could have driven him on to sacrifice him

self?"

Campbell. feels a deep interest in the In"The world never

dian races of America.

will forget your treatment of the poor Indians," said he. "How they have faded away before the advance of the white man! I think there cannot be a more melancholy spectacle, than to see some brave chief come back in his old age from beyond the great Mississippi, where you have driven him, to break his bowstring over the graves of his fathers; to see the broad fields that once belonged to his ancestors, where they used to chase the wild deer in the deep woods, and find these tall forests cut down, and these fields in the hands of his pale-faced conquerors! I think I should feel as much, at seeing such an old Indian standing on some green hill top of New England, as I should at seeing a fine column erect among the ruins of an old empire.” We conversed some time about poor authors. 66 England," said he, "is very remarkable for one thing, more so, perhaps, than any other nation. She starves her authors to death, and then deifies them, and makes pilgrimages

to their shrines. For my part, I should think it a better arrangement to expend a part of the money which their posthumous admirers lavish upon their tombs, in giving them bread and butter, which poets stand in no less need of than their less ethereal worshippers. An author must be ethereal indeed, not to grow hungry upon nothing more substantial than the breath of the multitude."

At one period of his life, Campbell suffered from poverty; but he is understood at present to be in the enjoyment of an ample fortune, which he has recently come in possession of, by the death of a relative. He is now writing the last pages of his Life of Petrarch, in which he has been for many years engaged.

There are three men in America for whom he cherishes the highest admiration-Channing, Irving and Bryant. Of Channing he said, " Of course, I express no opinion of his theology-I do not understand these matters-but as to his style, I consider him superior, as a prose writer, to every other living author. I have read that work of Channing which you handed me the other day (his book on slavery). It is a glo

rious production-what simplicity of eloquence and ratiocination! When I finished it, I exclaimed, in the words which Chatterton puts in the mouth of Edward respecting Sir Charles Bawdin,

'The man is right-he speaks the truth—
He's greater than a king.'

"Irving is a most charming writer. There is great beauty, pure classic taste, and refined sensibility in everything from his pen. Some of his sketches are the most beautiful and affecting productions ever written. He has not the power, the eloquence of Channing; in these two respects Channing has no rival. But, if Irving could not have written Channing's Slavery, Channing never could have written Irving's 'Broken Heart.' There are chords in the heart which neither can touch alone; but I believe there is no passion of the soul that will not be deeply stirred in reading the works of both-they are very great men.

66

Bryant I esteem your greatest poet. I have always been astonished that he has not written

some more extended work. He could sustain

himself, I think, through a great poem; but some of his pieces are the best ever written in America. His Thanatopsis is his finest production; he has never equalled it, and no man can excel it. I never read the closing lines of the Thanatopsis without being, I think, a better man. There is in them a spirit of kindness which bears the fine moral to the depths of the heart:

So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan that moves

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,

Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night,

Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustain'd and sooth'd
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.'

"Is it not strange that the man who can write such lines as these should content himself to sit down in a dirty office, and edit a political newspaper in New York?"

I inquired his opinion of Mrs. Sigourney. He had never heard of her! "But," said he, "that is not the slightest evidence that she is not a fine or a distinguished writer, for I have

become quite an ignoramus about the literary matters of the present day. I am more familiar with those of the last generation; but, after what you have said of her writings, I will certainly get her book and read it.

"I have often admired Halleck's Marco Botzaris; that is a very stirring and beautiful poem. Drake's American Flag is fine; and Whittier has written some most excellent pieces. So have Pierpont and Dana; but you seem to have had no great poet. Your poetical genius, like your wealth and liberty, seems diffused over the whole population; for I hear that every American writes poetry.'

Campbell understands this matter better than most Englishmen; and this single remark of his is a key to American character. I do not believe there is a country on earth where the poetical spirit so generally prevails as in America. The grandeur of nature in all her forms, the wild and primeval aspect of the country, waken a deep enthusiasm in the hearts of all the people. It is generally supposed in Europe that we are only a business nation; that we have little time left from the labours of subdu