to marry the sister of his wife, in the event of procuring any situation that could enable him to support a family. This attachment proved most distressing to both parties; for some unexpected circumstances having broken the ties of that friendship on which he chiefly relied, Macneill, seeing that nothing but misery could result from the marriage, felt himself imperiously called on, by a sense of honour, to tear himself away for ever from the object of his affections.

On the unfortunate termination of this affair, Hector Macneill retired into Argyllshire, and passed some time with his father's relations. He then visited Glasgow, and, through the generosity of a friend and namesake there, was on the eve of entering into a mercantile concern, when the events of the year 1793 overturned the commercial prosperity of that city. He accordingly took up his residence in Edinburgh, having been able again to raise some money on his annuity; but he was now attacked with a severe ner• vous complaint, and for six years suffered inexpressible wretchedness from pain of body and depression of mind. During this dismal night of darkness and disease, he retired to a solitary cottage near St Ninians, Stirlingshire, and there tried to direct his faculties once more to poetry. It was there that he wrote his "Will and Jean," a composition that instantly became popular, in the best sense of the word, and acquired for him that for which his soul had often panted-the reputation of a poet.

The despondency, however, under which he had long laboured, instead of being lightened by applause, deepened at last into despair, and, with a view of trying the effects of a tropical climate, he determined to revisit Jamaica. He there found one of those friends who had formerly been so kind to him, possessed of affluence, and, in consequence of his brother's death, disposed to return to his native country. This generous man insisted on settling a small annuity on his friend, in obedience to wishes often expressed by his deceased brother; and in a few months they set sail together for Britain, where Macneill arrived with improved health and spirits, and with the prospect of passing the remainder of his days in serenity and comfort. During his absence too, his poetical fame had great

ly increased, for he was looked on at his departure as a dying man, and his poems had been read with that kind of pathetic interest which breathes from the memorials of departed genius. The booksellers now became his friends, and he received a moderate sum for the copy-right of his various poetical productions. His medical friend in Jamaica, who died about this time, bequeathed to him one half of his little property; and he soon afterwards, by the death of his son, acquired a farther addition to his fortune. His circumstances were now easy, and he continued, till the day of his death, free from those distressing embarrassments, in which, spite of all his talents and activity, he had been almost constantly involved, till he was upwards of fifty years of age. His residence was fixed, for the last fifteen years of his life, at Edinburgh; and he enjoyed, in its enlightened society, the respect and friendship of all who knew him-and, though he wrote but little poetry, continued assiduously to pursue, in serene retirement, those elegant studies, which he had never lost sight of in the most turbulent and distracting scenes of an adventurous and checkered life. He died the 15th of March 1818, having, for a considerable time, suffered much from a general decay of the primary powers of nature.

From this sketch of the life of Hector Macneill, it will be seen that, from early boyhood, till that season when the imagination, in some measure, is deadened or decays, he had but few intervals of undisturbed leisure and serenity, during which he could devote himself to the impulses of his poetical genius. Indeed, his whole life, till he was far advanced in years, was a ceaseless struggle with adversity; and a mind which unquestionably was framed by nature for the enjoyment of all liberal pursuits, was kept too constantly filled and agitated by anxiety and care. In estimating, therefore, his poetical character, and the merit of his writings, it is necessary that we hold in view the many unfavourable circumstances under which that poetical character grew, and those writings were composed. When we do so, we feel at once that Macneill was a man of genius. We perceive the flashingsthe outbreakings of a true poetical spirit, through those clouds that so long enveloped it-and, independently of

their intrinsic beauty, which is often very great, his productions have a strong charm about them, as the effusions of an original and feeling mind escaping gladly from the necessities of life into the delightful world of the imagination.

The poem on which his reputation chiefly rests is "Scotland's Skaith, or the History of Will and Jean." It took at once a strong hold on the affections and feelings of the people of Scotland; and will, without doubt, retain its place among our national poetry, in the same rank with the best compositions of Burns. It is indeed a most beautiful narrative ballad, finely and delicately conceived-simply and gracefully expressed. Nothing can be better than the picture there drawn of the happy life and interesting character of the Scottish peasantry-and great skill is shewn in describing, without the slightest coarseness or vulgarity, the degradation of that life and character by wretchedness and vice. A ballad so true to nature, and so full of instruction, cannot be unimportant to the cause of morality-and, as it has an existence in the hearts of the people, there can be no doubt that it has often joined its influence with other causes to guard the young from the insidious approaches of that vice, whose ruinous effects it so pathetically describes and deplores. The praise of this poem is not now, perhaps, much heard in book-shops or literary coteries-but it lives in the memory of many thousand virtuous hearts, who feel, ignorant and poor though they may be, the sanctity of their own small household-and cherish, with enthusiastic love, that poetry, in which are recorded their own simple annals. This is a kind of poetry in which Scotland is rich-which springs out of that impressive system of domestic life which her population alone enjoys-and which, in the works of Ramsay, and Burns, and Fergusson, and Macneill, and the Ettrick Shepherd, serves to connect the moral being of the lower ranks of society with that of the very highest in the land, by the bonds of a deep and common sympathy.

The genius of Hector Macneill also shone with peculiar beauty in his various little lyrical compositions, and songs breathed to the touching music of his country. Many of these songs have become part of our national ly

ries, and it would not be easy to find any superior to some of them in simplicity and tenderness, and, above all, in that unity of feeling which is essential to such poetry. There are exhibited in them many specimens of that mingled gayety and pathos which seems to mark the passion of love in all simple states of society; they are distinguished from the songs of real shepherds, only by the ornaments of Art working in the spirit of Natureand have often been sung by the maiden at her wheel, as songs of former days framed by some bard in lowly life. Our limits prevent us from quoting any of them at present, but we refer our readers to "Donald and Flora," "Mary of Castle-Cary," "The Rose of Kirtle," "The Lammie," "Come under my Plaidy," "O tell me how for to woo," "Jeanie's Black Ee," &c.

Of Hector Macneill we have now shortly spoken as a Poet-we could also with pleasure speak of him as a Man. His high sense of honour-his unbending integrity—and his unostentatious spirit of independence, were well known to all who enjoyed his friendship. It may be, that he was occasionally proud and fastidious overmuch, and that his temper had slightly felt the fretful influence of disappointment and misfortune-but these were faults easily overlooked and forgiven in one of so much sterling worth, so many accomplishments, and so fine a genius. He was a sincere friend, and a fascinating companion; and when his mind was perfectly serene and happy, in the absence of those nervous complaints to which he was always subject, he delighted all companies by the liveliness of his illustrations, the originality of his remarks, and a boundless fund of curious and characteristic anecdote.

CHATEAU OF COPPET.

LETTER THIRD.

Lausanne, 3d September. THAT enthusiastic love of her native land, for which Madame de Staël was so remarkable, excited in her the strongest desire of returning to it, notwithstanding her courage and her resolutions. After being convinced, however, of the impossibility of doing so,

she resolved to pass into England, there to breathe the air of liberty, the only atmosphere indeed which agreed with her.

Among all the states of Europe, England stood highest in Madame de Staël's esteem, both on account of its institutions and the character of its inhabitants.

She thus renounced her residence at Coppet, quitting it by stealth, dreading obstacles which might have been thrown in the way of her departure. I was with her at the time, and I think I never saw any thing so sad as the preparations for setting out. They were made secretly, and she forebore to speak of them, the better to conceal the anguish she experienced. This was indeed severe, for she had then reason to fear that her absence might be for ever; and who was ever able to bid a last adieu to the abode of his ancestors without shedding tears of sorrow? In our day, so many have experienced this misfortune, that its nature is fully understood. At Coppet, Madame de Staël left the shade of her father, and the neighbourhood of France; of that France, so famous for its virtues, its crimes, and its achievements.

At this period it was difficult to reach England. Madame de Staël crossed over Germany, in order to go into Russia, without knowing whether she should embark on the Baltic or the Black Sea, for these were now the only seas which were free. She decided however for the north, notwithstanding the attraction which the countries of the east held out to her imagination.

This long journey was completed during the campaign of Moscow. At St Petersburgh she witnessed the discouragement of the Russians, and the return of that energy, which the firmness of the monarch restored to the nation. There she maintained the doctrine of resistance as noble in itself, and as the only means of saving

the world.

Quitting the capital of Russia, as the season advanced, she embarked for Stockholm, the flames of Moscow illuminating her departure. Whatever was now to be the issue of this great event, it was truly awful, as being in fact more colossal than the world on which it was passing. Every nation of Europe had marched towards the Pole,

against the will of Heaven, and in these regions, disasters were already foreseen, from which the French alone seemed to conceive themselves exempted; as if Providence had promised an eternal flight to their eagles.

Madame de Staël passed the winter at Stockholm. There she had frequent opportunities of seeing the Crown Prince, having been formerly on terms of intimacy with him. They canvassed the necessity, and, above all, the possibility of opposing a successful resistance to the destructive designs of Bonaparte. At this period indeed, she exercised a marked influence over the political events of Europe. It had therefore been safer for Bonaparte to have allotted her a residence at Paris than on the frozen ocean; but, happily for the world, tyrants are apt to commit mistakes as well as good men.

After a gloomy winter, during which Madame de Staël's health had suffered from the severity of the climate, she departed for England. There she could enjoy that liberty of which she had been so long deprived; and she did enjoy it, thanks to that spirit which renders it almost as difficult to destroy liberty in England as to establish it elsewhere.

While in England, she published her work on Germany; a work which Bonaparte had seized, because in it she urged the Germans to escape from their historical insignificance, by having recourse to deeds, of which they were so sparing, in place of words, of which they were so prodigal. He had caused it be seized, because every line of it breathed forth the dignity and independence of man, both of which it was in the nature of his system to proscribe.

This work, of a graver cast than Corinne, has added to modern science a very extensive domain, which I shall denominate the Natural History of Nations. Madame de Staël has given us the key to this science, which, in point of importance, ought surely to rank far above that of reptiles and birds.

The sciences have always owed their origin to some great spirit. Smith created political economy-Linnæus, botany--Lavoisier, chemistry--and Madame de Staël has, in like manner, created the art of analysing the spirit of nations, and the springs which move them. To whatever extent the

advancement of this science may, in the course of time, be pushed, the glory of having been its author must ever remain with Madame de Staël.

Her merits, in this respect, will be more gratefully acknowledged by posterity than by her contemporaries. These have not much relished the picture she has drawn of them. Indeed, we always believe ourselves more beautiful than our portraits represent us; and nations who read their history are apt to exclaim, like one of my neighbours, while contemplating his face in a looking-glass, Heavens! how very ugly these mirrors do make

one."

Madame de Staël's political opinions were confirmed during her residence in England, by habitual intercourse with the Mackintoshes, Lansdownes, and Horners, those heirs of liberty, whose numbers are, alas! so alarmingly decreasing.

She had hardly been a year in England when she beheld the downfall of an empire, which the will of Heaven had raised up and cast down to serve as an example to mankind.

After the restoration, Madame de Staël returned to Paris. That event seemed a recompense to humanity for all she had suffered. It was the nations of the north who came in their turn, as by a miracle, to establish the peace of the world, and to preserve its civilization. In those institutions which the King had just accorded to the wishes of France, she recognised the political principles in which she had been nursed, and the predominance of which she had, from the commencement of the revolution, sighed for in vain.

She now eagerly attached herself to those institutions so conformable to her views and her wishes. She was happy, too, at finding herself in that city where her life had dawned; and where she regained her friends of all ages and of all countries, whom the peace attracted to Paris, as to a general rendezvous.

Fatigued, however, by so much travelling, she quitted the French capital sooner than might have been expected, and being now free to choose her residence, she came to enjoy the repose of Coppet. She returned to inhabit that dwelling which time had rendered pleasant, and with which were associated the image and the remembrance VOL. IV.

of her father. I there saw her again. She was ever the same; for, in the whole course of her life, neither her sentiments nor her opinions changed. These opinions merely acquired additional strength, as experience rendered her more certain of the facts on which they were founded.

Crowds of foreigners now thronged her house. They came to see and to hear her whose every word darted light into the mind: they came thither also to enjoy happiness under her hospitable roof. I too have often resided under it, and the time I spent there was the happiest of my life. It was not merely that one found in it more knowledge and more wit than might be met with elsewhere; but I was happy because that knowledge and that wit were never employed to diminish the pleasure of existence. Kind good-nature and gayety were alike welcome there. The imagination was always occupied, and the soul experienced that happy feeling which inspires contempt for every thing base, and love for all that is noble.

Lord Byron was one day announced. It was natural that the most distinguished female of our age should desire to know the only poet who has found the poetic muse in our day. Madame de Staël was well acquainted with English, and could appreciate Lord Byron in his own tongue. He occupied a country house opposite to Coppet, on the other side of the Lake of Geneva. To come thither he crossed that lake, whose aspect inspired his muse with the Prisoner of Chillon.

Madame de Staël, now in a very ailing state, returned to Paris in the month of September 1816. It was there that this brilliant meteor ceased to shed her life-giving rays on every society. As her soul surpassed her physical strength, she enjoyed, till her last moment, that world which she loved so well, and which will so long regret her; for all places may be filled up but hers, which must ever remain empty.

I had quitted her in the spring to go into Italy, having no idea that we should lose her so soon. There was in her so much of the spirit of life, that half a century seemed insufficient to consume it. I know that, even down to the last days of her life, her house was the centre of union for every thing distinguished in Paris. She knew 2N

how to draw out the wit of every one, and those who had but little, might of fer that little, without fear, as she never despised it, provided it was natural. Her soul gave and received all impressions. In the midst of two hundred persons, she was in communication with all, and would successively animate twenty different groups. There she exercised the empire of superiority, which no one dared contest with her. The ascendancy of her presence put folly to silence; the wicked and the foolish alike concealed themselves before her. In this way Madame de Staël was not only valuable to society for what she did, but for what she prevented.

It was indeed a remarkable blessing of Providence, the having imparted so much talent to a woman. It was the first time we had seen such a phenomenon. As a woman, Madame de Staël has exercised an influence upon her age, so much the greater, that the laws of society could not oppose her, because the existence of such a woman had not been anticipated. Madame de Staël was thus able to possess, with impunity, a greater elevation, more eloquence, and more character, than a man could have done in her situation; and for this reason, that she dared to tell the truth, a degree of boldness which men seldom possess, being subject to too many tribunals.

I returned from Italy somewhat uneasy at the news we had there received of Madame de Staël, but without being much alarmed by them. I ap

tarily upon my recollection. I thought of it the more keenly, on seeing the domestics in mourning, who were the same I had then known. They took no notice of me, and I remained in the lobby.

I saw the coffin descend, borne by the principal inhabitants of the village, for these old men would not yield up the privilege of carrying her mortal remains to that tomb where her father awaited her. Their's was no desire to pay homage to her renown, (for of what importance was that to them?) but to her who had ever been forward to do them kind offices, and who was an object of their love on account of her worth.

Her children, her relations, her friends followed the procession. It had nothing of solemnity but the silence of grief. Foreigners who had never been acquainted with her, lined the way, and bore evidence of the regret of the whole world.

Her coffin was placed at the foot of that where her father reposes, in a monument which he had erected to unite in the same tomb whatever he best loved. This narrow dwelling, which will no more be opened, contains the mortal remains of these friends, whom so strong an affection had linked together. They have again met in heaven, but nothing can replace them on earth.

TRISTAN D'ACUNHA, &c.

thereof.

[Mid way, in the Southern Atlantic, be zil coast, are situated a small group of three tween the Cape of Good Hope and the Braislands, named Tristan d'Acunha, after the Portuguese admiral who first discovered them. Nothing can be more wild and dismal than the aspect of these islands; and in stormy weather, which is common in the

I entered by the door of the vestibule which was open. I passed in front of that very theatre in which I had been ten years before; the curtain was down, but that day of emotion, of success, and of life, rushed involun

winter season, a tremendous sea roars and foams against the rocky shores. The names given to the three islands are, Tristan d'A cunha,--Inaccessible,--and Nightingale Islands, the two latter of which are so wild and rugged as to defy all approach.

EDITOR.]

TRISTAN d'ACUNHA is about seven leagues in circumference, of a square shape, formed by hilly ridges with deep vallies, and appears to have originated from a volcanic eruption. The only