ambition of being serviceable to mankind, should hurry any man away from
the more immediate consideration of the wants and condition of his own family;
for not all the advantages conferred on posterity, nor all the fame that is
trumpeted abroad in his honour, can compensate for a single pang of that
widowed bosom which, from such neglect, may have to endure the keen and
bitter sorrows of unpitied poverty. We say this without disparagement to
the many excellent qualities which distinguished the character of John Hunter,—a name which will be ever highly esteemed in the annals of British surgery.
We cannot, however, conclude this memoir without pausing to notice more fully the estimable qualities of the lady to whom it was his good fortune to be united. She possessed personal attractions of the highest order; "into whatever assembly she entered," says one who appears to have been acquainted with her, "the delicacy of her face, with the commanding grace of her person, gave her a peculiar air of distinction, and seldom failed to attract attention. But she never ascribed to her own merit the notice she received in society; feeling herself the wife of a celebrated man, she was fond of imputing the attention she received to the influence of his character; doing injustice to herself from a generous pride of owing every thing to him; and she never appeared so much gratified by attention as when she supposed it was shown to her for his sake."[1] The same competent authority states, that "during her husband's life they lived in a liberal and hospitable manner. Mr Hunter was too much devoted to science to attend much to his worldly affairs, and too careless of money to be rich. He did not leave his family in affluence, yet so circumstanced that his widow always supported a most respectable appearance, and was visited by the first society." We repeat that we do not think that any man's devotion to science affords the slightest apology or ground of excuse for leaving those to whom he should be bound by the most sacred ties of attachment, in neglected circumstances. On the death of her husband, Mrs John Hunter withdrew from society, and spent her life almost entirely in retirement. After a lingering illness, which she bore with much patience and resignation, she died on 7th January, 1821, in the 79th year of her age, leaving behind her a son and daughter, the former a major in the army, and the latter the widow of general Campbell, son of the late Sir James Campbell of Inverneil.
Besides her many amiable domestic qualifications, to which all who knew her bore testimony, she was exceedingly accomplished; and occasionally during her husband's lifetime, mingled in society with Horace Walpole, Mrs Carter, Mrs Vesey, and other characters well known in the literary world. She sang and played with admirable taste, and had a talent for poetry which she chiefly displayed in the production of songs and poems, which were characterized by much refinement of thought, sensibility of feeling, and delicacy of expression. Among the former, "The Son of Alknomook" and "Queen Mary's Lament," became extremely popular; among the latter, her verses "On November, 1784," a beautiful address to fancy, under the title of "La Douce Chimere," with several other minor poems, display much feeling and imagination.[2] We cannot conclude this memoir more appropriately than by transcribing the following little poem of hers, not that we have selected it as a specimen of her general poetical power, but because it was for the first time published in the Scots Magazine for March, 1821, and may not, on that account, be generally known:—
