the following year. A memory infallible as to a date after the lapse of twenty-four or twenty-five years would be a valuable faculty, but there is a sort of instinct that operates a persuasion of correctness sometimes, where precision and even reason are found to be at fault. The presence of Scott at Campbell's first lodgings in Margaret Street I well remember, and I know he vacated them at the commencement of 1822, if not earlier. However this may be, the great novelist was in good spirits, and had just told a very entertaining story about a horse and a bridle, at which Mrs. Campbell could not control her laughter, the particular points I cannot recall. Campbell was in good spirits too after the interview. I took coffee there that evening. During our chat Campbell said, "I have a mind to try an impromptu." "I fancy that such things are not so much your forte as Theodore Hook's," I observed. "Well, I will try," added the poet; "leave me uninterrupted for a few minutes." I took up a book. Campbell quickly repeated the following lines:

Quoth the South to the North, " In your comfortless sky Not a nightingale sings:"-" True," the North made reply, "But your nightingales' warblings I envy you not, When I think of the strains of my Burns and my Scott!" "There is my impromptu," said the poet, "and you imagined I was not equal to making one. Now then the lines should be put upon paper," I rejoined, and he immediately wrote down the words with a title, "Impromptu by Thomas Campbell." The original as thus written down I have had in my possession from that hour, nor was there ever a copy made of it to my knowledge. I carried it off saying, "This is mine, which I shall keep as a curiosity, a memento of the trio of Scott, Roscoe, and yourself, or rather of the meeting just held." It affords a pleasing evidence of that kindly feeling which distinguished Campbell, although from his reserve it was too seldom ascribed to him, or was only perceived in exercise upon isolated occasions. With him the feeling was ever present, however latent, and sometimes from appearing suddenly when it was not habitually observable, became more prominent. With his charitable feelings it was the same kind of impulsive action. Of any picture of suffering he formed an exaggerated idea, fancying it greater than the reality, drawing from imagination attributes of misery, painful enough to him at all times, judging of what he had not seen by what he had, and supposing positive consequence from gratuitous inference he would give more than he need or ought to bestow.

Campbell's early friend, Augustus William Schlegel, visited England about this period. While here he had received an invitation to dine at the publisher's, in Conduit Street, and a few friends were invited to meet him. Of the party were Felix Bodin, to whom Thiers owes so much of his good fortune, Edward Blaquiere who perished in an untimely manner at sea, and I forget who more. Incidentally the subject led to verbal exclamations among the different nations of Europe. In the course of these remarks, Schlegel observed how much the language of England had received in the way of accession since the time of Queen Elizabeth, that we continued to import new words from all parts of the globe as we imported merchandise. There was no foretelling where it would end. The English was now one of the most copious of modern languages. It was to be feared it would soon be corrupted. Journalism too often in the hands of men not adequate by education to their duties, not en

dowed with a single literary feeling, tended to increase the mischief, from such individuals having no preference as to words, and adopting and passing current those of the most vulgar of the crowd. Such depreciating introductions were to be lamented, for English would ere long be the language of a third of the world. All low and vulgar clippings and phrases thus introduced, were so many injuries to the pure dialect. Even the Cossack "hourra" had been naturalised in England.

"Stay, my friend," said Campbell, "hurrah is an old English exclamation."

"Not so very old," replied Schlegel.

Oh, yes," said several voices at once.

"It is not as old as Shakspeare's time," said Schlegel; "it is not as old as Elizabeth."

Blaquiere, in his thoughtless way, was certain it was older. Campbell declared the same. Bodin was silent.

66

Might it not mean originally a noise, a storm, and be from the French houragan ?"

66

"We never borrowed the word from the cut-throat Cossacks," said Campbell; we have only just heard of the existence of the savages-it is a word of long usage in this country." "Borrowed or not of the Cossacks," rejoined Schlegel, 66 you will not find it in your old writers, neither in Shakspeare, nor in Shakspeare's time. It must have been introduced since. I am better qualified than any one present to judge of such minutia in the poet. I know every word he has used. His translation into German cost me years of hard study."

Some one remarked that the word "huzza” was in Shakspeare, and that "hurrah" was, perhaps, originally a provincial corruption of the word as old as Elizabeth.

"Huzza is not in Shakspeare either," said Schlegel, with emphasis. Campbell, rather stimulated by Schlegel's positiveness, and without a wary consideration of the question, acting, too, as he always did, under the impulse of momentary bias rather than on cool reflection, said to Schlegel :

"My friend, you are wrong, I am quite clear the word is in Shakspeare. We never borrowed it of those Russians. We were never enough in their good company to steal it of them. Besides, I recollect the word in a number of old songs."

"That may be," replied Schlegel, with pertinacious confidence; "I do not believe the word was in use as early as Shakspeare's time, because he never used it, and he had every use for the familiar words of his native tongue."

"It cannot be so," said Campbell, supported by the rest of the company in his opinion.

"You are all wrong," rejoined Schlegel, with renewed confidence; "I am a foreigner, and much more likely to have noticed such niceties in the language than you are, who are fellow natives with the poet."

Campbell still insisted upon his opinion being correct, others offered the never-failing resource of their countrymen in such dilemmas to settle the question right or wrong, by a bet. Schlegel took it up, offering to wage a breakfast at Brunet's hotel, where he was staying, that he was correct, and his offer was accepted.

It is needless to say, this distinguished critic was right, and all the rest

of the party wrong. Neither "hurrah" nor "huzza" occur in Shakspeare; tolerable evidence the words came in after the era of Elizabeth.

Schlegel was grievously disappointed upon this journey to England in the reception he met with on the part of the East India Company. His object was to obtain their patronage towards the publication of some valuable Sanscrit translations, very important as a key to Sanscrit literature, but expensive to print. The Anglo-Indian satraps offered to subscribe for twelve copies! This was great patronage in the India House twenty years ago, on the part of those who judged of heaven and earth, the thrones and rights of princes, and of humanity, by pounds, shillings, and pence. Schlegel was told that he mistook many munificent acts of the different Governors-general of India for those of the party called "John Company." This conversation took place at the dinner-table where Campbell was present. Schlegel was comforted by relating to him the circumstance of Warren Hastings, having sent home to the East India directors the inestimable present, the produce of his plunder, of two hundred golden Darii. These they so little estimated at their value, as to transfer them to the melting-pot. Schlegel laughed heartily, and said,

"He should return with an altered idea of the honourable directors." "But remember," said Campbell, "this occurred forty or fifty years ago! They are wiser now!"

"Yes," said one of the party," because the coins would be worth more than the gold if put up for sale."

Schlegel was both an instructive and entertaining companion upon literary topics, of which the extent of his knowledge and his accuracy were surprising, and yet he showed nothing of the pedant, but was in society much of the man of the world. Still there was some conceit, a self-consequence, or taint of vanity about Madame de Staël's idol. He was given to talk at times too much, for one of his superior mind, of German princes and people of rank. The Duke of Saxe Weimar, who, it is true, merited high laudation, was always on his lips when he spoke of society at home. In fact, he made too many observations about this and that high, wellborn person in Germany, whose observations, when retailed, would not have been chronicled from middle life, having no more than the common aristocratic morgue to recommend them, however personally kind, amiable, and sleek might be the

Lords of fat E'sham or of Lincoln Fen,

In the first year of Campbell's editorship there was an anonymous contributor, the only individual whose articles were inserted that was personally unknown to those connected with the work. He continued to send his papers for several years, the subjects being generally light and agreeably treated. His first was entitled "Le Cavalier Seul," his second upon Epicurism." He was regularly remunerated by remittances sent to an address which he gave on the Surrey side of the Thames, in the Borough. He succeeded in maintaining his incognito to the last, and during the correspondence went by the cognomen of "Our friend over the water." He wrote a bold, clear, large hand, less in size than that of Hazlitt, but somewhat in the same style. He was a good classical scholar, and from his use of familiar quotations in Italian and French, was evidently no raw college man, but one who since his college days had been greatly

refined by social intercourse in the great world. It was singular that during ten years the magazine was under Campbell's editorship the universities never supplied, from the great numbers that must have lived within their precincts, one single contributor worthy of notice, a proof that the study of two dead languages and hearing a few college lectures does little for a writer in modern times until he has mingled with the world and studied men as well as books.

Many were the conjectures who "our friend over the water" could be. The part of Surrey so near the Thames gave in those days the idea of a cockney Boeotia. To the New Monthly he became a species of Juniusstat nominis umbra. He adopted no signature to his articles at first, but after a time subscribed W. E. He sometimes sent, though but rarely, small pieces of poetry, generally translations from the Italian or Latin, not at all striking in poetical merit, but always correct and scholar-like. Campbell was exceedingly anxious to discover who this concealed personage might be, because of all the prose articles in the publication these took his fancy most, I believe alone on account of the mystery which hung over them. "Who can he be? Some one in the King's Bench, or the Rules, from the locality whence the articles came, perhaps an individual resident in Surrey or Kent, who gives a Borough address because he is far from town, merely out of convenience." These queries of the poet were answered by observing that the party need not in that case conceal his name, nor require the remittances for his articles to be enclosed to another person. At length it was generally assumed that these last were the production of a learned, ingenious, liberal-minded scholar and gentleman, whose seat in Buckinghamshire connected with a name revered in history, was that from whence the "distant spires and antique towers" of Eton were once so exciting to the genius of Gray.

There was a clergyman, too, in Devonshire, who contributed some very superior poetry to the early numbers. Few and far between, as all literary persons well know, are contributions of the slightest value received from the country. It was from large towns alone and from amidst large communities of men that good literary articles were obtained; thus the same rule that applies to public spirit, to liberality of feeling and enlarged ideas upon all other subjects, applies equally to the products of the intellect. The poetry alluded to was very beautiful; the writer was the Rev. Mr. Johns, of Crediton. One day that I had gone to take coffee with Campbell at his own house, Mrs. Campbell put into my hand a letter which her husband had that day received, and bade her keep for me, as it belonged to the magazine. Handing it over, she remarked what a neat hand it was, and that it was poetry. "Read the verses," said Campbell, "let us hear what they are about." I read on until a stanza occurred, in which after the allusion to a storm, the returned tranquillity of the ocean was thus described :

—Morn, evening came ; the sunset smiled,
The calm sea sought in gold the shore,
As though it ne'er had man beguiled

Or never would beguile him more.

"Beautiful," said the poet, "beautiful, indeed! Read it again—that is poetry!" He would hear no more though three other stanzas followed. It was as if he feared they would obliterate the passage which so struck his fancy. He then read the stanza twice himself aloud, then repeated the

two last lines twice or thrice, getting the stanza in a minute or two by heart. "That is fine, indeed, we won't mind the rest. That is enough -I have not heard such lines for a long time.

As though it ne'er had man beguiled

Or never would beguile him more.

Can any thing be more faultlessly descriptive of such a calm?" said Campbell, turning to his wife, who, though proud of her husband's fame, I never heard express any literary opinion, nor do I think she pretended to any judgment on such subjects. She thought those her husband's affair, and that to be one of the best, kindest, and most considerate of wives, with as few foibles as any of her sex, for she had some, was the due limit of her province.

The stanzas were called "The Maid of Orkney." I never knew the poet exhibit before or afterwards such enthusiastic admiration. He was in general reserved in his opinions, and sparing in his praises in such cases, even when he approved. Thus of Byron's poetry, he said, "It is greatgreat-it makes him truly great, he has not so much greatness in himself.” It struck me at the time that the two lines of Johns bear a very due resemblance to that tranquil, faultless beauty which Campbell succeeded in realising in his "Gertrude," and that the involuntary consciousness of this was the ground of his high admiration of them.

66

Thus making allusion to poetry it must be observed that Sotheby sent some fine lines in a translation of the Danæ of Simonides, to the first volume of the magazine, perhaps the best translation of this beautiful fragment ever made into English. Among the poetry too, were Campbell's own charming "Lines to the Rainbow," already spoken of, which rank among his best things, as his attempt at humour in the "Friars of Dijon," must rank as one of his worst. It was in vain he attempted light articles, not the less singular that the manner of his telling a light story was so good, but often the greater part of the merit was in that rather than in the matter. A letter entitled "Reflections on a Plum Pudding," published anonymously, was Campbell's own, another proof of his utter want of talent for that kind of literature. There was no point in the article unless it lay in the joke that a cat of praiseworthy "humour" was called "laudable pus" borrowing a term from the surgery. "The Lover to his Mistress," the "Maid's Remonstrance," Roland," and " Absence," are not above par, compared with the poet's other productions. In the "Lines of the Lover," there occurs the pleasing simile of the " waves of time washing away the impressions of memory. The opera in which the "Maid's Remonstrance" was to appear he began and abandoned. It must be recollected that no man of genius can ensure equality of merit in his works. Where a writer has accustomed the world to a high tone in one or two of his earlier ductions, these which but for their predecessors, would have excited admiration, are deemed unworthy of the author's name. Moreover, genius waits not for maturity in age, though in many cases it may appear The world is a harsh taskmaster, far worse than an Egyptian Pharoah who demanded bricks without straw. It expects a writer to continue publishing for its own amusement in an ascending scale of excellence to the last. It has no sensibility to the fact that it is generally given to the labour of one life to produce only one transcendant and enduring work. It imagines that the brighter coruscations of that extraordinary gift are at the command of him from whom they emanate, if he would but influence or invoke them. Thus, as it is, even that which is con

pro

after.