which never quit the memory. Campbell is secure, as one of his critics has said, in an "immortality of quotation.' Some of his lines have become household words—e.g.: "Tis distance lends enchantment to the view. And many other short passages might be cited. With all his classic predilections, Campbell was not as he has himself remarked of Crabbe-a laudator temporis acti, but a decided lover of later times. Age never quenched his zeal for public freedom or for the unchained exercise of the human intellect; and, with equal consistency in tastes as in opinions, he was to the last meditating a work on Greek literature, by which, fifty years before, as a scholar, he first achieved distinction. Many can date their first love of poetry from their perusal of Campbell. In youth, the Pleasures of Hope is generally preferred. In riper years, when the taste becomes matured, Gertrude of Wyoming rises in estimation. Its beautiful home-scenes go more closely to the heart, and its delineation of character and passion evinces a more luxuriant and perfect genius. The portrait of the savage chief Outalissi is finished with inimitable skill and effect : Far differently the mute Oneyda took The loves of Gertrude and Waldegrave, the patriarchal Albert, and the sketches of rich sequestered Pennsylvanian scenery, also shew the finished art of the poet. The poem of O'Connor's Child is another exquisitely finished and pathetic tale. The rugged and ferocious features of ancient feudal manners and family pride are there displayed in connection with female suffering, love, and beauty, and with the romantic and warlike colouring suited to the country and the times. It is full of antique grace and passionate energythe mingled light and gloom of the wild Celtic character. Elegy Written in Mull (June 1795). That chased each care and fired the Muse's powers?— Far different scenes allure my wondering eye- The dark-blue rocks in barren grandeur piled; Far different these from all that charmed before, Picture of Domestic Love. From the Pleasures of Hope. Thy pencil traces on the lover's thought Death of Gertrude. Past was the flight, and welcome seemed the tower, With embrasure embossed and armour crowned, Wove like a diadem its tracery round The lofty summit of that mountain green; Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant scene, A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun, But short that contemplation-sad and short Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners flew; And tranced in giddy horror, Gertrude swooned; 'Clasp me a little longer on the brink Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress; And when this heart hath ceased to beat-oh! think, And let it mitigate thy woe's excess, That thou hast been to me all tenderness, And friend to more than human friendship just. And by the hopes of an immortal trust, God shall assuage thy pangs-when I am laid in dust!' Hushed were his Gertrude's lips! but still their bland Ah, heart! where once each fond affection dwelt, Of them that stood encircling his despair He heard some friendly words; but knew not what they were. For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives Then mournfully the parting bugle bid He watched, beneath its folds, each burst that came 'And I could weep,' the Oneyda chief His descant wildly thus begun ; 'But that I may not stain with grief The death-song of my father's son, Or bow this head in woe! For, by my wrongs, and by my wrath, To-morrow Areouski's breath, That fires yon heaven with storms of death, Shall light us to the foe: And we shall share, my Christian boy, 'But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep, The spirits of the white man's heaven Nor will the Christian host, But when the bolt of death is hurled, Its echoes and its empty tread 'Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, A thousand warriors drew the shaft? The desert serpent dwells alone, Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, And stones themselves to ruin grown, Like me, are death-like old. Then seek we not their camp; for there 'But hark, the trump! to-morrow thou Ye Mariners of England. Ye mariners of England! Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, The battle and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; The spirits of your fathers For the deck it was their field of fame, Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,* With thunders from her native oak, Till danger's troubled night depart, When the storm has ceased to blow; Battle of the Baltic. Of Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on. Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death; But the might of England flushed To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rushed O'er the deadly space between. 'Hearts of oak!' our captains cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back; Their shots along the deep slowly boom As they strike the shattered sail; Out spoke the victor then, As he hailed them o'er the wave: 'Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save; • When first printed (Nelson being then living), this line stood, 'Where Blake, the boast of freedom, fell.' Now joy, Old England, raise! Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave! And the mermaid's song condoles, Of the brave!+ Hohenlinden. On Linden, when the sun was low, But Linden saw another sight, By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Then shook the hills with thunder riven, But redder yet that light shall glow 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Few, few shall part where many meet! From The Last Man.' All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom- Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality! I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep I saw the last of human mould The sun's eye had a sickly glare, The earth with age was wan; Around that lonely man! In plague and famine some: Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood Saying: We are twins in death, proud sun; 'Tis mercy bids thee go. For thou, ten thousand thousand years, That shall no longer flow. . . . 'This spirit shall return to Him That gave its heavenly spark; And took the sting from death !’ A Thought suggested by the New Year. The more we live, more brief appear Our life's succeeding stages: A day to childhood seems a year, And years like passing ages. * Originally this last line stood: 'Shall mark the soldier's cemet'ry.' Other verbal alterations were made, for Campbell was fond of retouching his pieces, and generally for the better. He had early tried the measure in which Hohenlinden is written. In his sixteenth year (1793), he composed some verses on the Queen of France (Marie Antoinette), which commence thus: 'Behold! where Gallia's captive queen, The gladsome current of our youth, Ere passion yet disorders, Steals, lingering like a river smooth Along its grassy borders. But as the care-worn cheek grows wan, And sorrow's shafts fly thicker, Ye stars that measure life to man, Why seem your courses quicker? When joys have lost their bloom and breath, Why, as we reach the falls of death, It may be strange-yet who would change Heaven gives our years of fading strength And those of youth, a seeming length, MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS. MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS, author of The Monk, was born in London in the year 1775. His father was deputy-secretary in the War-office, and owner of extensive West Indian possessions. Matthew was educated at Westminster School, where he was more remarkable for his love of theatrical exhibitions than for his love of learning. On leaving Westminster, he was entered of Christ Church College, Oxford, but remained only a short period, being sent to Germany with the view of acquiring a knowledge of the language of that country. When a child, Lewis had pored over Glanville on Witches, and other books of diablerie; and in Germany he found abundant food of the same description. Romance and the drama were his favourite studies; and whilst resident abroad, he composed his story of The Monk, a work more extravagant in its use of supernatural machinery than any previous English tale of modern times, and disfigured with licentious passages. The novel was published in 1795, and attracted much attention. A prosecution, it is said, was threatened on account of the peccant scenes and descriptions; to avert which, Lewis pledged himself to recall the printed copies, and to recast the work in another edition. The author continued through life the same strain of marvellous and terrific composition-now clothing it in verse, now infusing it into the scenes of a drama, and at other times expanding it into regular tales. His Tales of Terror, 1799; Tales of Wonder (to which Sir Walter Scott contributed); Romantic Tales, 1808; The Bravo of Venice, 1804; and Feudal Tyrants, 1806, both translated from the German, with numerous dramas, all bespeak the same parentage as The Monk, and none of them excels it. His best poetry, as well as prose, is to be found in this novel; for, like Mrs Radcliffe, Lewis introduced poetical compositions into his tales; and his ballads of Alonzo the Brave and Durandarte were as attractive as any of the adventures of Ambrosio the monk. Flushed with the brilliant success of his romance, and fond of distinction and high society, Lewis procured a seat in parliament, and was returned for the borough of Hindon, but he never attempted to address the House. The theatres offered a more attractive field for his genius; and his play of The Castle Spectre, produced in 1797, was applauded as enthusiastically and more universally than his romance. Connected with his dramatic fame, a very interesting anecdote is related in the Memoirs and Correspondence of Lewis, published in 1839. It illustrates his native benevolence, which, amidst all the frivolities of fashionable life, and the excitement of misapplied talents, was a conspicuous feature in his character: Being one autumn on his way to participate in the enjoyments of the season with the rest of the fashionable world at a celebrated watering-place, he passed through a small country town, in which chance occasioned his temporary sojourn here also were located a company of strolling players, whose performance he one evening witnessed. Among them was a young actress, whose benefit was on the tapis, and who, on hearing of the arrival of a person so talked of as Monk Lewis, waited upon him at the inn, to request the very trifling favour of an original piece from his pen. The lady pleaded in terms that urged the spirit of benevolence to advocate her cause in a heart never closed to such appeal. Lewis had by him at that time an unpublished trifle, called The Hindoo Bride, in which a widow was immolated on the funeral pile of her husband. The subject was one well suited to attract a country audience, and he determined thus to appropriate the drama. The delighted suppliant departed all joy and gratitude at being requested to call for the manuscript the next day. Lewis, however, soon discovered that he had been reckoning without his host, for, on searching the travelling-desk which contained many of his papers, The Bride was nowhere to be found, having, in fact, been left behind in town. Exceedingly annoyed by this circumstance, which there was no time to remedy, the dramatist took a pondering stroll through the rural environs of B. A sudden shower obliged him to take refuge within a huckster's shop, where the usual curtained half-glass door in the rear opened to an adjoining apartment; from this room he heard two voices in earnest conversation, and in one of them recognised that of his theatrical petitioner of the morning, apparently replying to the feebler tones of age and infirmity. There now, mother, always that old story-when I've just brought such good news too-after I've had the face to call on Mr Monk Lewis, and found him so different to what I expected; so good-humoured, so affable, and willing to assist me. I did not say a word about you, mother; for though in some respects it might have done good, I thought it would seem so like a begging affair; so I merely represented my late ill-success, and he promised to give me an original drama, which he had with him, for my benefit. I hope he did not think me too bold!” “I hope not, Jane,” replied the feeble voice; "only don't do these things again without consulting me; for you don't know the world, and it may be thought "- The sun just then gave a broad hint that the shower had ceased, and the sympathising author returned to his inn, and having penned the following letter, ordered post-horses, and despatched a porter to the young actress with the epistle : 66 66 "MADAM-I am truly sorry to acquaint you that my Hindoo Bride has behaved most im properly-in fact, whether the lady has eloped or not, it seems she does not choose to make her appearance, either for your benefit or mine and to say the truth, I don't at this moment know where to find her. I take the liberty to jest upon the subject, because I really do not think you will have any cause to regret her non-appearance; having had an opportunity of witnessing your very admirable performance of a far superior character, in a style true to nature, and which reflects upon you the highest credit. I allude to a most interesting scene in which you lately sustained the character of 'The Daughter!' Brides of all denominations but too often prove their empire delusive; but the character you have chosen will improve upon every representation, both in the estimation of the public and the satisfaction of your own excellent heart. For the infinite gratification I have received, I must long consider myself in your debt. Trusting you will permit the inclosed (fifty pounds) in some measure to discharge the same, I remain, madam-with sentiments of respect and admiration-your sincere well-wisher-M. G. LEWIS."' Scott met Lewis in Edinburgh in 1798, and so humble were then his own aspirations, and so brilliant the reputation of the Monk,' that he declared, thirty years afterwards, he never felt such elation as when Lewis asked him to dine with him at his hotel! Lewis schooled the great poet on his incorrect rhyme, and proved himself, as Scott says, 'a martinet in the accuracy of rhymes and numbers.' Sir Walter has recorded that Lewis was fonder of great people than he ought to have been, either as a man of talent or as a man of fashion. He had always,' he says, ‘dukes and duchesses in his mouth, and was pathetically fond of any one that had a title you would have sworn he had been a parvenu of yesterday; yet he had lived all his life in good society." Yet Scott regarded Lewis with no small affection. He was,' added he, 'one of the kindest and best creatures that ever lived. His father and mother lived separately. Mr Lewis allowed his son a handsome income, but reduced it by more than one-half when he found that he paid his mother a moiety of it. Mat. restricted himself in all his expenses, and shared the diminished income with her as before. He did much good by stealth, and was a most generous creature.' The sterling worth of his character has been illustrated by the publication of his correspondence, which, slumbering twenty years after his death, first disclosed to the public the calm good sense, discretion, and right that " * Of this weakness Byron records an amusing instance: 'Lewis, at Oatlands, was observed one morning to have his eyes red and his air sentimental: being asked why, he replied, that when people said anything kind to him it affected him deeply, "and just now the Duchess (of York) has said something so kind to me, Here tears began to flow. "Never mind, Lewis," said Colonel Armstrong to him-" never mind-don't cry-she could not mean it." Lewis was of extremely diminutive stature. handed round at Dalkeith House. The artist had ingeniously 'I remember a picture of him,' says Scott, by Saunders, being flung a dark folding mantle around the form, under which was half hid a dagger, a dark lantern, or some such cut-throat apWith all this, the features were preserved and ennobled. It passed from hand to hand into that of Henry, Duke of Buccleuch, who, hearing the general voice affirm that it was very like-said aloud: "Like Mat. Lewis! Why, that picture's elbow. This boyishness went through life with him. He was a child, and a spoiled child-but a child of high imagination, and had the finest ear for the rhythm of verse I ever met with-finer so he wasted himself on ghost-stories and German romances. than Byron's.' purtenance. like a MAN!" He looked, and lo! Mat. Lewis's head was at his 111 He |