SECTION IV.—CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRNE.

BIOGRAPHY.

Anne Louisa Germaine Necker, was born at Paris, April 22nd, 1766. Her father was the celebrated M. Necker, finance minister of Louis XVI., in the times immediately preceding the revolution. Her mother was the daughter of a Protestant clergyman, and would have been the wife of Gibbon, had not the father of the future historian threatened his son with disinheritance if he persisted in wooing a bride whose dowry consisted only of her own many excellencies. Few children have come into the world under more favourable auspices. She had wise parents, liberal culture, intellectual friends, ample fortune, splendid talents, and good health. Her favourite amusement during childhood consisted in cutting out paper kings and queens, and making them act their part in mimic life. Her mother did not approve of this, but found it as difficult to stop her daughter from such play, as it was to prevent men and women, some years after, from playing with kings and queens not made of paper.

The training of their only child was to both parents a matter of immense importance. Her talents were precociously developed, and whilst yet the merest girl, she would listen with eager and intelligent interest to the conversation of the eminentsavanswho constantly visited her father’s house. Without opening her mouth she seemed to speak in her turn, so much expression had her mobile features. When only ten years old she conceived the idea of marrying her mother’s early lover, that he might be retained near her parents, both of whom delighted in his company.At the age of twelve she amused herself in writing comedies.

Perhaps Mademoiselle Necker lost nothing by having no regular tutor. The germs of knowledge once fairly implanted, an intellect like hers may, like the forest sapling, be left to its own powers of growth. Roaming through the rural scenes of St. Ouen, her mind was enriching itself by observation and reflection. Circumstances which would have depressed multitudes only quickened her. She turned all things to account. Her power of mental assimilation was extraordinary.

In 1786, Mademoiselle Necker was married to the Baron de Staël-Holstein, Swedish ambassador at the court of Paris. The young Swede was a Protestant, amiable, handsome, courtly, and a great favourite with royalty. What more could the most fastidious require? It was not fashionable to put intellectual features in the bond. Perhaps had she been thirty instead of twenty years old, even in France, where the filial virtues to a large extent nullify the conjugal, no motherly persuasion nor fatherly approval would have induced her to marry a dull, unimaginative man like Baron de Staël, for whom she felt no kind of affection. After a few years a separation took place between them, two sons and a daughter having been meantime the fruit of their union. In France a wife may withdraw from her husband on the plea of saving her fortune for her children, and if unprincipled enough, console herself with another whose society she prefers. Madame de Staël was incapable of becominggalante.

On her marriage she opened her saloons, and herposition, wealth, and wit attracted to them the most brilliant inhabitants of Paris. At first she does not seem to have attained any remarkable degree of celebrity. She was too much of a genius. Paris was full of anecdotes about her foibles and infringements of etiquette. About this time too she began to produce those wonderful books which form an era in the history of modern literature, and which demonstrate that in intellectual endowment she had no compeer among her sex. As might be expected in a disciple of Rousseau, she cherished great expectations in reference to the French revolution of 1789; but soon ceased to admire a movement which discarded her beloved father, and began its march towards a reign of terror.

Madame de Staël suffered dreadfully during the period that Maximilien Robespierre headed the populace in the Champ de Mars. All the brilliant society to which she had been accustomed from the cradle were proscribed, or hiding in holes or corners of the city they had made so glorious. Liberty, the theme of her childish pen, had been metamorphosed into a bloodthirsty tyrant. Before midnight on the 9th of August, 1792, the forty-eight tocsins of the sections began to sound. Madame de Staël might have secured her own safety by a flight into Switzerland, but she could not leave Paris while her friends were in danger, and she might be of use to them. The words “Swedish Embassy,” on her door, gave her some security. By her passionate eloquence and consummate diplomacy she saved M. de Narbonne, and several other distinguished persons. On the morning of the 2nd of September, she set out from Paris in all the state of an ambassadress. In a few minutes her carriage was stopped,her servants overpowered, and she herself compelled to drive to the Hotel de Ville. When she alighted, one fiend in human shape made a thrust at her, and she was saved from death only by the policeman who accompanied her. She was taken before Robespierre, and her carriage might have been torn to pieces and herself murdered, but for the interference of a republican named Manuel, who on a former occasion had felt the power of her eloquence. Next day Manuel sent her a policeman to escort her to the frontier, and thus Madame de Staël escaped to Coppet.

Early in 1793, she went to England, and took up her residence at Juniper Hall, near Richmond, Surrey. No one has been able to assign a very distinct reason for this journey. Perhaps she came simply to breathe the air of liberty, and to become better acquainted with a country she had always loved. At all events, she became the centre of a little colony of French emigrants. Among the refugees were many illustrious people. Their funds were not in a flourishing condition, but they managed to purchase one small carriage, and ex-ministers took their turn to act as footmen, when they rode out to see the country. The little party was soon scattered. In the summer of 1793, Madame de Staël rejoined her father in Switzerland. At Coppet she devoted her great energy to the succour of exiles, and the reconciliation of France and England.

The earliest intercourse between Madame de Staël and Napoleon Bonaparte occurred between his return from Italy and his departure for Egypt, towards the end of 1797. At first she submitted as willingly as France—as indeed the whole world, to the fascinationof his genius; but she was one of the earliest to discover that he was merely a skilful chess-player, who had chosen the human race as his adversary, and expected to checkmate it. She expressed her opinions openly and with all the force for which she was celebrated, and they left upon the first man of the day many unpleasant impressions. The future emperor gathered something from his brother Joseph concerning the principles of the most popular saloon in Paris, and watched for an opportunity to get rid of such an influential foe. Her father wrote a book which gave great umbrage. It was not deemed safe to touch him; but he who was reckoned the greatest hero of the modern world, was cowardly enough to visit the sin of the father upon the daughter; and so Madame de Staël was informed that her presence would be tolerated in Paris no longer. In 1802, she was exiled from France itself. Rejoining her sick husband, she closed his eyes in death at Poligny, and became an eligible widow.

The death of her father in 1804, recalled her to Coppet. Subsequently, she was permitted to return to Paris. But fresh difficulties occurred with Napoleon, and she was banished anew to Coppet. In 1808, the Baron de Staël, secured an interview with the master of the world, and pleaded eloquently on behalf of his mother. The inexorable deliverance of the emperor is too characteristic and amusing to be omitted. “Let her go to Rome, Naples, Vienna, Berlin, Milan, Lyons; if she wants to publish libels, let her go to London. I should think of her with pleasure in any of those cities; but Paris, you see, is where I live myself, and I want none but those wholove me there.” The Baron de Staël renewed his entreaties. “You are very young; if you were as old as I, you would judge more accurately; but I like to see a son pleading for his mother. If I had put her in prison, I would liberate her, but I will not recall her from exile. Every one knows that imprisonment is misery; but your mother need not be miserable when all Europe is left to her.” The man of destiny acted on the dictate of a sound prudential policy. A woman so uncompromising and fearless—of such weight of genius and reputation—was not to be tolerated in Paris by the head of a government more or less the sport of the hour.

During this stay at Coppet she made the acquaintance (1810) of a young Italian of good family named Rocca, who had fought in the French army in Spain, and had gone to Geneva to recover from his wounds. The young officer of hussars, aged twenty-five, worshipped Madame de Staël; and she, a mature matron of forty-six, married him, but the marriage was kept secret, in order, it is said, that she should not be obliged to change her celebrated name.

Napoleon having banished Schlegel, the eminent German poet and critic (who had accompanied her in her travels and been tutor to her son), and subjected herself to a pettysurveillance, she rushed restlessly over Europe to Vienna, Moscow, St. Petersburgh, thence through Finland to Stockholm. In 1813, she arrived in England, and was the lion, or lioness, of at least one London season, the whig aristocracy fêting her, and Sir James Mackintosh trumpeting her praises in theEdinburgh Review. She was celebrated for the persecutions she had endured, and as the only personof note who had stood firm against Napoleon to the last.

At the Restoration, she returned to her beloved Paris. From Louis XVIII. she met with the most gracious reception; and restitution was made to her of two million livres long due to her father from the royal treasury. But her old foe was only caged. He broke the bars of his prison, cleared the inconstant court in a few hours, was hailed by the army and the people, and spared none who had taken part in the restoration. “I felt,” she says, “when I heard of his coming, as if the ground yawned beneath my feet.” In the spring of 1816, she was at Coppet, the centre of a brilliant circle, with Lord Byron near her at the Villa Diodati. To Madame de Staël, Paris was the centre of the world, and accordingly in the autumn of this year we find her there again, the lady-leader of the Constitutionalists. In her saloon might have been seen Wellington and Blucher, Humboldt and Châteaubriand, Sismondi and Constant, the two Schlegels, Canova the sculptor, and Madame Recamier, whom the defeat of Napoleon had once more restored to liberty.

But she did not long enjoy the society of the metropolis which she loved so well. In February, 1817, she was seized with a violent fever. On her deathbed she said to Châteaubriand, “I have loved God, my father, and liberty.” The royal family were constant inquirers after her health, and the Duke of Wellington called daily at her door to ask if hope might yet remain. At two o’clock on Monday, the 14th July, she died in perfect peace, at the age of fifty-one. The day of her death was the anniversary of the Revolution which had exerted so great an influence on her life.

She died at Paris, but her dust was laid beside the dust of her father at Coppet. Perhaps no one ever felt more strongly the stirrings of the soul within than Madame de Staël. So long as genius and patriotism and piety can excite the admiration of the world, so long will her tomb be one of the holiest shrines of the imagination.

ANALYSIS OF WRITINGS.

Madame de Staël may be safely pronounced the greatest writer who has yet appeared among women. At an early age, she applied herself to literary composition, and produced several plays and tales. To the elements of genius, intellect, intelligence, and imagination, God added the vehemence of passion, and she became the highest representative of female authorship. We humbly submit that it is impossible to read her incomparable works without feeling the soul elate, and seeing a glory not of earth shed over this mortal scene. A philosophy profounder than the philosophy of the schools is the imperishable legacy she has left to posterity. She wrote neither to please nor to surprise, but to profit others; and whatever may be the faults or defects of her writings, they have this greatest of all merit,—intense, life-pervading, and life-breathing truth.

In 1788, on the eve of the Revolution, she issued her first work of note, the eloquent and enthusiastic “Lettres sur les Ecrits et le Caractère de J. J. Rousseau.” These letters are, however, rather a girlish eulogy than a just and discriminating criticism. The news of the king’s execution on the 21st of January, 1793,inexpressibly shocked her; and in the month of August she sought to save the life of the queen, by publishing “Réflexions sur le Procès de la Reine, par une Femme.” In this appeal, which deserves to rank among the classics of the human race, her first word is to her own sex. She then refers to her illustrious client’s devotion to her husband and children; labours to show that the death of the queen would be prejudicial to the republic; then draws a picture of what she must have suffered during her imprisonment, and argues that, if guilty, she has been sufficiently punished. Her pleadings for the fallen queen were too late to be effective. In 1794, she issued a pamphlet, entitled “Réflexions sur la Paix, adressées à M. Pitt et aux Français.” The stand-point of this spiritedbrochureis that of a friend of Lafayette, the Constitutionalists of France, and a British Foxite. The next pamphlet she published, was in 1795: “Réflexions sur la Paix Intérieure.” It is a valuable contribution to the political history of the times; but as it was never sold to the public, we shall not dwell upon it. This year also, she published at Lausanne, under the title “Recueil de Morceaux Détachés,” a collection of her juvenile writings. This work manifests an intimate knowledge of the principal romances, not only of France, but of Europe. In the summer of 1796, her work—“De l’Influence des Passions sur le Bonheur des Individus et des Nations,” a work full of originality and genius. She treated first of the passions; then of the sentiments which are intermediate between the passions and the resources which we find in ourselves; and finally, of the resources which we find in ourselves. Here she first revealed her almost unequalled poweras a delineator of the human passions. In 1800, she published, “De la Littérature Considérée dans ses Rapports avec les Institutions sociales.” This work must take an abiding place in the history of the female mind. Few, if any, of her contemporaries of the male sex could have executed it; and none of her own sex could have planned it. “Delphine” was published in 1802. This romance greatly increased her reputation; although subjected to much adverse criticism. But far superior to it in every respect was “Corinne,” which appeared in 1807, and which breathes in every page the glowing and brilliant Italy which it partly paints. Its success was instant and immense, and won for her a really European reputation. “De l’Allemagne,” was printed at Paris in 1810, but not published. The whole edition was seized by the police; the plea afterwards given for its suppression being that it was an anti-national work. Several years afterwards, it was published in London. This celebrated work consists of four parts: Germany, and the German manners; literature and the arts; philosophy and morals; religion and enthusiasm. Sir James Mackintosh considered it the most elaborate and masculine production of the faculties of woman. It exhibits throughout an almost unparalleled union of graceful vivacity and philosophical ingenuity, and, according to Goethe, broke down the Chinese wall of prejudice which separated the rest of Europe from the fruitful and flowery empire of German thought and imagination. Her unfinished and posthumous book—“Dix Années d’Exil,” was an impassioned denunciation of Napoleon and his arbitrary rule. The whole was evidently written under a galling sense of oppressionand wrong. The famous work, “Considérations sur la Revolution Française,” was also posthumous.

From this necessarily imperfect analysis of Madame de Staël’s writings, it will be seen that she was endowed in the very “prodigality of heaven” with genius of a creative order, with boundless fertility of fancy, with an intellect of intense electric light, with a tendency to search out the very quintessence of feeling, and with an eloquence of the most impassioned kind. “She couldmountup with wings as an eagle, she couldrunand not be weary, she couldwalkand not be faint.”

CHARACTER OF MADAME DE STAËL.

We enjoy the immense advantage of studying Madame de Staël from a distance that is neither too great nor too little; but she presents so many sides, that it would be presumption on our part to expect to render anything like a full and true portrait. She had a good physical constitution, which is of far more importance than many clever people seem to imagine. Her personal appearance was plain; she had no good feature but her eyes. Yet by her astonishing powers of speech she made herself even more than agreeable. Years increased her charms. Her beauty—if we may so call it—was of the kind which improves with time.

Madame de Staël had a vast intellect and a burning nature—the sensibility of a woman and the strength of a giant. She has been said to resemble Mrs. Thrale in the ardour and warmth of her partialities. M. L. Chénier, Benjamin Constant, M. de Bonald, M.Villemain, M. Sainte-Beuve, have each in his turn testified admiration of her brilliant capacity, almost always oratorical, and especially distinguished by an unrivalled superabundance and movement and ardour of thought. Napoleon Bonaparte feared her more than any of his talking and writing opponents. “Why do you take any notice of her? surely you need not mind a woman!” “That woman has shafts which would reach a man if he were mounted on a rainbow!”

There is little to be said against her. There is no doubt of her vanity—but she had something to be vain of. The concealment of her second marriage was foolish; but she confessed it upon her deathbed to her children, and recommended to their protection the young child that had been its fruit. Yet blame her for these faults as we may, we must still admire her, as an affectionate daughter, a devoted wife, and a loving mother; as a leader of society, and yet free from its vices. She was noted for candour, integrity, and kindness. French by birth, Swiss by lineage, Swedish by marriage, English, German, Italian, and Spanish by the adoptive power of sympathy and knowledge, she belonged rather to Europe than to France, and after French writers have done their best, there will still remain points of view which only a non-Frenchman can seize and occupy.

SECTION IV.—CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRNE.

“For winning simplicity, graceful expression, and exquisite pathos, her compositions are specially remarkable; but when her muse prompts to humour, the laugh is sprightly and overpowering.”

Charles Rogers, LL.D.

WHAT IS POETRY?

It is much easier to give a negative than a positive answer to this question. All that we seem to have arrived at is,Poeta nascitur non fit; and that no amount or kind of culture can bestow the divine afflatus. Hesiod, in his “Theogony,” exhibits the Muses in the performance of their highest functions, singing choral hymns to their Heavenly Father, but gives no proper definition of poetry. Aristotle, in his treatise on “The Poetic,” does not explain its essence, but merely its principal forms. Dr. Johnson has attempted to define poetry in these words: “Poetry is the art of uniting pleasure with truth, by calling imagination to the aid of reason.” But it is well known that poetry often unites pleasure to what is not truth. According to Dr. Blair, “Poetry is the language of passion or enlivened imagination, formed most commonly into regular numbers.” This seems a pretty near approach to a true definition. Still it is defective, for there are parts of poetry which are not included either under “passion or enlivened imagination.” Competent critics will admit that a true definition seizes and exhibits the distinctive element and speciality of the thing defined; andtried by this test every definition we are acquainted with fails in doing the very thing required—determining what may be called the “differential mark” of poetry. Perhaps this question, which has so long puzzled the literary world, may be incapable of a categorical answer, but it seems to us essentially to consist of fine thoughts, deeply felt, and expressed in vivid and melodious language. Poets and poetesses see farther than other people, feel more deeply, and utter what they see and feel better. All history testifies that the poetry which has come down to us most deeply stamped with approbation, and which appears most likely to see and glorify the ages of the future, has been penetrated and inspired by moral purpose, and warmed by religious feeling. Our great kings and queens of song, are alike free from morbid weakness, moral pollution, and doubtful speculation. Such only may hope to send their names down, in thunder and in music, through the echoing aisles of the future. All lasting fame must rest on a good foundation.

BIOGRAPHY.

The maiden name of the subject of this sketch was Carolina Oliphant. She was the third daughter and fifth child of Laurence Oliphant, Esq., of Gask, Perthshire, who had espoused his cousin Margaret Robertson, a daughter of Duncan Robertson, of Strowan, and his wife a daughter of the second Lord Nairne. The Oliphants of Gask were cadets of the formerly noble house of Oliphant; whose ancestor, Sir William Oliphant, of Aberdalgie, a powerfulknight, acquired distinction in the beginning of the fourteenth century by defending the castle of Stirling, against a formidable siege by the first Edward. Carolina was born in the mansion house of Gask, on the 16th of July, 1766. Her father was so keen a Jacobite, that she, along with other two of his children, were named after Prince Charles Edward. Even the Prayer-Books which he put into his children’s hands had the names of the exiled family pasted over those of the reigning one. He could not bear the name of the “German lairdie and his leddy,” to be mentioned in his presence, and when any of the family read the newspapers to him, the reader was sharply reproved if their majesties were designated anything else than the “K—— and Q——.” The antecedents of the family naturally produced this strong feeling. Carolina’s father and grandfather had borne arms under Prince Charles in the fatal campaign of 1745-6, which crushed for ever the hopes of the Stuarts; and her grandmother had a lock from the hair of the young Chevalier, which was given to her the day it was cut.

The childhood of Carolina Oliphant was thus passed amidst family traditions eminently fitted to stir her warm imagination. Not only so, the natural surroundings of her home were of the kind to nourish the poetic faculty. It was the

“Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,Land of the mountain and the flood,”

“Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,

Land of the mountain and the flood,”

where green vales bedeck the landscape with verdure and beauty; farmhouses stand half-way up the braes, shadowed with birches; and old castles frown infeudal dignity. Amid such magic scenes, Miss Oliphant grew into that loving familiarity with nature in all its various moods, which imparts to her verses one of their many charms. She entered eagerly into all the pleasures which the world can afford its votaries. So energetic was she in her gaiety, that “finding at a ball, in a watering-place, that the ladies were too few for the dance, she drove home, and awoke a young friend at midnight, and stood in waiting till she was equipped to follow her to the dance.”

But although no mere selfish, frivolous, fine lady, bent solely upon her own enjoyments, yet it might be said of her, “one thing thou lackest.” That best gift, however, was soon to be hers. The kingdom of heaven was brought near to her, and through grace, unlike the young man in the gospel, she did not turn away because of her possessions. “She was on a visit to the old castle of Murthly, where an English clergyman had also arrived. He was a winner of souls. At morning worship she was in her place with the household, and listened to what God’s ambassador said on the promise, ‘Him that cometh unto Me I will in no wise cast out.’ That forenoon she was seen no more. When she appeared again her beautiful face was spoiled with weeping. Beneath the eye of faith, how does the aspect of all things change! She had caught a glimpse of the glory of the Son of God, and burned with love to Him of whom she could henceforth say, ‘Whose I am and whom I serve.’ Her pen, her pencil, her harp, as afterwards her coronet, were laid at His feet, to be henceforth used,used upby and for the King.”

Many lovers had sought in vain the hand of Miss Carolina Oliphant, but on June the 6th, 1806, she married her maternal cousin William Murray Nairne, who was Inspector-General of Barracks in Scotland, and held the rank of major in the army. His hereditary title was Baron Nairne, but it was one of the titles attainted by the rebellion.

Her wedded life was one of great happiness. Blest in the husband of her fondest affection, and encircled with all the endearing delights of domestic enjoyment, the union was a delightful one; the husband and wife lived as joint-heirs of the grace of life; one in the family, in the social circle, and in the house of God; singing the same song, joining in the same prayer, and feasting on the same comforts. The sun seldom rose on a happier habitation. An only child, William, was born in 1808.

Mrs. Nairne seems to have judged correctly as to her true vocation. Shocked with the grossness of the songs in popular use, she determined to purify the lyrics of her country; and while doing this she contrived carefully to conceal the worker. First she sent some verses to the president of an agricultural dinner held in the neighbourhood. They were received with great approbation, and set to music. Thus encouraged, song followed song,—some humorous, some pathetic, but all vastly superior in simple poetic power, as well as moral tone, to those she was anxious to supplant. Soon her lyrics were scattered broadcast over the land, carrying pure and elevated sentiments, and even religious truth, into many a neglected home. Through the influence of a lady, who knew her claims as a poetess, she was induced in 1821to contribute to a collection of national songs, which was being published by Mr. Robert Purdie, an enterprising music-seller in Edinburgh. Her contributions were signed “B. B.” and Mr. Purdie and his editor, Mr. R. A. Smith, were under the impression that the popular authoress was Mrs. Bogan, of Bogan. The songs of “B. B.” were sung in all the chief towns by professed vocalists, and were everywhere hailed with applause. Public curiosity was aroused as to the authorship, and the question was debated in the newspapers, to the great alarm of the real authoress.

In 1822, George the Fourth, who had considerable intellectual ability, and some virtues as well as frailties, although no man of Mr. Thackeray’s abilities has set himself to look for the former, visited Scotland, and heard Mrs. Nairne’s song, “The Attainted Scottish Nobles” sung: this circumstance is generally supposed to have led to the restoration of the peerage to her husband. At all events, in 1824, the attainder was removed by Act of Parliament, and the title of his fathers bestowed on Major Nairne.

On July the 9th, 1830, Lady Nairne became a widow. The trial was ill to bear. But she had one availing consolation, she knew his star had set on this world, to rise and shine in brighter skies: vital Christianity was as visible in her departed husband, as the broad black seal that death had stamped upon his brow. He had gone before to the presence of that Saviour whom they had loved and served together.

Her son, now in his twenty-second year, succeeded to the title of his father. With that wondrous solicitude which fills a mother’s heart towards heronly child, Lady Nairne had watched the training of her boy; and she had a rich reward. He grew up no mere devotee of mammon, or fashion, or fame, but a youth of good intellectual powers, high moral qualities, and sound religious principles—all that a Christian mother could desire. But alas! this gourd was doomed to perish also. In the spring of 1837, the young baron suffered much from influenza, and for the benefit of his health he went to Brussels, accompanied by his mother. There he caught a severe cold, and after an illness of six weeks, died on the 7th of December, 1837. Her heart bled for her son, but no murmur escaped her lips. She was content that Christ should come into her garden and pluck the sweetest flower. Yet she deeply felt her loss. “I sometimes say to myself,” she wrote to a friend, “this is ‘no me,’ so greatly have my feelings and trains of thought changed since ‘auld lang syne,’ and though I am made to know assuredly that all is well, I scarcely dare to allow my mind to settle on the past.”

“Hast thou sounded the depth of yonder sea,And counted the sands that under it be?Hast thou measured the height of heaven above?—Then mayest thou mete out a mother’s love.”

“Hast thou sounded the depth of yonder sea,

And counted the sands that under it be?

Hast thou measured the height of heaven above?—

Then mayest thou mete out a mother’s love.”

After this sad event Lady Nairne might have been seen taking her walk in a cool anteroom, “passing and repassing the bust of her darling son, and stopping as often to gaze on it, then replacing the white handkerchief that covered it to keep it pure.”

In her old age Lady Nairne resided chiefly on the Continent, and frequently at Paris; but thelast two years of her life were spent at Gask. Feeble in body and worn in spirit, on the verge of another world, where praise or censure is nothing, her interest in the salvation of souls was as fresh as ever. To the teacher of a school where children were daily taught, she thus delivered her sentiments on the great subject of education. “You say they like ‘The Happy Land’ best: is thegospelin it? Repeat it.” Her eager eye watched each line till she should hear what satisfied her. She then said, “It’s pretty, very sweet; but it might be clearer. Remember, unless the work of Christ for them as sinners comes in,—the ransom, the substitution,—what you teach is worthless for their souls.” On Sunday, the 26th of October, 1845, in the mansion house of Gask, she quietly sank to the rest she had so long looked for, at the advanced age of seventy-nine years.

Not in the crowded cemetery of the city, where many of the wise, mighty, and noble have been laid down to repose; but in the lovely churchyard among the mountains of her own picturesque county, where the “rude forefathers of the hamlet lie,” did a weeping crowd commit the remains of Lady Nairne to the cold ground. The burial service was read by the Rev. Sir William Dunbar, Bart.

EXTRACTS AND CRITICISMS.

One good song is sufficient to secure immortality. Sappho lives in virtue of a single song. What then shall we say of Lady Nairne who has bequeathed more of these imperishable breathings to her countryand to the world than any Caledonian bard, Burns alone excepted. The lyrics of Scotland were characterized by a loose ribaldry, she resolved to supply songs of a higher type. Take the following verses as a specimen of the good common sense, the cheerful practical philosophy, which, joined to poetic imagery, made its way to the hearts of the people.

“Saw ye ne’er a lanely lassie,Thinkin’ gin she were a wife,The sun of joy wad ne’er gae down,But warm and cheer her a’ her life.“Saw ye ne’er a weary wifie,Thinkin’ gin she were a lassShe wad aye be blithe and cheerie,Lightly as the day wad pass.“Wives and lassies, young and aged,Think na on each ither’s state;Ilka ane it has its crosses,Mortal joy was ne’er complete.“Ilka ane it has its blessings;Peevish dinna pass them by;Seek them out like bonnie berries,Tho’ amang the thorns they lie.”

“Saw ye ne’er a lanely lassie,Thinkin’ gin she were a wife,The sun of joy wad ne’er gae down,But warm and cheer her a’ her life.

“Saw ye ne’er a lanely lassie,

Thinkin’ gin she were a wife,

The sun of joy wad ne’er gae down,

But warm and cheer her a’ her life.

“Saw ye ne’er a weary wifie,Thinkin’ gin she were a lassShe wad aye be blithe and cheerie,Lightly as the day wad pass.

“Saw ye ne’er a weary wifie,

Thinkin’ gin she were a lass

She wad aye be blithe and cheerie,

Lightly as the day wad pass.

“Wives and lassies, young and aged,Think na on each ither’s state;Ilka ane it has its crosses,Mortal joy was ne’er complete.

“Wives and lassies, young and aged,

Think na on each ither’s state;

Ilka ane it has its crosses,

Mortal joy was ne’er complete.

“Ilka ane it has its blessings;Peevish dinna pass them by;Seek them out like bonnie berries,Tho’ amang the thorns they lie.”

“Ilka ane it has its blessings;

Peevish dinna pass them by;

Seek them out like bonnie berries,

Tho’ amang the thorns they lie.”

In 1824, “The Scottish Minstrel” was completed in six volumes, royal octavo, and Mr. Purdie and his editor, Mr. Smith, still believing “B. B.” to stand for Mrs. Bogan of Bogan, said, “In particular the editors would have felt happy in being permitted to enumerate the many original and beautiful verses that adorn their pages, for which they are indebted to the author of the much admired song, ‘The Land o’ the Leal;’ but they fear to wound a delicacy which shrinks from all observation.” “The Land o’ theLeal” well deserved the praise bestowed upon it. The name alone is a triumph of word-painting. Who that has heard it sung in a Scotch gloaming to a group of eager listeners will not confirm our words, that there is no song, not even of Burns, nor of Moore, nor of Béranger, nor of Heine, which approaches on its own ground “The Land o’ the Leal”? It was written for relatives of Lady Nairne’s, who had lost a child; its pathos is most exquisite.

“I’m wearin’ awa, John,Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John,I’m wearin’ awaTo the land o’ the leal.There’s nae sorrow there, John;There’s neither cauld nor care, John;The day’s aye fairIn the land o’ the leal.“Our bonnie bairn’s there, John,She was baith good and fair, John;And, oh! we grudged her sairTo the land o’ the leal.But sorrow’s sel’ wears past, John,And joy’s a-comin’ fast, John—The joy that’s aye to last,In the land o’ the leal.“Sae dear’s that joy was bought, John,Sae free the battle fought, John,That sinfu’ man ne’er broughtTo the land o’ the leal.Oh, dry your glistening e’e, John!My soul langs to be free, John;And angels beckon meTo the land o’ the leal.“Oh, haud ye leal and true, John!Your day it’s wearin’ through, John;And I’ll welcome youTo the land o’ the leal.Now fare-ye-weel, my ain John,This warld’s cares are vain, John;We’ll meet, and we’ll be fain,In the land o’ the leal.”

“I’m wearin’ awa, John,

Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John,

I’m wearin’ awa

To the land o’ the leal.

There’s nae sorrow there, John;

There’s neither cauld nor care, John;

The day’s aye fair

In the land o’ the leal.

“Our bonnie bairn’s there, John,She was baith good and fair, John;And, oh! we grudged her sairTo the land o’ the leal.But sorrow’s sel’ wears past, John,And joy’s a-comin’ fast, John—The joy that’s aye to last,In the land o’ the leal.

“Our bonnie bairn’s there, John,

She was baith good and fair, John;

And, oh! we grudged her sair

To the land o’ the leal.

But sorrow’s sel’ wears past, John,

And joy’s a-comin’ fast, John—

The joy that’s aye to last,

In the land o’ the leal.

“Sae dear’s that joy was bought, John,Sae free the battle fought, John,That sinfu’ man ne’er broughtTo the land o’ the leal.Oh, dry your glistening e’e, John!My soul langs to be free, John;And angels beckon meTo the land o’ the leal.

“Sae dear’s that joy was bought, John,

Sae free the battle fought, John,

That sinfu’ man ne’er brought

To the land o’ the leal.

Oh, dry your glistening e’e, John!

My soul langs to be free, John;

And angels beckon me

To the land o’ the leal.

“Oh, haud ye leal and true, John!Your day it’s wearin’ through, John;And I’ll welcome youTo the land o’ the leal.Now fare-ye-weel, my ain John,This warld’s cares are vain, John;We’ll meet, and we’ll be fain,In the land o’ the leal.”

“Oh, haud ye leal and true, John!

Your day it’s wearin’ through, John;

And I’ll welcome you

To the land o’ the leal.

Now fare-ye-weel, my ain John,

This warld’s cares are vain, John;

We’ll meet, and we’ll be fain,

In the land o’ the leal.”

The humorous and highly popular song entitled “The Laird o’ Cockpen,” was composed by Lady Nairne, in room of the older words connected with the air, “When she cam’ ben, she bobbit.” This is a song which every member of every Scotch audience has heard crooned or chirped in glee and waggery. It is matchless alike as respects scene anddramatis personæ, its fine suggestive touches, and its Scotchwut. The present Laird of Cockpen is the Earl of Dalhousie, an elder of the Free Church of Scotland, and grand-master of the Masonic Lodge of Scotland. We shall give this song also entire. The different style illustrates the genius of the authoress.

“The Laird o’ Cockpen he’s proud and he’s great,His mind is ta’en up with the things o’ the state;He wanted a wife his braw house to keep,But favour wi’ wooin’ was fashious to seek.“Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell,At his table-head he thought she’d look well;M’Clish’s ae daughter o’ Claverse-ha’ Lee,A penniless lass wi’ a lang pedigree.“His wig was weel pouthered and as gude as new;His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue;He put on a ring, a sword, and cocked hat;And wha could refuse the laird wi’ a’ that?“He took the gray mare, and rade cannily,And rapped at the yett o’ Claverse-ha’ Lee:‘Gae tell mistress Jean to come speedily ben,She’s wanted to speak to the Laird o’ Cockpen.’“Mistress Jean was makin’ the elder-flower wine:‘And what brings the laird at sic a like time?’She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown,Her mutch wi’ red ribbons, and gaed awa down.“And when she cam’ ben, he bowèd fu’ low,And what was his errand he soon let her know:Amazed was the laird when the lady said ‘Na,’And wi’ a laigh curtsey she turnèd awa’.“Dumbfoundered he was—nae sigh did he gie;He mounted his mare—he rade cannily;And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen,She’s daft to refuse the Laird o’ Cockpen.“And now that the laird his exit had made,Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said:‘Oh! for ane I’ll get better, its waur I’ll get ten!I was daft to refuse the Laird o’ Cockpen.’“Next time the laird and the lady were seen,They were gauin’ arm-in-arm to the kirk on the green;Now she sits in the ha’ like a weel-tappit hen—But as yet there’s nae chickens appeared at Cockpen.”

“The Laird o’ Cockpen he’s proud and he’s great,His mind is ta’en up with the things o’ the state;He wanted a wife his braw house to keep,But favour wi’ wooin’ was fashious to seek.

“The Laird o’ Cockpen he’s proud and he’s great,

His mind is ta’en up with the things o’ the state;

He wanted a wife his braw house to keep,

But favour wi’ wooin’ was fashious to seek.

“Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell,At his table-head he thought she’d look well;M’Clish’s ae daughter o’ Claverse-ha’ Lee,A penniless lass wi’ a lang pedigree.

“Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell,

At his table-head he thought she’d look well;

M’Clish’s ae daughter o’ Claverse-ha’ Lee,

A penniless lass wi’ a lang pedigree.

“His wig was weel pouthered and as gude as new;His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue;He put on a ring, a sword, and cocked hat;And wha could refuse the laird wi’ a’ that?

“His wig was weel pouthered and as gude as new;

His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue;

He put on a ring, a sword, and cocked hat;

And wha could refuse the laird wi’ a’ that?

“He took the gray mare, and rade cannily,And rapped at the yett o’ Claverse-ha’ Lee:‘Gae tell mistress Jean to come speedily ben,She’s wanted to speak to the Laird o’ Cockpen.’

“He took the gray mare, and rade cannily,

And rapped at the yett o’ Claverse-ha’ Lee:

‘Gae tell mistress Jean to come speedily ben,

She’s wanted to speak to the Laird o’ Cockpen.’

“Mistress Jean was makin’ the elder-flower wine:‘And what brings the laird at sic a like time?’She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown,Her mutch wi’ red ribbons, and gaed awa down.

“Mistress Jean was makin’ the elder-flower wine:

‘And what brings the laird at sic a like time?’

She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown,

Her mutch wi’ red ribbons, and gaed awa down.

“And when she cam’ ben, he bowèd fu’ low,And what was his errand he soon let her know:Amazed was the laird when the lady said ‘Na,’And wi’ a laigh curtsey she turnèd awa’.

“And when she cam’ ben, he bowèd fu’ low,

And what was his errand he soon let her know:

Amazed was the laird when the lady said ‘Na,’

And wi’ a laigh curtsey she turnèd awa’.

“Dumbfoundered he was—nae sigh did he gie;He mounted his mare—he rade cannily;And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen,She’s daft to refuse the Laird o’ Cockpen.

“Dumbfoundered he was—nae sigh did he gie;

He mounted his mare—he rade cannily;

And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen,

She’s daft to refuse the Laird o’ Cockpen.

“And now that the laird his exit had made,Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said:‘Oh! for ane I’ll get better, its waur I’ll get ten!I was daft to refuse the Laird o’ Cockpen.’

“And now that the laird his exit had made,

Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said:

‘Oh! for ane I’ll get better, its waur I’ll get ten!

I was daft to refuse the Laird o’ Cockpen.’

“Next time the laird and the lady were seen,They were gauin’ arm-in-arm to the kirk on the green;Now she sits in the ha’ like a weel-tappit hen—But as yet there’s nae chickens appeared at Cockpen.”

“Next time the laird and the lady were seen,

They were gauin’ arm-in-arm to the kirk on the green;

Now she sits in the ha’ like a weel-tappit hen—

But as yet there’s nae chickens appeared at Cockpen.”

Her song, “Caller Herrin,” has acquired extensive popularity. The late John Wilson, the eminent vocalist, sung it in every principal town in the kingdom. In the touching lines “Rest is not here,” she embodied her own experience. The beautiful piece entitled “Would you be young again?” was composed in her seventy-sixth year.

Dr. Rogers has recently done justice to her memory by the publication of her life and songs. In this elegant book, a new edition of which has alreadybeen called for, there is an excellent portrait of the Baroness. The songs in the present volume may be confidently accepted as being certainly composed by the gifted authoress.

CHARACTER OF BARONESS NAIRNE.

In youth, Lady Nairne was distinguished for her personal charms and her devotion to the pursuits of the world. So remarkable was the beauty of her face and the elegance of her shape, that she was called “The Flower of Strathearn.” In her mature years her countenance wore a somewhat pensive cast.

She was endowed with gifts many and various. Possessed of a strong intellect, as well as a beautiful fancy, all learning was easily acquired. Her delights lay in the cultivation of an elegant imagination, and in the enjoyment of those pleasures which can only be tasted by a mind of a refined order. Capable of describing the play of human passions in a manner which awoke the deepest emotions of the heart, her songs became the theme of every tongue.

To promote both the spiritual and temporal welfare of her fellow-creatures, she gave largely of her means. Dr. Chalmers, in an address delivered at Edinburgh, on the 29th December, 1845, said,—“she wanted me to enumerate a list of charitable objects, in proportion to the estimate I had of their value. Accordingly, I furnished her with a scale of about five or six charitable objects. The highest in the scale were those institutions which have for their design the Christianizing of the people at home; and I also mentioned to her what we were doing in theWest Port; and there came to me from her in the course of a day or two no less a sum than £300. She is now dead; she is now in her grave, and her works do follow her. When she gave me this noble benefaction, she laid me under strict injunctions of secrecy, and, accordingly, I did not mention her name to any person; but after she was dead, I begged of her nearest heir that I might be allowed to proclaim it, because I thought that her example, so worthy to be followed, might influence others in imitating her, and I am happy to say that I am now at liberty to state that it was Lady Nairne, of Perthshire.”

“As a female writer, influencing the female mind, she has undoubtedly stood, for some by-past years, the very first in the first rank; and this pre-eminence has been acknowledged, not only in her own land, but wherever the English tongue is spoken, whether on the banks of the eastern Ganges or the western Mississippi.”

David Macbeth Moir.[Δ.]

LYRIC POETRY.

This species of poetry sets forth the inward occurrences of the writer’s or speaker’s own mind—concerns itself with the thoughts and emotions. It is called lyric, because it was originally accompanied by the music of that instrument. Purely lyrical pieces are from their nature short, and fall into several divisions, which are again subdivided into psalms andsongs. Passion, genius, a teeming brain, a palpitating heart, and a soul on fire, are necessary to lyrical composition. The poetry that lives among the people, must indeed be simple—but the simplest feelings are the deepest, and when adequately expressed, are immortal. The song-writer and the psalmist are equally divine; and the rich and noble melodies which they send abroad from their resounding lyres, the world claims as an inheritance. True lyrics themselves may be weak and wandering, but the children of their brains are strong and immortal. Empires may pass away, but the ecstatic ether which they breathe on the world, shall remain. That sweet psalm, “The Lord is my Shepherd,” was drawn by David from the strings of a well-tuned instrument, and it expresses the feelings of Christians in the nineteenth century, just as well as it did those of the devout in the long ages before Christ. The child commits it to memory, and the dying believer sings it with a heart empty of care and full of gladness. In “Auld Robin Gray,” Lady Anne Barnard spoke from herinmost heart. It instantly became popular, and has come down to us entire, as if all things had conspired that such a perfect, tender, and affecting song of humble life should never perish; but must be sung and wept over while the earth endureth. The lyric poetry of a country is characteristic of its manners.

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