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cluded. Do write to me soon, dear Dr. Beattie, and believe me your affectionate friendT. C."


Oct. 15th. He writes: "The equinoctial gales have set in so furiously, that it is difficult to keep one's feet in walking the streets. I fear we shall hear far too much of their ravages on the coast." Then, alluding to his fireside comforts, he says,"We have with us the daughter of a Scotch friend*—a nice, pleasant girl, about twenty, who is an accession to our society. She is to stop on her visit to us for some four months. When the winds cease to chill my marrow, I trust to send you a more entertaining letter. Though frigid in body, yet ever warmly at heart, I remain yours— T. C."

"Nov. 27th.-The weather has been milder of late. I continue to like this place in many respects. We have very agreeable society; and, except that its streets are semi-perpendicular, up and down, it is very habitable. But one misfortune attends the literary man here-there is no getting books over from England, without a degree of trouble that amounts to vexation. On the English side of the water, I dare say, there are also many Custom-house plagues; but here they are abundant. If they would declare at once that English books were prohibited, there would, at least, be something downright in the declaration; but they allow English books to be imported, and when arrived at the Douane, you are told that they must be transmitted for inspection to the Minister of the Interior.


"T. C."

In a few short notes written subsequently, he reiterates the complaint of "keen, cold weather," to which he ascribes the feeling of indolence and torpor that appeared to grow upon him. But, unhappily, the feeling of continual chilliness which he describes as distressing was to be explained on grounds more serious than climate-it indicated the slow but sure progress of disease. He continued, however, to accommodate himself

* Robert Carruthers, Esq., of Inverness, the Poet's attached friend, who often met him in town and at Hampstead; and in his "Mornings with Campbell," lately published, has given some interesting sketches of the Poet's life and conversation. Miss Carruthers spent the winter with the Poet and his Niece, and shortly afterwards was married to Mr. Patrick Park, the sculptor, whose bust of Campbell, taken in 1840, is justly admired.

ET. 66.]


rigidly to circumstances. He laid down a plan of daily studyjoined one or two parties at the Consul's-and, by diversifying his time with reading, walking, and conversation, endeavored to remedy the many inconveniences of his new and strange residence. But there is no substitute for old friends. Philosopher as he was, and strove to be, the home-sickness was upon him; and though he generously spared his friends that conviction, the fact cannot be disputed.


He had now begun to look about him; and the following letter shows that his talent for observation was as keen as ever. The sketch he gives was-then, at least-a too faithful picture of Boulogne adventurers :



"I THANK you for your letter very much, and ask your pardon for not having written to you sooner. But it has pleased Destiny to inflict me with incurable indolence. In answer to your kind question, how I go on in this place, I can say that I go on pretty well. At first, the climate was delightful-but for several weeks past it has been very severe and gloomy by turns.


"I find a great many English here-the most of whom are swindlers though some of us are honest! In fact, this place is resorted to by the élite of English rogues. They come over and hunt in packs of half a dozen. One of superior stature and address is elected the leader of a pack. He lodges at the best hotel. He has a secretary for show, and a gentleman-like servant. His other agents lodge apart, and go about priceing goods of all portable kinds-but almost always alleging their poverty as an excuse for not buying. The French shopkeepera knave, like all of the vocation-says, 'Well! but don't mind immediate payment. I will trust you.' Ah, no, sir,' says the craftier English knave, 'I never incur debt.' Well, thinks the French rogue, this must be an honest man, and detains him in conversation. 'Do you happen,' he says, 'to know among your countrymen the Honorable D. K. W. who lives at the Grand Hotel?' 'Oh, yes, I know him as well as a humble man like myself can know a man of his great fortune and family.' 'Ah,' says the Gallic crafty, and is he rich ?' 'Oh, immensely! And what sort of man is he?' 'Why, a very good sort of man-but studious, absent, and a great simpleton!' 'Ha, could you get him to me for a customer? and I will give you so many francs.''Well, I will try'-pocketing the francs.


"Next day the honorable and reverend D. K. Wto the shop, and higgles marvellously with the shopman, who charges him, as an Englishman, only three prices. The goods are sent but next day the reverend and honorable D. K. W- is not to be heard of, having decamped-who knows where?"

* *


In conclusion, he says: "This place is in so far agreeable, that you can live for about two-thirds of what living would cost you in England. The few English with whom I have formed intimacy are amiable and unexceptionable. The French are, of course, less my favorites than the Agreeables of my native land. You know that I have never been a disparager of the French;' but, on the contrary, have been accused of being too much their favorer; so that you will accept my evidence when I tell you, that whereas we have a sour feeling towards the French, their feeling towards us is rank bitterness. Trusting that this will find you and yours in health and happiness,

T. C."


"I remain, &c., "To D. E. Williams, Esq., &c. &c."

ET. 66.]





In the condition described, and in a climate by no means friendly to his constitution, Campbell was overtaken by a severe winter. The whole tenor of his daily life was changed. With few or none of the resources which the habits of forty years had rendered necessary to his comfort-no familiar friends-no literary club-he soon found the high town of Boulogne had nothing to recommend it as a learned retirement. But it was the place of his choice; and, having made that choice in the height of summer, without sufficiently calculating, perhaps, the changes of season, it was too late to rectify the mistake. In the society of his niece, and of one or two private residents, he sought compensation for the loss of a wider circle-that of which he had long been the ornament; and, watching the great world only through the loopholes of retreat, he resolved to profit by the change. Reduced to what he had so pathetically describedthe condition of "a widowed sire”—

"A lonely hermit in the vale of years,"

he had still, like the English Seneca, "somewhat of the best things, which he would thankfully enjoy, and want the rest with contentment." He had found by experience that "amidst the rolling and turbulence of present things, nothing doth so establish the mind as a look above them-a look beyond them." By the free use of his pen, he still hoped to maintain his position in the literary world. Determined not to vegetate in retirement, he had laid down a plan to which he meant to adhere, in the distribution of his time; and by the exercise of his mind, he had a fair prospect of making up for those physical privations, which men of the world are too apt to regard as the greatest trials of life. He looked also, as he has told us, to a better immortality than that of literary fame-to "the existence which shall commence when the stone is laid over my head,"* and,

* See page 373 of this volume.

with such hopes to prompt and direct his studies, he desired to exemplify in his own practice, what he had so eloquently recommended in his poems

"When wisdom shall assuage,
The grief and passion of our greener age,
Tho' dull the close of life, and far away

Each flower that hailed the dawning of the day;
Yet, o'er her lovely hopes that once were dear,

The time-taught spirit, pensive, not severe,

With milder griefs her aged eye shall fill,
And weep their falsehood, though she loves them still."

He calculated "not upon a long, but a useful life”—he even expressed his apprehension that the "lease had almost expired;" but yet the mere fact of his having recently purchased an annuity, shows that he still flattered himself with the hope of lengthened days. He imagined, perhaps, that the tranquil life upon which he had now resolved would produce a salutary effect upon his health, and conduct him even to the patriarchal age of his father. Such hope, indeed, I had heard him express; and though it may have been often damped by his own bodily sensations, it was the hope that attended him to his very last day in England. At Boulogne, although he never lost his fortitude, nor expressed much solicitude on the subject of his health, this hope became much less sanguine, until it finally subsided into the conviction that his days were numbered.




His first effort, on taking possession of his new domicile, was to arrange and classify his library; but the labor was more than he could accomplish; and the books were never restored to their shelves. On every volume, however, in compliment to his niece, he wrote his name-thereby enhancing its value-and giving it a melancholy interest in the eyes of posterity. His correspondence was soon limited to two or three old friends. His notes from Boulogne, though unusually short, and seldom written, perhaps, but in answer to some pressing inquiry about his health, were nevertheless cheerful and even facetious-complaining of nothing but the cold winter-the "breezy heights" and "slippery streets" of the town; but his thoughts lay much deeper turning upon the solemn question, in his own words

As the retired

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Say, what days shall I inherit ?
Tell, my soul, their sum !"


drew to a close, his habits became more and more and necessarily so, for his health was rapidly declining;

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