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his battle of Hohenlinden; a poem which, perhaps, contains more grandeur and martial sublimity, than is to be found any where else, in the same compass of English poetry.

Mr. Campbell afterwards proceeded to Ratisbon, where he was at the time it was taken possession of by the French, and expected, as an Englishman, to be made prisoner; but he observes, "Moreau's army was under such excellent discipline, and the behaviour both of officers and men, so civil, that I soon mixed among them without hesitation, and formed many agreeable acquaintances at the messes of their brigade, stationed in town, to which their chef de brigade often invited me. This worthy man, Colonel Le Fort, whose kindness I shall ever remember with gratitude, gave me a protection to pass through the whole army of Moreau."

After this, he visited different parts of Germany, in the course of which, he paid one of the casual taxes on travelling, being plundered among the Tyrolese mountains, by a Croat, of his clothes, his books, and thirty ducats in gold. About mid-winter, he returned to Hamburgh, where he remained four months, in the expectation of accompanying a young gentleman of Edinburgh, in a tour to Constantinople. His unceasing thirst for knowledge, and his habits of industrious application, prevented these months from passing heavily or unprofitably. His time was chiefly employed in reading German, and making himself acquainted with the principles of Kant's Philosophy; from which however, he seems soon to have turned with distaste, to the richer, and more interesting field of German belleslettres:

While in Germany, an edition of his Pleasures of Hope, was proposed for publication in Vienna, but was forbidden by the court, in consequence of those passages which relate to Kosciusko, and the partition of Poland. Being disappointed in his projected visit to Constantinople, he returned to England in 1801, after nearly a year's absence, which had been passed much to his satisfaction and improvement, and had stored his mind with grand and awful images. "I remember," says he, "how little I valued the art of painting, before I got into the heart of such impressive scenes; but in Germany, I would have given, any thing to have possessed an art capable of conveying ideas inaccessible to speech and writing. Some particular scenes, were indeed rather overcharged with that degree of terrific, which oversteps the sublime, and I own, my flesh yet creeps at the recollection of spring-waggons and hospitals,-but the sight of Ingolstadt in ruins, or Hohenlinden covered with fire, seven miles in circumference, were spectacles never to be forgotten."

On returning to England, he visited London for the first time, where, though unprovided with a single letter of introduction, the celebrity of his writings procured him the immediate notice and attention of the best society. His recent visit to the Continent, however, had increased, rather than gratified his desire to travel. He now contemplated another tour, for the purpose of improving himself in the knowledge of foreign languages and foreign manners, in the course of which he intended to visit Italy, and pass some time at Rome. From this plan he was diverted, most probably, by an attachment he formed to a Miss Sinclair, a distant relation, whom he married in 1803. This change in his situation, naturally put an end to all his wandering propensities, he removed to Sydenham in Kent, near London, where he has ever since resided, devoting himself to literature, and the calm pleasures of domestic life.

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He has been enabled to indulge his love of study and retirement, more comfortably, by the bounty of his Sovereign, who, about three years since, presented him with an annuity of £200. This distinguished mark of royal favour, so gratifying to the pride of the poet, and the loyal affections of the subject, was wholly spontaneous and unconditional. It was neither granted to the importunities of his friends at court, nor given as a douceur to secure the services of the author's pen, but merely as a testimony of royal approbation of his popular poem, the Pleasures of Hope. Mr. Campbell, both before and since, has uniformly been independent in his opinions and writings.

Though withdrawn from the busy world, in his retirement at Sydenham, yet the genius of Mr. Campbell, like a true brilliant, occasionally flashed upon the public eye, in a number of exquisite little poems, which appeared on the periodical works of the day. Many of these, he has never thought proper to rescue from their perishable tepositories. But of those which he has formally acknowledged and re-published, Hohenlinden, Lochiel, the Mariners of England, and the Battle of the Baltic, are sufficient of themselves, were other evidence wanting, to establish his title to the sacred name of PoThe two last mentioned poems, we consider as two of the noblest na tional songs we ever have seen. They contain sublime imagery, and lofty sentiments, delivered with a "gallant swelling spirit," but totally free from that hyperbole and national rodomontade, which generally disgrace this species of poetry. In the beginning of 1809, he published his second volume of poems, containing Gertrude of Wyoming, and several smaller effusions; since which time, he has produced nothing of consequence, excepting the uncommonly spirited and affecting little tale of "O'Connor's Child, or Love lies bleeding."

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Of those private and characteristic anecdotes, which display most strikingly the habits and peculiarities of a writer, we have scarcely any to furnish respecting Mr. Campbell. He is generally represented to us, as being extremely studious, but, at the same time, social in his disposition, gentle and endearing in his manners, and extremely prepossessing in his appearance and address. With a delicate, and even nervous sensibility, and a degree of self-diffidence, that at times is almost painful, he shrinks from the glare of notoriety, which his own works have shed around him, and seems ever deprecating criticism, rather than enjoying praise. Though his society is courted by the most polished and enlightened, among whom, he is calculated to shine, yet, his chief delight is in domestic life, in the practice of those gentle virtues and bland affections, which he has so touchingly and eloquently illustrated in various passages of his poems.

That Mr. Campbell has by any means attained to the summit of his fame, We rather look upon we cannot suffer ourselves for a moment to believe. the works he has already produced, as specimens of pure and virgin gold, from a mine, whose treasures are yet to be explored. It is true, the very reputation Mr. Campbell has acquired, may operate as a disadvantage to his future efforts. Public expectation is a pitiless task-master, and exorbitant in its demands. He who has once awakened it, must go on in a progressive ratio, surpassing what he has hitherto done, or the public will be disappointed. Under such circumstances, an author of common sensibility takes up his pen with fear and trembling. A consciousness that much is expected from him, deprives him of that ease of mind, and boldness of imagination, which are necessary to fine writing, and he too often fails,

from a too great anxiety to excel. He is like some youthful soldier, who, having distinguished himself by a gallant and brilliant atchievement, is ever fearful of entering on a new enterprize, lest he should tarnish the laurels he has won.

We are satified that Mr. Campbell feels this very diffidence and solicitude from the uncommon pains he bestows upon his writings. These are scrupulously revised, modelled, and retouched over and over, before they are suffered to go out of his hands, and even then, are slowly and reluctantly yielded up to the press, This elaborate care may at times be carried to an excess, so as to produce a fastidiousness of style, and an air of too much art and labour, It occasionally imparts to the muse the precise demeanour and studied attire of the prude, rather than the negligent and bewitching graces of the woodland nymph. A too minute attention to finishing, is likewise injurious to the force and sublimity of a poem. The vivid images which are struck off at a single heat, in those glowing moments of inspiration, "when the soul is lifted up to heaven," are too often softened down, and cautiously tamed, in the cold hour of correction. As an intance of the critical severity which Mr. Campbell exercises over his productions, we will mention a fact within our knowledge, concerning his Battle of the Baltic, This ode, as published, consists but of five stanzas, these were all that his scrupulous taste permitted him to cull out of about a dozen, which we have seen in manuscript. The rest, though full of poetic fire and imagery, were timidly consigned by him to oblivion.

But though this scrupulous spirit of revision, may chance to refine away some of the bold touches of his pencil, and to injure some of its negligent graces, it is not without its eminent advantages. While it tends to produce a terseness of language and a remarkable delicacy and sweetness of versification, it enables him likewise to impart to his productions a vigorous conciseness of style, a graphical correctness of imagery, and a philosophi cal condensation of idea, rarely found in the popular poets of the day. Facility of writing seems to have been the bane of many modern poets, who too generally indulge in a ready and abundant versification, which, like a flowering vine, overruns their subject, and expands through many a weedy page. In fact, most of them seem to have mistaken carelessness for ease, and redundance for luxuriance: they never take pains to condense and invigorate. Hence we have those profuse and loosely written poems, wherein the writers, either too feeble or too careless to seize at once upon their subject, prefer giving it a chace, and hunt it through a labyrinth of verses, until it is fairly run down and overpowered by a multitude of words.

Great therefore as are the intrinsic merits of Mr. Campbell, we are led to estimate them the more highly, when we consider them as beaming forth, like the pure lights of heaven, among the meteor exhalations and false fires with which our literary atmosphere abounds, In an age when we are overwhelmed by an abundance of eccentric poetry, and when we are con⚫ founded by an host of ingenious poets of vitiated tastes and frantic fancies, it is really cheering and consolatory to behold a writer of Mr. Campbell's genius, studiously attentive to please, according to the established laws of criticism, as all our good old orthodox writers have pleased before; without setting up a standard, and endeavouring to establish a new sect, and inculcate some new and lawless doctrine of his own.

Before concluding this sketch, we cannot help pointing to one circum

stance, which we confess has awakened a feeling of good will towards Mr. Campbell; though in mentioning it we shall do little more, perhaps, than betray our own national egotism, He is, we believe, the only British poet of eminence that has laid the story of a considerable poem, in the bosom of our country. We allude to his Gertrude of Wyoming, which describes the pastoral simplicity and innocence, and the subsequent woes of one of our little patriarchal hamlets, during the troubles of our revolution.

We have so long been accustomed to experience little else than contumely, misrepresentation, and very witless ridicule from the British press; and we have had such repeated proofs of the extreme ignorance and absurd errors that prevail in Great Britain respecting our country and its inhabitants, that we confess, we were both surprised and gratified to meet with a poet, sufficiently unprejudiced to conceive an idea of moral excellence and natural beauty on this side of the Atlantic. Indeed even this simple show of liberality has drawn on the poet the censures of many narrow-minded writers, with whom liberality to this country is a crime. We are sorry to see such pitiful manifestations of hostility towards us. Indeed we must say, that we consider the constant acrimony and traduction indulged in, by the British press, towards this country, to be as opposite to the interest, as it is derogatory to the candour and magnanimity of the nation. It is operating to widen the differences between the two nations, which, if left to the impulse of their own feelings, would naturally grow together, and among the sad changes of this disastrous world, be mutual supports and comforts to each other.

Whatever may be the occasional collisions of etiquette and interest which will inevitably take place, between two great commercial nations, whose property and people are spread far and wide on the face of the ocean; whatever may be the clamourous expressions of hostility vented at such times by our unreflecting populace, or rather uttered in their name by a host of hireling scribblers, who pretend to speak the sentiments of the people; it is certain, that the well educated and well informed class of our citizens entertain a deep-rooted goodwill and a rational esteem for Great Britain. It is almost impossible it should be otherwise, Independent of those hereditary affections, which spring up spontaneously for the nation from whence we have descended, the single circumstance of imbibing our ideas from the same author has a powerful effect in causing an attachment.

The writers of Great Britain are the adopted citizens of our country, and though they have no legislative voice, exercise an authority over our opinions and affections, cherished by long habit, and matured by affection. In these works we have British valour, British magnanimity, British might, and British wisdom, continually before our eyes, portrayed in the most captivating colours; and are thus brought up, in constant contemplation of all that is amiable and illustrious in the British character. To these works, likewise, we resort, in every varying mood of mind, or vicissitude of fortune. They are our delight in the hour of relaxation; the solemn monitors and instructors of our closet; our comforters in the gloomy seclusions of life-loathing despondency. In the season of early life, in the strength of manhood, and, still, in the weakness and apathy of age, it is to them we are indebted for our hours of refined and unalloyed enjoyment. When we turn our eyes to England, therefore, from whence this bounteous tide of literature pours in upon us, it is with such feelings as the Egyptian experiences, when he looks towards the sacred source of that stream, which, rising in

a far distant country, flows down upon his own barren soil, diffusing riches, beauty and fertility.

Surely it cannot be the interest of Great Britain to trifle with such feelings. Surely the good will, thus cherished among the best hearts of a country, rapidly increasing in power and importance, is of too much consequence to be scornfully neglected, or surlily dashed away. It most certainly, therefore, would be both politic and honourable, for those enlightened British writers, who sway the sceptre of criticism, to expose these constant misrepresentations, and discountenance these galling and unworthy insults of the pen, whose effect is to mislead and to irritate, without serving one valuable purpose. They engender gross prejudice in Great Britain, inimical to a proper national understanding, while with us, they wither all those feelings of kindness and consanguinity, that were shooting forth, like so many tendrils, to attach to us our parent country.

While therefore we regard the poem of Mr. Campbell with complacency, as evincing an opposite spirit to this, of which we have just complained, there are other reasons likewise, which interest us in its favour. Among the lesser evils, incident to the infant state of our country, we have to lament its almost total deficiency in those local associations produced by history and moral fiction. These may appear trivial to the common mass of readers; but the mind of taste and sensibility will at once acknowledge them, as constituting a great source of national pride, and love of country. There is an inexpressible charm imparted to every place that has been celebrated by the historian, or immortalized by the poet; a charm that dignifies it in the eyes of the stranger, and endears it to the heart of the native. Of this romantic attraction, we are almost entirely destitute. While every insignificant hill and turbid stream in classic Europe, has been hallowed by the visitations of the muse, and contemplated with fond enthusiasm; our lofty mountains and stupendous cataracts awaken no poetical associations, and our majestic rivers roll their waters unheeded, because unsung.

Thus circumstanced, the sweet strains of Mr. Campbell's muse break upon us as gladly as would the pastoral pipe of the shepherd, amid the savage solitude of one of our trackless wildernesses. We are delighted to witness the air of captivating romance, and rural beauty, our native fields and wild woods can assume, under the plastic pencil of a master; and while wandering with the poet, among the shady groves of Wyoming, or along the banks of the Susquehanna, almost fancy ourselves transported to the side of some classic stream, in the "hollow breast of Appenine." This may assist to convince many, who were before slow to believe, that our own country is capable of inspiring the highest poetic feelings, and furnishing

Since this Biographical notice was first published, the political relations between the two countries are changed, and we are now at war with Great Britain. The above observations therefore may not be palatable to those who are eager for the hostility of the pen as well as of the sword. The author indeed, was for some time in doubt, whether to expunge them, as he could not prevail on himself to accommodate them to the embittered temper of the times. He determined however to let them remain. However the feelings he has expressed, may be outraged or prostrated by the violence of warfare, they never can be totally eradicated. Besides, it should be the exalted ministry of literature to keep together the family of human nature; to calm, with her soul subduing voice," the furious passions of warfare, and thus to bind up those ligaments which the sword would cleave asunder. The author may be remiss in the active exercise of this duty, but he will never have to reproach himself, that he has attempted to poison with political virulence, the pure fountains of elegant literature.

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