g little work
from which we have drawn our materials. It is edited by the surviving
Bethune, the brother and biographer of the poet, and both a vigorous
writer and a worthy man. There are several of the passages which it
comprises of his composition; among the rest, the very striking
passage with which the memoir concludes, and in which he adds a few
additional facts illustrative of his grandmother's character, and
describes her personal appearance. The description will remind our
readers of one of the more graphic pictures of Wordsworth, that of the
stately dame on whose appearance the poet remarks quaintly, but
significantly,

'Old times are living there.'

'From the date of her birth,' says Alexander Bethune, 'it will be seen
that she (Annie M'Donald) was in her ninety-fourth year at the time of
her death. In person she was spare; and ere toil and approaching age
had bent her frame, she must have been considerably above the middle
size. Even after she was far advanced in life, there was in her
appearance a rigidity of outline and a sinewy firmness which told of
no ordinary powers of endurance. There was much of true benevolence in
the cast of her countenance; while the depth of her own Christian
feelings gave an expression of calm yet earnest sympathy to her eye,
which was particularly impressive. Limited as were her resources, she
had been a regular contributor to the Bible and Missionary Societies
for a number of years previous to her death. Nor was she slow to
minister to the necessities of others according to her ability.
Notwithstanding the various items thus disposed of during the latter
part of her life, she had saved a small sum of money, which at her
death was left to her unmarried daughters.'

The touching description of the poet we must also subjoin. No one can
read it without feeling its truth, or without being convinced that, to
be thoroughly true in the circumstances, was to be intensely poetical.
The recollection of such a relative affectionately retained was of
itself poetry.

MY GRANDMOTHER.

Long years of toil and care,
And pain and poverty, have passed
Since last I listened to her prayer,
And looked upon her last;
Yet how she spoke, and how she smiled
Upon me, when a playful child--
The lustre of her eye--
The kind caress--the fond embrace--
The reverence of her placid face,--
All in my memory lie
As fresh as they