LIFE OF A DUCHESS. Perhaps few females, within a domestic sphere, led a more remarkable life than the late Jane Maxwell, Duchess of Gordon. Of unpretending birth, by no means superior education, less conspicuous for beauty than for a strong Scotch accent, this lady, by the mere character of her mind, ruled all who came within her sphere, and for many years held even Pitt in her toils. Deserted by her husband, who, shut up in his northern feudal castle, treated her with the most conspicuous neglect, the duchess was neither mortified nor subdued; still she held the whole power and influence of the Gordon dukedom; and any withdrawal of countenance on his part, she took care was only as an individual, and never as a duke. She was still Duchess of Gordon, and managed, no one knew exactly how, to make not only the vast income of the family go to the support of her individual splendor, but even of the large sums obtained by the duke for the sale of various extensive estates, the duchess contrived to direct the appropriation of such portions as her exigencies from time to time required. Her house, in London, although her lord absented himself from it, was the centre of all that was brilliant of the ministerial party. Here Pitt met the phalanx of aristocracy, that, throughout his administration, stood like a rock by himself and the crown; and here many plans of party were discussed, and the discontented more effectually influenced than they could have been by a parliamentary debate. In spite of certain slanders affecting the purity of the character of this most accomplished woman, wit, beauty and rank filled her halls, and she succeeded in every great scheme which she attempted. Her first entry into society laid the foundation of all her future greatness. The Duke of Gordon had recently come of age, and a long minority had increased his rental to one hundred thousand a year. He was tolerably handsome, and had the character of being extremely affable and good-humored. There was a great ball given in Edinburg, at which many of the Scottish peers were present; but the chief personage of the evening was the young duke, who, in rank and wealth, outshone all compeers. Never was there a fairer crowd of Scottish beauties assembled together than on that evening and to all, or by far the greatest portion of these, the Duke of Gordon was the night-star which their imaginations followed. Even the male portion of the party were paying homage to the great man, and evidently anxious to be distinguished by his notice. Among the ladies then assembled was a Miss Jane Maxwell, daughter of a country gentleman of small property, who, in beauty, rank, dress, and in every other way, appeared to be immediately outshone by many around her. Jane looked with much interest at the respect and court which was paid to the duke, as he moved there like a king, and suddenly exclaimed aloud, to those around her, "Goodness! how I should like to be Duchess of Gordon!" The duke either heard the words, or they were reported to him; and, feeling an interest in one who had so openly declared in his favor, requested to be introduced to her, which was the commencement of an acquaintance, that in a very short period obtained for Miss Maxwell the man, or the coronet, which she desired. Piquante, lively, and witty, she made up for any striking beauty by her powers of fascination, which resulted from her mind and character alone. Not that she was by any means deficient in charms of person; yet certainly these, unassisted, would never have given her that influence over the minds and feelings of others which she so remarkably possessed. The young lady, however, was not content with being a duchess; she was determined to be the first of all British duchesses; splendor upon splendor rose around her, she saw the vast power which the name she bore gave her in Scotland-she rallied the stragglers from the political party, of which the duke, north of the Dee, was naturally the headshe carried her influence with her to the metropolis; and, aided by her own talents, drew around her the leaders of the party which then governed the country. She it was that raised the 42d regiment, that gallant body of men so distinguished in the annals of the late war. The regiment was commanded by her son, George, Marquis of Huntly, who died the last Duke of Gordon, about five years ago, and by whose amiable widow alone, a ducal coronet is borne over the arms of Gordon. The manner in which the enterprising duchess raised the battalion which the government then urgently required, was somewhat characteristic of her bold manner of managing matters. The Highlanders were not slow to enlist to follow young Huntly to the field; but considerable drains had been made from them lately, and their warlike ardor was necessarily in some degree cooled by the circumstance that scarcely any more was left than was necessary to cultivate the ground, to say nothing of the clamorous objections made by the young Highland girls, who could not be disposed to look favorably upon a measure which was likely to sweep away from them every and she spent what remained to her of life in religion, charity, and, singular to add, in adorning the place where she wished her bones to lie. She selected a beautiful spot, on one of her husband's highland estates: this she caused to be enclosed, planted, and otherwise adorned; and here she made her sepulchre. It became her favorite place of resort; and a gloom like that which follows mere temporary excitement seems to have settled chance of becoming wives. But the duchess was not to be deterred. Arrayed in the male Highland costume, she scrupled not to appeal to the loyalty of the clan, at their country fairs, surrounded by officers, and accompanied by the bag-pipes, fife and drum. Her Highland bonnet placed archly over her fair brow, her dark, sparkling eyes, graceful figure, and limbs that a sculptor might have studied, now arrayed in the tight trimness of tartan hose, did as much for the king's service as the re-upon her mind. port of an invasion would have done: nay, Her death was accelerated by an accident. it is said, that she even took other means to In attempting to sit down where her chair increase her forces. It is recorded of her, had just stood, but which was by accident that a young Highlander, on whom she had officiously removed by a servant, she fell, and tried her eloquence in vain, in consequence injured her spine. A decaying constitution of a promise he had made to a girl to whom was unable to bear up against the acute sufhe was betrothed, having shown some symp-ferings which this injury occasioned; she toms of wavering, she called the recusant to- sunk under it, and was buried in the lonely wards her, and, pretending to kiss him, put a place which she herself had chosen. guinea from her own mouth between his lips; then, taking him by the arm, handed him over to the sergeant as a promising_recruit who had taken the king's money. In fact, the poor fellow had been actually trepanned: yet, with natural gallantry, he raised his bonnet, and said, that, since he had taken the king's money, he would fight for him, and never disgrace the Gordon tartan, or the good opinion of him which the lady of his chief appeared to entertain. The soldier distinguished himself; and, by the influence of the duchess, afterwards obtained a commission of half pay, on which he eventually re-gress, the faithful companion and only sertired, married the girl to whom he had been betrothed, and lived until his dying day on a cheap-rented farm on the Gordon lands. THE LAST MOMENTS OF LADY STANHOPE. "I entered," said the physician who comhaste to the chamber of the invalid. A smomunicated these details "I entered in great ky lamp cast its flickering rays upon the pale and wan features of Lady Stanhope. At the side of the bed, her head between her hands, those of a tiger in the desert, sat an old neand uttering long and hollow groans, like 999 vant of the famous recluse. Hearing the noise of my steps, the poor creature abruptly rose and turned upon me a face full of expression, in which I read the mute prayer: As the duchess advanced in years, the set-Oh! take care, sir! if you should disturb her tlement of her four daughters became naturally a matter which engaged much of her attention, and she applied herself to this with the same success as she had done to other enterprises. Three of them she married to dukes, their Graces of Bedford, Richmond, and Manchester, being the three who took brides from her house; and but for the imprudence of the remaining daughter-whose retreat from such expectations, by the by, the duchess covered in the most admirable manner-she would have probably married her to a fourth. "Who is this, Zecca?" asked Lady Stanhope in a feeble voice. "Have you ordered the saddle upon my brown bay? It is upon him that I should make my entry into Jerusalem, when I go to take my seat upon the throne of the holy city. Are my guards ready to escort me? My troops await my coming. Say to my "Alas!" murmured Zecca, stifling her sobs, "she fancies herself upon a throne, and she is on her bed of death." 66 Fool" replied the dying sufferer, "I Having played this bold part in the drama dying; I, whose brow is soon to be encircled of life, the duchess in latter years retired with the diadem of the celestial sovereignty; from the world, and gave up her mind to I, who am going to mount the throne of the matters of a wholly different character. She holy city, that throne upon which I shall soon had obtained all the objects of her ambition, be sitting resplendent with glory; I, who am and now found that they had neither secured called to reign over that empire until the end for her happiness or peace. A neglectful of the world! And you dare speak this blashusband, and the absence of all domestic en- phemy, you, miserable! Go, quit my prejoyment, was bitterly felt by her, when the sence and never let me see you again." bustle of ambition, which entered so largely For a few moments a deep silence reigned into her earlier enterprises, had passed away; "through the apartment. No. 7. What Will You Do, Love?- The Poor Man to his Child. 211 "Here is the Doctor whom you wished to see," at length said the poor negress, quietly. "Ah! come near, doctor," said Lady Stanhope, turning upon me her half expiring eyes, still dimly animated by her fever; "do you come to tell me that my soldiers are under arms? Is not my army imposing? Oh! how I long to march at the head of those splendid battalions, to command so many noble warriors. I will. But why do you look at me? You appear to be in pain, doctor, what is the matter with you?" "Oh! nothing, madam," I replied-" but your active spirit astonishes me, and the words which you have just úttered distress me. You are not yet, believe me, in a state to commence your campaign, and it is absolutely necessary that you keep your bed for some days. Then, should you still feel disposed to put your plan into execution for—" "You too!" she exclaimed in a voice full of reproach and bitterness. "But you are deceived, doctor; you labor under the same delusive error as Zecca. See, I am strong, I am full of life and vig As she said this, she with difficulty raised her white and transparent hand, which she had slowly extended to take up a small spoon lying upon the table which was at the head of her bed. When raising it, with a visible effort, she seemed to concentrate all her strength to carry it to her lips. But she fainted, the spoon fell from her hand, and I thought that she was dead. She remained in this state for some time; but, towards the middle of the day, she seemed to revive a little; her lips resumed a colorless livid hue, her cheeks were shaded with a light rosy tint, her glassy eye had recovered something of its usual expression; her respiration became stronger, and all the persons who had come to visit her in her last moments, were buoyed up with a feeling of joy and hope. But I could not, myself, share in this delusion; saw that it was the last glimmering of the expiring lamp. A few minutes elapsed, and Lady Stanhope was numbered with the dead. Such was the end of this celebrated woman whose name has resounded through the whole East. Her last thoughts, her last words admirably illustrated the state of that mind, so exalted at the same time by ambition and devout piety. But it is painful to acknowledge, that the strange fanaticism and proud misanthropy of Lady Stanhope has made many proselytes; she has left behind her many disciples as fanatical as herself, as disdainful of men, as passionate for solitude, and who, like her, will leave, without regret and forever, their native country to die amid the desert winds of the East.* *For Biographical Sketch, see Gariand, vol. III. p. 207. And the rapture that kindles them now, grieves me to think how that heart will be riven, When the finger of scorn will be tracing thy birth; then, my sweet infant, look upwards to Heaven, For He will regard the forsaken of earth! Laugh on, thus unconscious of sorrow to come- My blessings be with thee, my darling!-my own! I was surprised to find that the condition of mind in the case of those who were dying, and of those who only thought themselves dying, differed very widely. I had supposed that the joy or the grief of death originated from the fancy of the patient, (one supposing himself very near to great happiness, and the other expecting speedy suffering,) and resulting in pleasure or apprehension. My discoveries seem to overturn this theory. Why should not the professor of religion who believes himself dying, when he really is not, rejoice as readily as when he is departing, if his joy is the offspring of expectation? Why should not the alarm of the scoffer, who believes himself dying, and is not, be as uniform and decisive as when he is in the river, if it comes of fancied evil or cowardly terrors? The same questions I asked myself again and again. I have no doubt but that there is some strange reason connected with our natural disrelish for truth, which causes so many physicians, after seeing such facts so often, never to observe them. During twenty years of observation, I found the state of the soul belonging to the dying was uniformly and materially unlike that of those who only supposed themselves departing. This is best made plain by noting cases which did exist. There was a man who believed himself converted, and his friends, judging from his walk, hoped with him. He was seized with disease, and believed himself within a few paces of the gate of futurity. He felt no joy; his mind was dark, and his soul clouded. His exercises were painful, and the opposite of every enjoyment. He was not dying. He recovered. He had not been in the death stream. After this he was taken again. He believed himself dying, and he was not mistaken. All was peace, serenity, hope and triumph. such cases was, "Why was he not thus agonized, when he thought himself departing? Can it be possible that we can stand so precisely on the dividing line, that the gale from both this and the coming world may blow upon our cheek? Can we have a taste of the exercises of the next territory before we enter it?" When I attempted to account for this on the simple ground of bravery and cowardice, I was met by the two following facts: First, I have known those-the cases are not unfrequent-who were brave, who had stood unflinching in battle's whirlpool. They had resolved never to disgrace their system of unbelief by a trembling death. They had called to Christians in the tone of resolve, saying, "I can die as coolly as you can." I had seen those die, from whom entire firmness might fairly be expected. I had heard groans, even if the teeth were clenched for fear of complaint, such as I never wish to hear again; and I had looked into countenances, such as I hope never to see again. Second, I had seen cowards die. I had seen those depart who were naturally timid, who expected themselves to meet death with fright and alarm. I had heard such, as it were, sing before Jordan was half forded. I had seen faces where, pallid as they were, I beheld more celestial triumph, than I had ever witnessed any where else. In that voice there was a sweetness, and in that eye there was a glory, which I never could have fancied in the death spasms, if I had not been near. The condition of the soul when the death stream is entered, is not the same with that which it becomes (oftentimes,) when it is almost passed. The brave man who starts on the ladder across the dark ravine, with eye undaunted, and haughty spirit, changes fearfully in many cases, when he comes near enough the curtain to lift it. The Christain who goes down the ladder pale and disThere was a man who mocked at holy consolate, (oftentimes,) starts with exultation, things. He became seriously diseased, and and tries to burst into a song when almost supposed himself sinking into the death slum-across. thing that transports; but some are too low to tell of it, and their friends think they departed under a cloud, when they really did not. It is at this stage of the journey that the enemy of God, who started with looks of defiance and words of pride, seems to meet with that which alters his views and expectations, but he cannot tell it, for his tongue can no longer move. ber. He was not frightened. His fortitude Then it is the time when many who enter and composure was his pride, and the boast the dark valley cheerless, begin to see someof his friends. The undaunted firmness with which he could enter futurity, was spoken of exultingly. It was a mistake. He was not in the condition of dissolution. His soul never had been on the line between two worlds. After this he was taken ill again. He supposed, as before, that he was entering the next state, and he really was; but his soul seemed to feel a different atmosphere. The horrors of these scenes have been often described, and are often seen. I need not endeavor to picture such a departure here. The only difficulty in which I was thrown by My attention was awakened very much by observing the dying fancies of the servants of the world, differing with sad characteristic "singularity from the fancies of the departing No. 7. Parental Character of Leigh Richmond. 213 of such cases, volumes of interest might be found. Christian. It is no uncommon thing for those who die to believe they see, or hear, or feel, that which appears only fancy to bystanders. My last remark here, reader, is, that we Their friends believe that it is the overturn- necessarily speak somewhat in the dark of ing of their intellect. I am now about to such matters; but you and I will know more enter into the discussion of the question, shortly. Both of us will see and feel for ourwhether it is, or is not, always fancy? Some selves, where we cannot be mistaken, in the have a different view of the case; but inas-course of a few years.-Cause and Cure much as, in many instances, the mind is de- of Infidelity. ranged whilst its habitation is falling into ruin around it; and, inasmuch as it is the common belief that it is only imagination of P A RENTAL which I am writing, we will look at it under the name of fancy. The fanciful views of the servant of sin, and the devoted friends of Christ, were strangely distinct, as far as my observation extended. One who had been an entire sensualist and mocker of religion, while dying,|| appeared in his senses in all but one thing. "Take that black man from the room," said he. He was answered that there was none in the room. He replied, "There he is standing near the window. His presence is very irksome to me; take him out." After a time, again and again, his call was, "Will no one remove him? There he is; surely some one will take him away?" I was mentioning to another physician my surprise that he should have been so much distressed if there had been many blacks in the room, for he had been waited on by them day and night for many years; also that the mind had not been diseased in some other respect, when he told me the names of two others, his patients, men of similar lives, who were tormented with the same fancy, and in || the same way, while dying. 66 CHARACTER OF LEIGH RICHMOND. BY HIS DAUGHTER. "It was ever the first wish of my beloved father, that our home should be happy; and he was never so well pleased as when we were all sitting around him. Both in our childhood and youth, every innocent pleasure was resorted to, and all his varied attainments brought into exercise to instruct and amuse us. He was the sun of our little system, and from him seemed to be derived the light and glow of domestic happiness. Like the disciple, whose loving spirit I have often thought my dear father's resembled, his motto was, Little children, love one another;' and he taught this more effectually by example than even by precept. Religion was unfolded to us in its most attractive form. We saw that it was a happy thing to be a Christian. He was exempt from gloom and melancholy, and entered with life and cheerfulness into all our sports. "But we should not have been thus happy in domestic affection, had not our beloved father so carefully trained us in the religion of A young female, who called the Man of Jesus Christ. This was his chief concern, Calvary her greatest friend, was, when dying, his hourly endeavor. He did not talk much in her senses, in all but one particular. "Mo- with us about religion; but the books, studies, ther," she would say, pointing to a certain and even amusements, to which he directed direction, "do you see those beautiful crea- us, showed us that God was in all his tures?" Her mother would answer, No, thoughts, and that his great aim was to prethere is no one there, my dear." She would pare his children for heaven. Religion was reply, "Well, that is strange. I never saw practically taught in all he said and did, and such countenances and such attire. My eye recommended to us, in his lovely domestic never rested on any thing so lovely.' O, character, more powerfully than in any other says one, this is all imagination, and the no- way. He had a thousand winning ways to tions of a mind collapsing! wherefore tell || lead our infant minds to God, and explain to of it? My answer is, that I am not about to us the love of the Saviour to little children. dispute, or to deny that it is fancy; but the It was then our first impressions were refancies differ in feature and in texture.ceived; and though for a time they were obSome in their derangement call out "Catch me; I am sinking; hold me; I am falling." Others say, "Do you hear that music? O, where notes ever so celestial?" This kind of notes, and these classes of fancies, belonged to different classes of individuals; and who they were, was the item which attracted my wonder. Such things were noticed by few, and remembered by almost none; but I am inclined to believe, that if notes were kept scured by youthful vanities, they were never totally erased; he lived to see them, in some instances, ripened into true conversion. It was his custom, when we were very young, to pray with us alone; he used to take us by turns into his study; and memory still recalls the simple language and affecting earnestness with which he pleaded for the conversion of his child. I used to weep because he wept, though I understood and felt little of |