and bring back what intelligence she could. She succeeded so well in both, that from that time I reckon her hardships began, from the confidence that was put in her, and the activity she naturally had far beyond her age, in executing whatever she was entrusted with.
"After the persecution began afresh, and Mr. Baillie again in prison, her father thought it necessary to keep concealed; and soon found he had too good reason for so doing, parties being continually sent out in search of him, and often to his own house, to the terror of all in it, though not from any fear for his safety, whom they imagined at a great distance from home; for no soul knew where he was but my grandmother and my mother, except one man, a carpenter called Jamie Winter, who used to work in the house, and lived a mile off, on whose fidelity they thought they could depend, and were not deceived. The frequent examination and oaths put to servants, in order to make discoveries, were so strict, they durst not run the risk by trusting any of them. By the assistance of this man, they got a bed and bed-clothes carried in the night to the burying-place—a vault under ground at Polwarth Church, a mile from the house-where he was concealed for a month, and had only for light an open slit at one end, through which nobody could see what was below. She went every night at midnight to carry him victuals and drink, and stayed with him as long as she could to get home before day. In all this time my grandfather showed the same constant composure and cheerfulness of mind that he continued to possess to his death, which was at the age of eighty-four; all which good qualities she inherited from him in a high degree. Often did they laugh heartily in that doleful habitation at different accidents that happened. She at that time had a terror for a church-yard, especially in the dark, as is not uncommon at her age, by idle nursery stories; but when engaged by concern for her father, she stumbled over the graves every night alone, without fear of any kind entering her thoughts but for soldiers and parties in search of him, which the least noise or motion of a leaf put her in terror for. The minister's house was near the church; the first night she went, his dogs kept such a barking as put her in the utmost fear of a discovery; my grandmother sent for the minister next day, and upon pretence of a mad dog, got him to hang up all his dogs. There was also difficulty of getting victuals to carry him without the servants suspecting. The only way it was done was by stealing it off her plate at dinner into
THE LONDON SATURDAY JOURNAL.
her lap. Many a diverting story she has told about this and other
The confinement in the gloomy vault of Polwarth Church was,
His estates had been in the mean time forfeited, and upon receiving this summons, his wife, taking Grissel with her, went to London to solicit some allowance out of them for the support of herself and her ten children; but, although assisted by the influence of many kind and zealous friends, she could obtain only about one hundred and fifty pounds a year for them. Returning to Scotland, she carried all her family, except Julian, who was too ill to travel, to Holland, and when they were all settled at Utrecht, Grissel, still a mere girl, alone and unprotected, was sent back for her sister, and "to negotiate business, and try if she could pick up any money of some that was owing to her father."
They had a long and disagreeable voyage back to Holland, rendered more irksome by the ill conduct of the captain. When at length they landed at the Brill, "they set out at night," says Lady Murray, on foot for Rotterdam, with a gentleman who was of great use to them, that came over at the same time to take refuge in Holland. It was a cold, wet, dirty night; my aunt (Julian), a girl not well able to walk, soon lost her shoes in the dirt; my mother took her upon her back, and carried her the rest of the way, the gentleman carrying their small baggage. At Rotterdam, they found their eldest brother and my father (George Baillie) waiting for their arrival, to conduct them to Utrecht, where their house was; and no sooner were they all met, than she forgot everything, and felt nothing but happiness and contentment."
"A fine sparkle of love," as Froissart has it, had stolen into
the hearts of Grissel Home and George Baillie before either had
They lived three years and a half in Holland, during which time
She went to market, went to the mill to have their corn ground (which it seems is the way with good managers there), dressed the linen, cleaned the house, made ready the dinner, mended the children's stockings and other clothes, made what she could for them, and in short did everything. Her sister Christian, who was a year or two younger, diverted her father and mother and the rest, who were fond of music. Out of their small income they bought a harpsichord. My aunt played and sang well, and had a great deal of life and humour, but no turn to business. Though my mother had the same qualifications, and liked it as well as she did, she was forced to drudge; and many jokes used to pass between the sisters about their different occupations. Every morning before six, my mother lighted my father's fire in his study; then waked him; (he was ever a good sleeper, which blessing among many others she inherited from him ;) then got him, what he usually took as soon as he got up, warm small beer with a spoonful of bitters in it, which he continued his whole life, and of which I have the recipe. Then she took up the children, and brought them all to his room, where he taught them everything that was fit for their age; some Latin, others French, Dutch, geography, writing, reading, English, &c., and my grandmother taught them what was necessary on her part. Thus he employed and diverted himself all the time he was there, not being able to afford putting them to school; and my mother, when she could afford a moment's time, took a lesson with the rest in French and Dutch, and also diverted herself with music. I have now a book of songs of her writing when there; many of them interrupted, half writ, some broke off in the middle of a sentence."
Notwithstanding their limited means, they contrived to extend hospitality to "unfortunate banished people like themselves, and they seldom went to dinner without three, four, or five of them, to share with them: and many a hundred times," says Lady Murray, "I have heard my mother say, she could never look back upon
their manner of living there, without thinking it a miracle: they had no want, but plenty of everything they desired, and much contentment, and always declared it the most pleasing part of her life; though they were not without their little distresses-but to them they were rather jokes than grievances.
At length the Revolution put an end to their exile, and all the party returned to their native land, except Christian, who died within a short time of their departure. "I have," says Lady Murray in relating this melancholy event, "heard my mother say, she had no notion of any other cause of sorrow, but the death and affliction of those she loved; and of that she was sensible to her last, in the most tender manner. She had tried many hardships without being depressed by them; on the contrary, her spirits and activity increased the more she had occasion for it; but the death of her friends was always a load too heavy for her. She had strong and tender passions, though she never gave way to them but in what was commendable and praiseworthy."
Two years after their return home, when both Mr. Baillie and Sir Patrick Home had recovered their estates, and were both in honourable employments, the former in Parliament, the latter as Chancellor of Scotland, the lovers were "made happy;" and never was the phrase more justly applied to a marriage, for her daughter "often heard her declare, that they never had a shadow of a quarrel or misunderstanding-no, not for a moment, and that to the last of his life, she felt the same ardent and tender love and affection for him, and the same desire to please him in the smallest trifle, that she had at their first acquaintance. Indeed, her principal and sole delight was, to watch and attend to everything that could give him pleasure or make him easy. He never went abroad but she went to the window to look after him; and so she did the very day he fell ill, the last time he went abroad, never taking her eyes from him as long as he was in sight;" a beautiful picture of true love flourishing greenly after a union of forty-eight years'
What the conduct of such a woman as we have described Lady Grissel Baillie was towards her children, may be easily imagined; nor is it surprising that they loved and reverenced such a mother. After the death of her son-in-law, Lord Binning, who married her
younger daughter, her maternal cares were extended to his children, whose education she sedulously superintended. Nor were the talents for business so early displayed suffered to lie idle. Besides her household cares, to which, however occupied by other affairs, she always paid watchful attention, she was often called upon to assist her husband in the management of his business; and such was the reliance he had upon her judgment, that he seldom did anything without consulting her. Her amazing energy and activity enabled her to perform all her labours with such apparent ease as to asto"She went to Scotland every second nish those who beheld her.
year to see her father, and when he wanted assistance in his old age, and could not take the trouble of looking after his own affairs, she looked into and settled his steward's accounts; once at Kimmerghame, with a trouble and fatigue incredible, for two months, from five in the morning till twelve at night, that she scarce allowed herself time to eat or sleep, settling and taking them from one that had long had the charge of the business, till she half killed the whole family by attending her, though they kept not the hours
When her son-in-law Lord Binning fell ill, he was advised to try the air of Italy; and his father-in-law and his whole family accompanied him to Naples. On their way they passed through Utrecht, When Lady Grissel came there, says her daughter, she had the greatest pleasure in showing us every corner of the town, which seemed fresh in her memory, particularly the house she had lived in, which she had a great desire to see; but when she came there, they would not let her in, by no arguments either of words or money, for no reason but for fear of dirtying it. She offered to put off her shoes, but nothing could prevail, and she came away much mortified at her disappointment.
quickness of capacity and apprehension at any age, much more at hers. She knew not one word of Italian, and had servants of the country that as little understood one word she said; so that at first she was forced to call me to interpret betwixt them; but in a very little while, with only the help of a grammar and dictionary, she did the whole business of her family with her Italian servants_ went to shops, bought everything she had occasion for, and did it so well, that our acquaintances who had lived many years there, begged the favour of her to buy for them when she provided herself; thinking, and often saying, she did it to much better purpose than they could themselves."
The death of her husband, which happened in 1738, in the seventy-fifth year of his age, afflicted her deeply. "It threw her into a dangerous fit of illness; which with joy she would have allowed herself to sink under, had she not thought her life was still necessary for the happiness of her family." She often expressed her firm conviction that she and her husband should meet and know each other again in another world, and said that without that belief she could not support herself. Her expressions of grief for his loss throughout the remainder of her life, were frequent and most affecting. One day, visiting the family-house in Scotland, looking round and admiring the beauties of the place, she checked herself, burst out in tears, and said, "What is all this to me, since your father does not see and enjoy it!"
She survived him rather more than eight years, which were chiefly occupied in the care of her grandsons, the children of Lord Binning, and died in London, after an illness of a few days, on the 6th of December 1746, having nearly completed her eighty-first year. She expressed a wish to be buried by her husband at Mellerstein, and, thoughtful to the last, told her daughter that in a black silk purse in her cabinet, she would find money sufficient to do it, which she had kept by her for that use, that whenever it She added, "I have now no happened it might not straiten us. more to say or do ;" tenderly embraced her daughter; laid down her head upon the pillow, and spoke little after that. Her wishes were complied with, and she was buried at Mellerstein on her birthday, the 25th of December.
We have been obliged, by the limits of our sketch, to leave out numberless little touches which fill up the outline of the picture drawn by Lady Grissel's daughter. But we have preserved sufficient to render any laboured panegyric unnecessary; and we leave her character for the reader's judgment and imitation.
POETRY, which has from the earliest ages delighted mankind, is sometimes in the present day underrated by those, who, being from the circumstances of their life indisposed to seek pleasure from books, are inclined to despise poetry because its professed object is to give pleasure; they therefore conclude that an art whose professed object is to please the ear with harmonious numbers, must necessarily be trifling-its pursuits unworthy of a thinking man-and any attention bestowed upon it by readers but a waste of time. Such reasoners overlook the great design of poetry, and the amazing power it is capable of exerting over the human mind, arising from the exquisite delight communicated by its "At Naples she showed what would have been a singular perusal. "The end of poetry," says Lord Bacon, "is to fill the ima