factor, the usual form of announcing repairs on his estate, I was reminded of my being the only heir-apparent to that Hun in England. Do you know the state of American population actually alive between our house and these golden apples of Kirnan? Some "plague or yellow fever" may dispense with the presence of these cousin-competitors on the death of MacArthur, and make way for poor brother Archibald, after all his rubs in life! I was much the better for being at Ryde, in the Isle of Wight, both during my stay, and for weeks after; but it is with great alarm that I find my abhorred sleeplessness. returning fast and inveterately. I cannot tell what havoc it makes of my health, spirits, and thoughts. My poem is at a full stop with it for ten days past, for my head is constantly confused. But I must no longer trouble you with complaints. Trusting that your own health, as you do not mention it, is not at present affected, I remain, dearest Mary, your affectionate brother, T. CAMPBELL. To the friend, who had sent a new book for his perusal and opinion, he writes:- Sept. 14. I should have read through and returned the "Proofs of a Conspiracy" yesterday, but I was indisposed with a cold, which is to-day somewhat worse; so that my thin slip of a person is confined in the narrow cage of my own room, like a weasel in a trap. Robinson's book has some interesting matter; he is surely a man of heart and writes from principle. But I recollect what the most reverend of old men-the prelate Arbuthnot of Regensburg, said to me of Robinson when I had not read a page of him.-"He got his book," said Arbuthnot, "mostly from our Father Maurus; and you may guess how accurate was his authority." This Father Maurus is a Scotch monk, under Arbuthnot, whom the worthy abbot ÆT. 30.] MEN--BOOKS-ARBUTHNOT-MAURUS. 117 was obliged ever and anon to reprimand for such tricks as you will read of in Bahrdt's description. Indeed, except the talents, Père Maurus is Bahrdt all over. He was a spy of the British Government-a Wyndhamite-a Lord Pagetitea who-knows-whatite: but to my fatal experience, a gentleman, who would not scruple to pick pockets.* This swindler, I dare say, sold his anecdote to Robinson pretty profitably But Robinson wrote from principle; and along with much exaggeration, I have no doubt the German publications contained many horrid truths Man is a naughty animal, and this is but one of his side views name . The story in the last note about the blood of the young children, is rather ridiculous. + If poor babes were ever sacrificed, it was never such a man as Turgot who patronised the business. It rests on no authority-not one But by-and-by, if I scribble thus, Mr. Adams will have me taken up for an illuminè, attempting to wheedle over his sisters! I must own, I am fond of conspiracies; there is something very attractive in sublime, gloomy, mysteries, and secrecy! Woe's me-how my head aches! It spoilt a fine ode I was writing on Mr. Pitt's pony trampling the foot of your sister Mary! me how the fair sufferer is to-day. To the same lady he writes again, Pray tell T. C. SYDENHAM, September 16. The night before last, I dreamt I was a troubadour; and yesterday, to allay the woes of a headache, composed * For the grounds of this charge (a political quarrel between the Monk and the Poet), the reader may refer to Vol. I., Ratisbon, page 296, where the character of Dr. Arbuthnot is also noticed. + This tradition respecting the Jews and the children may be seen in my recent work on The Danube.-Art. Straubing. "Lines " on your sister and her wicked pony! Now let us form "a conspiracy," since you love those saucy wicked things-conspiracies-to keep the world in profound ignorance of this mighty exertion of the troubadour's Musemore wonderful than half the incomparable verses to be found in magazines or memorandum books. This world is given to underrate excellence, and might impiously suppose these sublime verses of mine to have no genius! Nay, they might even audaciously laugh them to scorn! Thus it fares with many inimitable works, whose worth is known. only to their author! As for myself, I know the value of the lines full well. They cost me half-an-hour's persuasion to my wife, to let me have pen, ink, and paper, in my sickness. They cost me a world of pangs and scratching, before I could think of a rhyme to Mayow.* They cost me uphill work to write one stanza under the complicated evils of cold, fasting, headache, and water-gruel! They cost me but you are an excellent judge, and therefore must approve of them without taking into account what constitutes the merit of all works-the difficulty overcome! I am not yet quite well-I am told Stothard threatens to thrash all the people who have conspired against him. I hope he will spare your mother and me. T. C. This was followed by another characteristic letter, in which he gives to an invalid member of the family an account of his surveillance of the home interests, during her absence at Cheltenham. "Beside that face, beside those eyes Oh, how couldst thou, altho' a brute, ET. 30.] HIS DREAM-DIFFICULT WRITING-WATCH-NIGHTS. 119 TO MISS M. W. MAYOW. SYDENHAM, October 3, 1807. Saturday, Sunday, Monday.-Dear friend, I have visited your beloved household; and as to your sister Fanny -about whom I guess from her nervousness that you are most anxious-I do assure you, I never saw her more healthy, charming, cheerful-every thing that is beautiful; and, compared with her sometimes state of nerves, she is now positively brazen-faced! We had a long, delightful, wise, and entertaining chat this morning. It was after one of my watch-nights, when I had lain as uneasy as the head that wears a crown. I had meandered five hours about the Common, from long before dark till eight o'clock-my sleepless "eye in a fine frenzy rolling,"-when, after again invoking the drowsy powers, and taking a chapter of "Godwin's Political Justice," instead of laudanum, I was favoured by Heaven with ambrosial rest. At midday I reeled up stairs in a wig, three hundred years old, and a neckcloth tied like a halter about my neck, when the sight of your lovely sister made me start back, conscious that I was a sloven-unfit to be seen by a fair lady! I contrived to breakfast, however, in her presence, and during a most pleasant forenoon, we discoursed about a thousand things; and Fanny was so exhilarating and good, and my children, whom she praised much, looked so cherubinical, that I forgot my marvellous old wig, and grew so happy, that I could have sat down and purred like a cat. We had an edifying dissertation about monsters, which it would have pleased you monstrously to overhear. How do you find Cheltenham, and how is your precious * See vol. I. page 200. health? Remember how valuable it is to others-for you have not selfishness enough to think of yourself-Beware of writing long letters I have myself no great hopes of long life-not longer, I think, can this sleepless frame subsist than twelve or fourteen years. Where you will be then, I don't know; but I often think when all the plays, and poems, and novels, which, by the grace of God, I shall hope to have written by that time, are inspected, the learned commentator and biographer on my poor works-for every poetaster has now his biographer will trace from piece to piece the similarity of characters from whom I shall have drawn my materials of the good and the beautiful. Methinks there, that your sisters, Fanny and Caroline, and yourself, will see your images as in a mirror-not disfiguring, I trust, but reflecting, their genius and dispositions just as they strike my mind as the models of their several descriptions of characWhen you look at some wretched daubing of my forty-year-old countenance, prefixed to some cheap edition of my works, you will often, I fondly imagine, perceive a look of the good will with which your society has so often filled my mind; and which, perhaps, may contribute in future time to make my physiognomy more good-natured. I leave Lawrence the pleasure of drawing your countenance; I shall be proud enough to delineate the mind. You must not, however, be in the least surprised to see those children of fancy, the shadows of poetical perfection, sketched from outlines of real life, used in a most tragical and heart-rending manner. You must not think I could willingly beat or maltreat you, because some heroine whose nose, eyes, and profile are like your own, is drowned, or ters. * Lawrence, at this time, had just completed his portraits of the ladies here named, in pencil. |