continued and heightened by his re-election the two following years. He afterwards (with a revival of his early love of wandering) made a voyage to Algiers, of which he published an account in the New Monthly Magazine, since collected and printed in two volumes. In 1842 he published the Pilgrim of Glencoe, and other Poems. He has issued various editions of his poetical works, some of them illustrated by Turner and Harvey; and they continue to delight new generations of readers, by whom the poet is regarded with the veneration due to an established and popular English classic. The genius and taste of Campbell resemble those of Gray. He displays the same delicacy and purity of sentiment, the same vivid perception of beauty and ideal loveliness, equal picturesqueness and elevation of imagery, and the same lyrical and concentrated power of expression. The diction of both is elaborately choice and select. Campbell has greater sweetness and gentleness of pathos, springing from deep moral feeling, and a refined sensitiveness of nature. Neither can be termed boldly original or inventive, but they both possess sublimity-Gray in his two magnificent odes, and Campbell in various passages of the Pleasures of Hope,' and especially in his war-songs or lyrics, which form the richest offering ever made by poetry at the shrine of patriotism. The general tone of his verse is calm, uniform, and mellifluous-a stream of mild harmony and delicious fancy flowing through the bosomscenes of life, with images scattered separately, like flowers, on its surface, and beauties of expression interwoven with it-certain words and phrases of magical power-which never quit the memory. His style rises and falls gracefully with his subject, but without any appearance of imitative harmony or direct resemblance. In his highest pulse of excitement, the cadence of his verse becomes deep and strong, without losing its liquid smoothness; the stream expands to a flood, but never overflows the limits prescribed by a correct taste and regulated magnificence. The Pindaric flights of Gray justified bolder and more rapid transitions. Description is not predominant in either poet, but is adopted as an auxiliary to some deeper emotion or sentiment. Campbell seems, however, to have sympathised more extensively with nature, and to have studied her phenomena more attentively than Gray. His residence in the Highlands, in view of the sea and wild Hebrides, had given expansiveness as well as intensity to his solitary contemplations. His sympathies are also more widely diversified with respect to the condition of humanity, and the hopes and prospects of society. With all his classic predilections, he is not-as he has himself remarked of Crabbe-a laudator temporis acti, but a decided lover of later times. Age has not quenched his zeal for public freedom or the unchained exercise of the human intellect; and, with equal consistency in tastes as in opinions, he is now meditating a work on Greek literature, by which, fifty years since, 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. Like its elder brother, the Pleasures of Imagination,' the poem is full of visions of romantic beauty and unchecked enthu siasm The bloom of young Desire, and purple light of Love. 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 truth : Far differently the mute Oneyda took His calumet of peace and cup of joy; As monumental bronze unchanged his look; A soul that pity touched, but never shook; Trained from his tree-rocked cradle to his bier The fierce extreme of good and ill to brook Impassive-fearing but the shame of fearA stoic of the woods-a man without a tear. The loves of Gertrude and Waldegrave, the patriarchal Albert, and the sketches of rich sequestered Pennsylvanian scenery, also show the finished art of the poet. The concluding description of the battle, and the death of the heroine, are superior to anything in the Pleasures of Hope;' and though the plot is simple, and occasionally obscure (as if the fastidiousness of the poet had made him reject the ordinary materials of a story), the poem has altogether so much of the dramatic spirit, that its characters are distinctly and vividly impressed on the mind of the reader, and the valley of Wyoming, with its green declivities, lake, and forest, instantly takes its place among the imperishable treasures of the memory. 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 energy-the mingled light and gloom of the wild Celtic character and imagination. Recollecting the dramatic effect of these tales, and the power evinced in Lochiel and the naval odes, we cannot but regret that Campbell did not, in his days of passion, venture into the circle of the tragic drama, a field so well adapted to his genius, and essayed by nearly all his great poetical contemporaries. [Picture of Domestic Love.] Though boundless snows the withered heath deform, [Battle of Wyoming, and Death of Gertrude.] Heaven's verge extreme Reverberates the bomb's descending star And one the uncovered crowd to silence sways; Short time is now for gratulating speech: Thy country's flight yon distant towers to reach, Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant scene, A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun, And sounds that mingled laugh, and shout, and Had laid her cheek, and clasped her hands of snow scream, On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his arm Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hushed its wild alarm! But short that contemplation-sad and short Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners flew ; Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone Heaven's peace commiserate; for scarce I heed These wounds; yet thee to leave is death, is death indeed! Clasp me a little longer on the brink Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress; thistle And when this heart hath ceased to beat—oh ! think, And let it mitigate thy wo's excess, To Albert's home with shout and cymbal throng: And, beating with his war-club cadence strong, Calm, opposite the Christian father rose, That thou hast been to me all tenderness, God shall assuage thy pangs-when I am laid in dust! Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart, In heaven; for ours was not like earthly love. No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past. Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth, Of one dear pledge. But shall there then be none, To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me ? Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding thee!' With love that could not die! and still his hand Ah, heart! where once each fond affection dwelt, 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 Its farewell o'er the grave of worth and truth; He watched, beneath its folds, each burst that came, 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 wo! For, by my wrongs, and by my wrath, 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, Nor will thy father's spirit grieve, But when the bolt of death is hurled, The hand is gone that cropt its flowers; A thousand warriors drew the shaft? Ah! there, in desolation cold, The desert serpent dwells alone, Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, Then seek we not their camp; for there But hark, the trump! to-morrow thou Because I may not stain with grief Ye Mariners of England. Ye mariners of England! Whose flag has braved a thousand years, Your glorious standard launch again And sweep through the deep While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages loud and long, The spirits of your father For the deck it was their field of fame, Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, While the battle rages loud and long, Britannia needs no bulwark, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below, As they roar on the shore When the stormy tempests blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn; Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow ! 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 [From The Last Man.'] All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom-The sun himself must die, 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 That shall creation's death behold, As Adam saw her prime! The sun's eye had a sickly glare, The earth with age was wan; Some had expired in fight-the brands In plague and famine some: Saying, 'We are twins in death, proud sun; Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 'Tis mercy bids thee go. For thou, ten thousand thousand years, This spirit shall return to Him That gave its heavenly spark; When thou thyself art dark! And took the sting from death!* *As Mr Campbell's poetical works are small in bulk, how ever valuable, we should not have quoted even so many as the limited number of specimens, had we not obtained the express permission of the author. MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS. MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS, author of The Monk, was born in London in the year 1773. His father was deputy secretary in the war-office-a lucrative situation-and was owner also 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 passages of great licentiousness. 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 Fendal Tyrants, Romantic Tales, his Tales of Terror, and Tales of Wonder, and his numerous plays, all bespeak the same parentage as The Monk,' and none of them excel 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. He found himself disqualified by nature for playing the part of an orator or politician; and though he retained his seat till the dissolution of parliament, 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 BA 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 thoughtsun 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. The "Madam-I am truly sorry to acquaint you that my Hindoo Bride has behaved most improperly 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 enclosed (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."' In 1801 appeared Lewis's Tales of Wonder.' A ghost or a witch was, he said, a sine qua non ingredient in all the dishes of which he meant to compose his hobgoblin repast, and Sir Walter Scott contributed to it some of his noble ballads. 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 feeling which were concealed by the exaggerated romance of his writings, and his gay and frivolous appearance and manners. The death of Lewis's father made the poet a man of * Of this weakness Byron records an amusing instance : "Never 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, that--" here tears began to flow. mind, Lewis," said Colonel Armstrong to him, "never mind don't cry-she could not mean it." Lewis was of extremely diminutive stature. I remember a picture of him,' says Scott, by Saunders, being handed round at Dalkeith house. The artist had ingeniously flung a dark folding mantle around the form, under which was half hid a dagger, a dark lantern, or some such cut-throat appurtenance. With 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 like a MAN!" He looked, and lo! Mat. Lewis's head was at his elbow. This boyishness went through life with him. He was a child, and a spoiled child-but a child of high imagination, and so he wasted himself on ghost stories and German romances. He had the finest ear for the rhythm of verse I ever met with-finer than Byron's.' |