though I am sorry to say the time he has given me is too short for even attempting to treat you in turn for your most benevolent and, as my wife interceded for me, long letter. That word is indeed scarcely applicable; for, though I could not complain of shortness, I turned over the last page with as much eagerness as the first. That, perhaps, was avarice, but it was at least of a tasteful kind. I lament to find by your own letter that you have thoughts of leaving Sydenham, and, by your sister's, that there seems to be some occasion for it. This makes me as sad as the Russian news. I pray to God there may be no necessity for such a separation from your family, and such loss to our society and prayers are all that I can offer the prayers, too, of a sinner, though, I trust, not of a hypocrite.

*

*

*

*

*

"I thank you most particularly for your early information of the accession to your kindred. I did, indeed, kiss the little stranger in my imagination. God bless him. I hope to have him in my hands in reality, when I pass through London. In all that concerns any relation of yours, I shall ever unfeignedly feel an interest, and, married as my favorite Eliza is-and married, too, as I am-I shall always, with my wife's permission, have a penchant for her. I told her, I believe, or at least insinuated, the conquest she made of me by one "good night"smile at the party-the first party of Mrs. M- -'s. But I am running on at a sad rate-and see you coloring with indignation at the impertinence of making you a confidant to my out-ofdoors attachments! Pray don't, however, judge too harshly of me by my own foolish confessions. I am not quite so bad as I made you believe for the sake of an argument on those matters, which we once maintained at Sydenham. I am, I assure you, a good creature in the main.

"These news-these horrors! but let us not despair! If Buonaparte has beat Russians, he has not yet beat English freemen on their own soil. I fancy the bravery of the Russians has, like all other popular stories, been exaggerated: their physical strength, for instance, is talked of; I know for a certainty, that for size and fineness of conformation (talking of them as animals) the Tartars, who compose nine-tenths of the Russian armies, are inferior to the men of Europe. Buonaparte, I repeat, has never yet fought with freemen-with English freemen in England! Whether we are destined to resist him or not, this must be the creed now. We must not give way, but be optimists. Adieu!

ET. 29.]

LETTERS FROM RYDE, ISLE OF WIGHT.

469

and I say it with regret, so early; but my letter-bearer is waiting. May health return to you! I wish I were a magician, and you should have a magical cure; though I should travel to the bottom of the deep for it.

"Give my kind compliments to your neighbor, Mrs. Thomas Campbell, the Poet's wife! Remember me in the kindest terms to Mrs. M- and believe me, with sincere esteem, yours,

"T. C."

CHAPTER XXII.

RETURN TO SYDENHAM.

THE preceding letters, though comprising only a portion of his correspondence, give a sufficiently simple and connected history of his visit to the Isle of Wight. His health was greatly benefited by the change; he had made considerable progress in the new poem, and "The Selections;" and after his return home writes from "the nursery " another domestic letter to his

sister.

MY DEAR MARY,

TO MISS CAMPBELL.

SYDENHAM, KENT, September 1, 1807.

The prospect of February gives me great delight. God grant nothing may spoil the beauty of my babies, before the grand presentation to their Aunt, but that they may look so lovely and interesting, as to make you remember them in your will! At present, though not beautiful, they are certainly fine children. Thomas's eyes approach to beauty; his complexion is also pearly, and his little limbs are solid and smooth. For the rest, his features, and promise of intellect, are such as, perhaps, if I could be impartial, I should not extravagantly praise. But for what he is, thanks be to God! for he is growing every day a dearer and more inestimable gem; and I can pronounce his heart and feelings, by every symptom, to be sweet and susceptible. Alison is the funniest little cock-nosed fat dumpling you ever saw-quite roguish and sly. Matilda is all this day in town, bringing back Thomas, who had been sent to visit his grand-parents. I have had Alison my inseparable companion all the time. You may guess his advancement in manners, when he sits with me at the dinner, and officiates as chaplain. The only form of litany which he has hitherto got, is a piece of the Lord's Prayer, which, unless prevented, he constantly begins-" Our old Father," &c., &c. I am quite in raptures with the decorum of his behavior, for he eats his lamb chop as gravely as a judge,

ÆT. 30.] LETTER FROM THE NURSERY—HIS CHILDREN. 471

commenting pitifully on the poor ba-a-lamb which we were eating, and at intervals entertaining me with an account how the Doctor of the village cures the people. "Cockle Hall," he said (i. e. Doctor Hall) "keeps always pocket-fulls of physic for bad boys. When he hears that the people are sick, he cries, "Oh, dear!" and comes gallop-a-trot down the hill, and then comes tap, tap, tap at the houses. Then he finds the people in bed, snoring and sleeping, and comes and pops in his head and cries 'Boo-peep!' and so the people get quite well." You see there is no fool like a father-fool. Forgive all this nonsense.

*

I had to-day a letter from our mother, who says she is better. I am glad to see she writes clearly and collectedly; for I was afraid by some of her former letters that she was going fast. She still talks of Sandy's coming home. I am afraid this is one piece of her dotage still continuing, for I thought, by Sandy's own letter, there could be no great prospect of his return. Betsy, she informs me, has been shabbily rewarded-if it can be called reward, by what was given by old MacArthur Stuart." By a letter from his 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

*This gentleman had got possession of their family estate of Kirnan, and left a legacy to the Poet. The "Kirnan case" will be stated in a subsequent part of this work.

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 Scoth monk, under Arbuthnot, whom the worthy abbot was obliged ever and anon to reprimand for such tricks as you will read of in Bahrdt's description. Indeed, except the talents, Pére Maurus is Bahrdt all over. He was a spy of the British Government-a Wyndhamite-a Lord Pagetite-a who-knowswatite but to my fatal experience, a gentleman, who would not scruple to pick pockets. This swindler, I dare say, sold his anedote 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.

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 patronized the business. It rests on no authority-not one name But by-andby, if I scribble thus, Mr. Adams will have me taken up for an illuminė, 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! Wo'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! Pray tell me how the fair sufferer is to-day. T. C.

To the same lady he writes again,

SYDENHAM, September 16.

The night before last, I dreamt I was a troubadour; and yesterday, to allay the woes of a headache, composed "Lines" on

*For the grounds of this charge (a political quarrel between the Monk and the Poet), the reader may refer to Ratisbon, page 249, 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.