all, by his fear lest Neoptolemus, deterred by his situation, should abandon him, and leave him to the practices of his enemies, Diomed and Ulysses. After a short slumber he awakes, refreshed and relieved from pain. Now that Neoptolemus had obtained the bow, and was freed from the terror of that formidable weapon, he confesses to Philoctetes that he was in league with Ulysses, and that it was his object to carry him to Troy. yields to this supernatural agency, and consents to accompany them. There is something exceedingly tender in his farewell address to Lemnos. "Thou cave, that long hast been my habitation, Ye nymphs that guard the meadows and the fountains, Ye jutting rocks, from which the briny spray Has often showered upon my naked head, Borne by the south winds and ye dashing waves, Farewell. Farewell, thou hill of Mercury, "Phil. Destructive as the fire! waker of That oft hast echoed to my lamentations. mischief! Traitor! have I done ought to merit this? cries. And not even now, but by a stratagem. Thou cave, my shelter from the winds and Without one beam of hope I enter thee. My bow no longer shall procure me food, But I shall die of famine, and my limbs Shall be the banquet of the fowls of heaven." Ulysses now comes on the stage, and confesses to Philoctetes that he had been betrayed through his agency. A long dialogue ensues, but he resists all the advices and all the stratagems of Neoptolemus and Ulysses, till, near the conclusion of the play, the ghost of Hercules appears, and informs him, that it was for his sake that he had descended from heaven, commissioned by Jupiter; that a mansion was prepared for him among the Gods; but that he must first repair to Troy, which could not be taken but by means of the bow which he had be queathed to him, and that there only He could be cured of his wounds. He Ye fountains, ye sweet waters, and green fields, Farewell: I leave you to return no more. Lemnos, endeared to me even by my sor rows, Farewell." From this view of the play of Philoctetes, it will appear, that nothing can be more simple than its fable. The stratagems used to decoy him from the island, their failure, and the intervention of a supernatural agency, which for such a purpose is quite unnecessary, form the whole of the plot. The interest of this drama does not then arise out of an intricate and elaborate action. Its whole charm consists in the character, or rather the circumstances, of Philoctetes-the romantic nature of his situation, and the hopelessness of his distress-his helplessness and solitude-his longings after his native country and the society of his kindred-and his pathetic appeals to the rocks, and the valleys, and the mountains of Lemnos, which had become as the friends and companions of his long exile from his fellow men. It would not be easy to conceive a form of distress of which the poet has not availed himself to heighten the picture. The solitary suffers from the excess of bodily pain and extreme infirmity, from famine, and from almost all the privations to which man is exposed; and yet there is no deviation from nature, and the poetry is of exquisite simplicity and beauty. The Greck tragedians had chiefly in view the exhibition of one character in some situation of deep distress, or under the influence of some one of the more violent passions ; and neglected the subordinate personages. There is nothing original in the conception of the characters of Ulysses and Neoptolemus. They are mere copies from Homer, and, like all other copies, fall greatly short of the originals. In Ulysses, wisdom degenerates into low cunning; and Neoptolemus, the son of Achilles, is, like his father, guileless and impetuous: but, in the contemplation of both, the mind is led to their prototypes in Homer, and not to nature. Even in Philoctetes the poet is more studious of making us acquainted with his sufferings, and of exciting our sympathy by them, than of giving an individuality to the portrait to which he has chosen to give that name. It is rather extraordinary that, with the example of Homer before their eyes, whose characters are always men of nature, each marked by his own individual peculiarity,-the Greek tragedians should have often been so careless, or so unsuccessful, in this most important department of dramatic writing. Of Philoctetes I have no notion but what is connected with a certain transaction supposed to have happened in the island of Lemnos. Not so in Shakespeare. Having once seen his characters, I remember them for ever, independent of all situations. They seem to be men and women with whom I have been intimately acquainted, and the scenes in which I have seen them, only a portion of the great drama of life. It is not in the least necessary to my conception of the character of Hamlet that he should be the avenger of his father's murder; but I feel convinced, that if he were so, or expostulated with his mother on her unnatural conduct, he would speak and act exactly as we see him do in the wonderful play that bears his name. He is, in my mind, as much an individual being as Cæsar or Alexander. I could suppose him placed in ten thousand other situations, and should recognise him in all. His sentiments and actions are the result of his character, and never err in consistency. We have a similar example in the character of Sir John Falstaff, whom we are tempted to believe Shakespeare copied from real life, and then invented situations for him; and in every situation there appears so much of the truth of nature, that we could be easily persuaded that the poet is representing an action that really happened. The Greek tragedians are eminently successful in the natural and simple expression of sorrow, and abound in passages of beautiful poetry; but it is in Shakespeare alone that we breathe the atmosphere of real life. He alone unites the accurate observation and faithful delineation of the minutest shades of human character with the divine inspiration of poetry. He alone never declaims, nor ever appears in his own person; and in him alone every character seems to be formed for the place assigned to him, and no other; and expresses his own feelings, and his own sentiments, in his own language, which is always the voice of Nature. MEMOIR OF JAMES GRAHAME, AUTHOR 66 OF THE SABBATH. THE contemplation of superior ex cellence is perhaps the most impressive, as well as interesting, subject of meditation in which the human mind can be engaged. For it is impossible to reflect on exalted virtue, without feeling our own nature improved, or upen extensive acquirements, without being inspired with some degree of emul tion. But when genius is added to these perfections of which our com mon nature is susceptible, the charac ter of the individual is raised to a higher standard of excellence; and while our admiration is increased, we con sider the mind so gifted, as belonging to a superior species of beings, in whom are qualities quite beyond our powers of attainment; and, dazzled by the lus tre by which they are surrounded, we look up to them as from a humbler sphere, with a sort of mysterious ve neration. In the mind, of which 1 am now to attempt a delineation, those powers were so happily blended, produce a result of the most endear ing nature. It is not so much the life, as the character of the Bard of the Sabbath, with which I would make my readers acquainted. In the first there was nothing remarkable, in the latter there was every thing to engage the attention and to amend the heart as to JAMES GRAHAME was born in Glas gow, on the 22d of April 1765, and was there educated in the usual routine ·· of public classes, in which he eminent ly distinguished himself. He wrote some elegant Latin verses when very young; and, although averse to the ap pearance of being particularly studi ous, he was, even then, so ardently de voted to literary pursuits, that he al ways carried a volume of the ancient classics in his pocket, and kept a Greek Testament by his bed-side, with which he employed his wakeful hours. But it was in his domestic education that his mind was chiefly formed, and the seeds of that genuine piety and bene ́volence cultivated, which nature had so liberally planted in his breast. In his parents he was peculiarly happy. His father possessed an enlightened mind, and a heart glowing with unbounded love of his fellow-creatures. From his sentiments respecting American independence, James, at an early age, imbibed that ardent attachment to the cause of liberty, which afterwards formed one of the most striking features of his character. In him it was a liberal and humane sentiment, not an adherence to a particular political party. His mother was the counterpart of this excellent man, and the influence of their virtues spread through the whole family. It was like a welltuned instrument, the chords of which vibrated in perfect unison, producing an effect the most harmonious; the exercise of every endearing domestic virtue was the delight of her life, and her lessons of piety were enforced by example more than by precept. Religious duties appeared in her a delight ful enjoyment, and their effect upon her temper and conduct was an inducement for her children to participate in them. In such a family it is needless to add, that James found companions in his brothers and sisters. To his youngest sister, who was very early married, he felt the most tender at tachment; but betwixt him and the eldest, who was nearer his own age, there subsisted a peculiar affection, from a perfect similarity of taste and pursuits. She excelled in music, to the charms of which he was exquisitely susceptible; and she was not only skilled in the science, but possessed a voice of such touching harmony, that one of the first of our living poets, in the warmth of youthful enthusiasm, used to call her the Angel of Music. Her voice had a power over her brother's feelings inconceivable to common minds. She lost it some time be fore her death, from indisposition. His regret is pathetically expressed in these tender lines, written on revisiting Melrose Abbey. "Alas! I heard that melting voice decay, Heard seraph tones in whispers die away; I marked the tear presageful fill her eye, Aglimmering beam athwart the mighty dead, o'er, To join a long lost friend-and part no more." woman, is also feelingly lamented, in The early death of this admirable a beautiful elegy, by the author of Home,' an esteemed friend of the family. And it is said that Mr Campbell's elegant Stanzas to Painting, were suggested by seeing her portrait after her death. The early propensities of our poet's mind would have led him to the study of divinity, but he was dissuaded from this by his father, who was a writer in Glasgow, and whose eminence and success entitled him to form sanguine expectations for his son in the same profession. James yielded this point with reluctance, for he was not ambitious of wealth, and loved the quiet of the country, the cultivation of literature, and the exercise of the pious and benevolent affections, more than the bustle of public life, and the turmoils of the law. In pursuance, however, of his father's advice, whose slightest wish was always sacred to him, he came to Edinburgh, was entered an appren tice to his cousin, Mr Lawrence Hill, and after the usual period, commenced writer to the signet. He had the misfortune to lose this revered parent about the same time, an event with which his mind was deeply affected, and his desire for the clerical profession again revived; but he was persuaded by his friends, once nation, and he continued to practise as a more to relinquish this favourite incliwriter for several years; finding, however, the duties of this department of the law repugnant to his feelings, and the confinement it required hurtful to his health, he afterwards passed advocate, imagining that the studies which belonged to the bar would al-**** low of a longer vacation, and be more congenial to his taste and favourite pursuits; for literature, particularly poetry, was still the object of his devoted attention, letter m 1012499302 Larodi, brewOnce to #1012299074 to a A profession which corresponds with that of attorney in England. EDITOR. Soon after this, he published in the Kelso Mail, under the signature of Matilda, a succession of beautiful pictures of nature, through several months of the year, beginning with April, which were afterwards extended, and printed in an edition of his works, with the title of "The Rural Calendar." About the year 1800, he wrote Mary Stuart, a tragedy. This latter piece was rather a favourite with the author, and though not adapted to the stage, it contains many fine poetical passages, and must ever be considered an elegant dramatic tale. From a sense of duty, however, he paid all due attention to the labours of his profession, especially after his marriage, which took place in March 1802. He married Miss Grahame, eldest daughter of Richard Grahame, Esq. of Annan, a woman possessed of very superior powers of understanding, and much kindness of heart. On her judgment and affection he relied with unlimited confidence. In political and moral principles they were perfectly congenial; but his poetical propensity she was led to discourage, from an idea that it interfered with his professional duties. On discovering, however, that he was the author of the Sabbath, which his timidity induced him to keep a profound secret even from her, she became convinced, that to check his natural bias to poetry, would be like extinguishing the mental vision that was destined to explore the most interesting beauties of the natural, and the most refined modifications of the moral world; and from that period she was proud of his genius, and deeply interested in its success. The unfavourable review of the Sabbath she was much less willing to excuse than he was himself. He indeed never indulged any displeasure against its author; he loved the man so much, and felt such respect for his critical powers, that he bowed in acquiesence to the decision, and was rather offended with those friends who expressed themselves indignantly upon the occa sion. The extreme delicacy and diffidence of Grahame's character, are strikingly exemplified in some circumstances which attended the first publication of this beautiful poen. None of his friends had the slightest previous intimation or suspicion of its existence. To avoid observation while it was printing, he and his respectable publisher, Mr Pillans, always held their necessary interviews at some tavern, and seldom more than once at the same place. On its publi cation he brought the book home with him, and left it on his parlour table. Returning soon after, he found Mrs Grahame engaged in its perusal; but without venturing to ask her opinion, he continued walking up and down the room in breathless anxiety, till she burst out into the warmest eulogiuns on the performance; adding, “Ah! James, if you could but produce a poem like this!"-The disclosure of the author will readily be anticipated; but the mutual happiness of such moment, when the timid reserve of the poet yielded, in the fulness of delight, to the applause of a judge so respected and beloved, may be better in agined than described. From this time he became stäl more attached to poetry; and at Kirkhill, a beautiful retirement on the banks of the Esk, where he residel during two successive summers, he composed the poem of " The Birds of Scotland." In this neighbourhood were the ruins of the once splendid abode of the sanguinary M'Kenzie, and the humble cottage of John Kilgour, which he has in that poem so interestingly contrasted. the About this period, his original desire of entering into the church revived with irresistible power; and the writer of this Memoir will never forget eager longing with which he surveyed the humble church of Borthwick, on a fine summer evening, when the sun's last rays had gilded the landscape, and rendered every object in nature more sweet and impressive. He cast a look of delighted complacency around the peaceful scene, and said, with an accent of regret, "I wish such a place as that had fallen to my lot." And when it was remarked, that continued retirement might become wearisome, "Oh! no," he replied, "it would be delightful to live a life of usefulness among a simple people, unmolested with petty cares and ceremonies." In the following spring, having riously formed the design of quitting the bar, he left Edinburgh, and, after spending a few months at Annan, pro ceeded to Chester, and from thence to London, where he was ordained by the Bishop of Norwich. He was soon after appointed curate of Shipton in Gloucestershire, at which place he resided with his family for above a year, and then returned to Annan on a visit. While there, St George's Chapel in Edinburgh becoming vacant, he was induced, by the persuasion of his friends, to offer himself a candidate. 20 He came to Edinburgh for that purpose, and preached several times. The performance of his sacred duties was in unison with his character, simple, elegant, and affecting. He evinced, both in his manner and his doctrine, the deepest impression of those important truths he was to explain; but 1 laboured more to inspire his hearers with pious feelings, and to imbue their minds with love, and peace, and charity, than to bewilder their understandings, or dazzle their imaginations. He appeared like the Apostle of Peace, making mankind ashamed of every turbulent and unruly passion. He forgot not the awful justice of his Divine Master; but mercy was the attribute on which he loved to dwell. His appearance, in the robes of his sacred office, was solemn and devout, while the deep tones of a voice, rich in natural pathos, were rendered still more impressive by the pale hue which sickness had spread over his fine features; and he seemed like a messenger sent from Heaven, that was to lead the way to that happier state of living to which he was directing his fellow travellers. His excellence as a preacher was acknowledged; and at one time there appeared to be a majority of the electors in his favour; but, upon the final trial, another candidate was successful. This disappointment was most painful to his friends, who were eager to again enjoy the society of one in whom they so much delighted, but he bore it without a murmur, and replied to the impatient and indignant lamentations of a much interested friend, in the language of meekness and consolation, saying, "It mattered not where we passed our time for a few short years." "Before returning to Annan, he paid a last visit to his respected mother, who resided in Glasgow, and who died soon after. When the affair of St George's chapel was finally settled, he went to Durham, and became a candidate for a minor canonry, but failed there also, as it had been promised to another before he applied. He officiated three months as an interim curate, and was extremely popular; after which he was appointed to the curacy of Sedgefield in that see. In this place he preached before the bishop, who expressed high approbation of him, and warm interest in his favour; but before there was time for any preferment from his lordship's patronage, the bad health to which he had always been subject increased to an alarming degree. Being afflicted with violent headach, and oppressive asthma, he was induced to come to Edinburgh for change of air. He arrived at the house of Mrs Archibald Grahame, his only surviving sister, very much indisposed. He was often agonized with excruciating pain in his head; yet he had intervals of ease, and was able occasionally to see and converse with many of his friends; at which times he evinced all that playful cheerfulness which in former days was so attractive in his manners. He found in this amiable sister a soothing and an attentive nurse; but his malady wearing an alarming aspect, Mrs Grahame joined him in Edinburgh; and on his expressing an ardent desire to go to Glasgow, she accompanied him in his last journey to that place. Though very ill before he set out, and aware of his danger, he did not imagine his dissolution so near; but was animated with the idea of visiting the scenes of his early days and happiest recollections. He even hoped to preach in his native town, and took two sermons for that purpose, the subjects of which bear a striking analogy to the situation of their author; the text of one of them being "O death, where is thy sting?" The victory indeed was soon to be his. He became worse by the way, and two days after, having arrived at WhiteHill, near Glasgow, the residence of his eldest brother, he expired on the 14th of September 1811, in the fortyseventh year of his age. Immediately afterwards, there was published a beautiful monody on his death, peculiarly soothing to the feelings of his friends;-the elegant author seemed to have wandered in his favourite haunts, and to have caught, with affectionate ardour, his very tone of simple pathos and holy enthusiasm. It appeared from the report of the medical attendants, that the complaint in his head had been of many years duration and must have occasioned. gentinaq art glider going pr |