and her residence there was frequented by and she at last appeared to expire in a gentle Lord Jeffrey, Sir Walter Scott, Henry Mac- slumber, leaving her features in the sweetest kenzie, and other magnates of the Scottish composure, and confirming the assurance she literary world. The year following appeared gave us almost to the last, that she suffered Essays on the Superstitions of the Highlanders; | no pain. Her calmness and tranquillity in in 1814 a metrical work entitled Eghteen the prospect of death were what might have Hundred and Thirteen; and in 1815 Popular been expected from her firm mind and blameModels and Impressive Warnings for the Sons less life, and above all from her humble conand Daughters of Industry. Her productions fidence-repeated as long as she could speak— are thus characterized by Sir Walter Scott, a in the pardoning mercy of God through the judge well fitted to estimate them:--"Her merits of our great Intercessor." A collection literary works, although composed amidst mis- of her letters, with a memoir by her only surfortune and privation, are written at once with viving child John P. Grant, who died Dec. 15, simplicity and force, and uniformly bear the 1870, was published in London in the year stamp of a virtuous and courageous mind, 1844 in three vols. Revised editions of this recommending to the reader that patience and delightful work appeared in 1845 and 1853, fortitude which the writer herself practised in also from the press of the Longmans. such an eminent degree. Her writings, deservedly popular in her own country, derive their success from the happy manner in which, addressing themselves to the national pride of the Scottish people, they breathe a spirit at once of patriotism and of that candour which renders patriotism unselfish and liberal. We have no hesitation in attesting our belief that Mrs. Grant's writings have produced a strong and salutary effect upon her countrymen, who not only found recorded in them much of national history and antiquities which would otherwise have been forgotten, but found them combined with the soundest and best lessons of virtue and morality."

In 1825 Mrs. Grant received a pension of £100 per annum in consideration of her lite rary talents, which, with the profits of her writings and legacies from several deceased friends, rendered her life free from pecuniary cares. She died at her residence in Manor Place, Edinburgh, November 7, 1838, in the eighty-fourth year of her age, retaining her faculties unimpaired to the last. A letter from her only son, addressed to my father, says: "My mother was entirely exempted from pain or suffering of any kind, bodily or mental;

Mrs. Grant's genius was not lyrical, but in all her poetical productions there is a steady current of harmony and good sense more indicative of the quick shrewd observer than of the poet; and although not a native Highlander, she could speak and write the language and paint the character and manners of her countrymen better than most of her contemporaries. Indeed so conspicuous was her preeminence in Gaelic literature that the authorship of the earlier volumes of the Waverley Novels was frequently attributed to her pen. To the last hour of her life the deep attachment for her early American home on the banks of the Hudson remained unshaken, and one of her greatest enjoyments was to see Americans at her hospitable house, where they were sure to find a cordial welcome and a genial hostess. Her chief talent lay in conversation, in which she was unrivalled, and hence the high fame she acquired among the literati of her day. Sir John Watson Gordon's portrait of Mrs. Grant, the best ever painted, was in possession of the late Mrs. Douglas Cruger of New York, one of her most intimate friends, with whom she maintained for many years a regular correspondence.

O WHERE, TELL ME WHERE?

"O where, tell me where, is your Highland lad-"He's gone, with streaming banners, where noble die gone? deeds are done;

O where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie And my sad heart will tremble till he comes gone?"

safely home.

With the light-bounding flocks of my Colin, my That the son of a king might have boasted with dear.

With their motion so rapid the woods all resound. Now, dead to the honour and pride I inherit, Not the blow of a vassal could rouse my sad spirit!

Where the birch-trees hang weeping o'er foun- Tho' insult or injury now should oppress me,

And chased the pleasing images away!
No time can e'er her vanished joys restore,
For ah! a heart once broken heals no more.
The dewy beams that gleam from pity's eye,
The 'still small voice' of sacred sympathy,
In vain the mourner's sorrows would beguile,
Or steal from weary woe one languid smile;
Yet what they can, they do-the scanty store,
So often opened for the wandering poor,
To her each cottager complacent deals,
While the kind glance the melting heart reveals;
And still, when evening streaks the west with gold,
The milky tribute from the lowing fold,
With cheerful haste, officious children bring,
And every smiling flower that decks the spring:
Ah! little know the fond attentive train,
That spring and flowerets smile for her in vain:
Yet hence they learn to reverence modest woe,
And of their little all a part bestow.

Let those to wealth and proud distinction born,
With the cold glance of insolence and scorn
Regard the suppliant wretch, and harshly grieve
The bleeding heart their bounty would relieve:
Far different these; while from a bounteous heart
With the poor sufferer they divide a part;
Humbly they own that all they have is given

A boon precarious from indulgent Heaven;
And the next blighted crop or frosty spring,
Themselves to equal indigence may bring.

LINES WRITTEN ON HER EIGHTY-
THIRD BIRTHDAY.

When all my earthly treasures fled,
And grief bowed down my drooping head,
Nor faith, nor hope, nor comfort fled.
From bright abodes of peace and love
New strength descended from above,
To cheer me like the patriarch's dove.
Now, though bereft of motion's powers,
I pass no more through groves and flowers,
But moveless waste the languid hours,
While still the ethereal spark divine,
And memory's ample store are mine,
I neither suffer nor repine,
But wait serene the final hour,
Appointed by that gracious Power,
Who, while those vials seemed of wrath,
Shed countless blessings on my path.

war. He then procured his discharge from the army, settled in his native parish, married, and, according to his own statement, for seventeen years abandoned the Muses, assiduously applying himself to manual labour to maintain his family.

ANDREW SCOTT was born in the parish of to his native land on the conclusion of the Bowden, Roxburghshire, in the year 1757. He was of humble parentage, and, when very young, was employed as a cowherd. "At twelve years of age," he says, "when herding in the fields, I purchased a copy of the Gentle Shepherd, and being charmed with the melody of the pastoral reed of Allan Ramsay, I began to attempt verses in the same manner." During the second year of the American war he enlisted in the 80th Regiment, and served in five campaigns, being with the army under Cornwallis when that general surrendered at Yorktown, Virginia. While cantoned with his regiment on Staten Island Scott composed Betsy Rosoe," and many other songs, all of which he says "perished in oblivion," except the one mentioned, and that on the "Oak Tree." These he used to sing to his comrades in camp, and preserved them until he returned

66

In 1805 Scott, following the advice of several friends, published by subscription a collection of his effusions. Three years afterwards a second edition, with some additions, appeared. In 1811 he published "Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect" (Kelso); in 1821 he issued from Jedburgh another small volume, and five years later published his last work at Edinburgh, entitled “Poems on Various Subjects." Although he became known to Sir Walter Scott, John Gibson Lockhart, and other literary persons, who afforded him countenance and assistance, he remained in the condition of an