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but said she appeared to be as much a substance as I did who talked with her. "And I may," said she, "be as soon persuaded that your apparition is talking to me now, as that I did not really see her; for I was under no manner of fear, and received her as a friend, and parted with her as such. I would not," says she, "give one farthing to make any one believe it; I have no interest in it; nothing but trouble is entailed upon me for a long time, for aught I know; and had it not come to light by accident, it would never have been made public." But now she says she will make her own private use of it, and keep herself out of the way as much as she can; and so she has done since. She says she had a gentleman who came thirty miles to her to hear the relation; and that she had told it to a room-full of people at the time. Several particular gentlemen have had the story from Mrs Bargrave's own mouth.

This thing has very much affected me, and I am as well satisfied as I am of the best grounded matter of fact. And why we should dispute matter of fact, because we cannot solve things of which we can have no certain or demonstrative notions, seems strange to me; Mrs Bargrave's authority and sincerity alone would have been undoubted in any other case.





{Published in the Edinburgh Weekly Journal, 1819, soon after the Melancholy Event to which it refers.]

It is so lately as the year 1812, that Scotland was deprived of one of the best patriots and most worthy men to whom she ever gave birth, by the death of Henry, Duke of Buccleuch, who was succeeded in his rank and titles by his eldest son, whom also his country has now lost. To fill the place of his excellent father was a task of no small difficulty, for there never lived a man in a situation of distinction so generally beloved, so universally praised, and so little detracted from, or censured. The unbounded generosity of Duke Henry, his public munificence, his suavity of disposition, the sound and excellent sense, enlightened patriotism, and high spirit of honour which united in that excellent person, rendered him the darling of all ranks, and his name was never mentioned without praises by the rich,

and benedictions by the poor. The general sorrow of all classes at the news of his death, the unfeigned tears which were shed at his funeral, cannot yet be forgotten.

Bred up under such a father and a mother worthy of him, and living with those excellent parents in the strictest ties of mutual affection, the late Duke came to the honours and estates with the anxious wish to tread in his father's paths, and to follow the same course of public patriotism and private benevolence, in which he had so eminent an example before him. His country and friends might, to all human appearance, have promised themselves long to enjoy the benefits arising from such dispositions in a person so eminent. He was in the prime of life, of a constitution strong to outward appearance, and seasoned by constant exercise, both on foot and horseback-he was the father of a promising family-the husband of one whom it was impossible to know without loving, or even to look upon without admiring. All seemed to promise a course of life long and happy, as that which his father had just closed. But it has pleased God to show us upon what a slight foundation all earthly prospects rest. Some symptoms of delicate health had already displayed themselves in 1813; but, in the succeeding year, the Duke, in the loss of his excellent partner, sustained a wound from the effects of which he never recovered.1

1 [Harriet, Duchess of Buccleuch, daughter of Thomas, Viscount Sydney, died the 24th August, 1814. See the Introductions to the Lay of the Last Minstrel and the Lord of the Isles, in the recent Edition of Sir Walter Scott's Poetical Works-and the closing stanzas of the last named poem.]

"Come to me as soon as you can," was his affecting expression to a friend, " and do not fear the excess of my grief-you will find me as much composed as shall be for the remainder of my life." And he was so-from a desire that the grief of the dearest objects of his affection might not be augmented by witnessing his. It was also the dying request and admonition of the object whom he lamented, that he would not suffer his regret for her to convert his house into a house of mourning; and while she blamed herself at the same time for indulging long and deep affliction for the death of their eldest son, she implored him not to fall into the same error. He promised, and kept his word. But the early and continued exertions which he made, from a high sense of duty, to suppress his sorrow, had an unfavourable influence upon his own health, which became gradually more and more impaired until the late catastrophe.1 The few years during which he possessed his high situation, and the comparative retirement which his state of health required, have combined to render the character of the late Duke less correctly and generally known than that of his father, who filled for so many years a conspicuous part in the public eye. We therefore insert, as a tribute to his memory, the following particulars, which are derived from an authentic source.

The late Duke so far differed from his father, Duke Henry, that his temper was more quick, and, for the moment, more easily susceptible of resent

1 [The Duke sailed for Lisbon early in 1819, and died there on the 20th April of that year.]

ment, when undeserved injury was offered to him, or an ungrateful return made to his favours. He had perceived, with indignation, that his father's kindness did not uniformly meet with a suitable return; and he placed, or rather desired to place, (for he sometimes forgot the restriction,) the noble and generous disposition which he derived from him, under the regulation of reciprocal justice. He was, upon principle, an enemy to that species of beneficence which has its source as much in negligence as in philanthropy, and gives, merely because it is painful to withhold. His first anxiety in every case was to discover what the party with whom he transacted had a right to expect; his next was not only to render him his full due, but to make those additions to it which his own bountiful nature suggested. In a settlement of accounts which had become somewhat perplexed by the illness and death of an ancient friend of the family, the Duke first employed himself in minutely ascertaining the amount of the balance due to him, which was considerable, and then, by a stroke of his pen, carried a similar sum to the credit of the family of his deceased friend. The accuracy, he thought, was due to himself, the liberality to the memory of a most excellent man, long attached to his family. As no man's heart was ever so readily opened by an appearance of attachment and kindness, the Duke never, on the other hand, permitted his sense of indifferent usage to hurry him into vindictive measures. At the close of a contested election, in which the usual subjects of irritation had occurred, his first expression was, that "every thing was now

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