produced 2007.; his pension 2007.; the profits of his works, between 6007. and 7007; and, in 1843, on the death of his surviving sister, he received a sum of 800%., the greater part of which, however, he sunk in an annuity, receiving for his "investment” only one pecuniary payment. 1 In June, 1843, a farewell party (as it turned out) was given to all his friends then in town, and in the month following he left his home never to return to it, except for a few days in order to dispose, at all hazards, of his lease in the house. On the 15th of July, he arrived at Boulogne, and was, by the kind assistance of Mr. Hamilton, the British consul, soon located with his niece at the Hôtel de Bourgogne, a quiet and well-regulated hotel, in the upper town. Here, after a month's residence, he took a house in the Haute Ville,—5, Rue Petit St. Jean. For some months he seemed contented and benefited by the change of air and scene, but the house lay high and exposed, and in November, when the cold weather set in, a feeling of indolence and torpor seemed (as he expressed it) to grow upon him; but this evidenced not merely the effect of the change of season, but the progress of disease-an affection of the liver; yet, now and then, though expressing a belief that the lease of life had almost expired, he would rally-be himself again-and tell his plans for the future. Though in seclusion and retirement, he purposed to show to the world he was not idle, and so he made efforts and strove until wearied nature told the plain but trying truth that his days were numbered. At times, when the weather was inviting, attended by his affectionate niece, he would walk a little way down the hill leading from the Haute Ville to the Bas Ville. His favourite haunt about mid-day was the ramparts upon which his house abutted, but, at last, when winter set in chill and rigorous, he was fain to retire to his easy chair and a warm corner in his library. Here, in writing a work, entitled "Lectures on Classical Geography," intended to have been dedicated to his niece,-in reading the journals of the day,-in listening to some of his old favourite pieces of music,-the long evenings passed onwards. The new year arrived, but opened upon the sick man with little of a hopeful character. He was oppressed by a constant sensation of cold. He now began to drop all correspondence, and to decline seeing any of the many kind friends who called to proffer their services. As spring came on, and the weather grew gradually more mild and settled, he revived for a few weeks; but this was succeeded by a perceptible, though gradual, decay of strength. Towards the end of May, he became entirely confined to his bed, and the English physician (Dr. Allatt), who had been constant in his attendance, held out no hopes of ultimate recovery. About three weeks prior to his death, he expressed a conviction that he would never again leave his bed alive; his niece endeavoured to cheer his spirits and to infuse hope, that if God so willed it, with care, he might live for many years; to this he answered, "For your sake I had wished I might live for some years longer, for you are now the only tie I have to this world; indeed, you are the dearest object I have on earth." To which Miss Campbell replied, "Oh! that is a poetical flight." He replied, "Nay, my dear, it is a prosaic truth!” Every exertion that affectionate tenderness, or woman's love, could devise, was lavished upon him; he was generally alive to all that passed; and though his sufferings at times were acute, no expressions of impatience ever escaped his lips. About ten days before his dissolution, Dr. Beattie came from England to visit his old friend, and on his part zealously aided Miss Campbell in her labour of love, exerting to the utmost all his wellknown professional skill and kindly sympathies, in striving to soothe the poet's dying pillow. As opportunity served, and the attention of the sufferer could be aroused, passages from the Scriptures, particularly from the Gospels and Epistles, were read, and his attention directed to the assurance of hope to the faithful believer through the Saviour's atonement. On several occasions he expressed to his niece a vivid sense of the beauty and sublimity of the Bible, particularly the Old Testament, and shed tears over the glowing language and poetic imagery of the sweet Psalmist of Israel. On the 12th of June he became at times insensible, but towards evening rallied a little, and, addressing his niece, who was standing over his couch, said, "Come, let us sing praises to Christ;" then pointing to the bed-side, he added, “sit here.” Miss Campbell said, "Shall I pray for you?" "Oh! yes,” he replied, "let us pray for one another." During the two following days he continued almost entirely in a state of stupor, occasionally naming friends long absent, and making observations, which from their total irrelevancy to all that was passing in his room, showed that his mind was no longer under his own control. On the 15th instant, at a quarter past four in the afternoon, he expired without the slightest perceptible struggle; indeed the sudden change of his countenance was the first indication that the spirit of the Bard of Hope had fled. When the arrangements, required by the laws of France in cases of death, had been completed with the Commissaire de Police and his officials, the body was laid for several days in the drawingroom, crowned with a wreath of laurel, during which period it was visited by many strangers, English and French, and many acquaintances and friends of the deceased, all anxious to testify their kindly sympathies and take a last look at him who had so often cheered and elevated their hearts. After this manifestation of affection to his memory, the corpse was consigned to a coffin of lead, and having been duly sealed with the town seal of Boulogne, was deposited in an outer coffin of wood, upon the lid of which was inscribed, on a brass plate the following inscription: THOMAS CAMPBELL, LL.D., AUTHOR OF THE "PLEASURES OF HOPE," DIED JUNE XV., MDCCCXLIV. On the 27th of June, the body was embarked at midnight for London, and on its arrival in the metropolis was conveyed to the undertaker's house -thence to a chapel near the Jerusalem Chamber, Westminster Abbey, in which it remained until the 3d of July, the day of the funeral; a day well remembered by the many who witnessed the solemn ceremonial, —men of all gradations of rank, (not omitting the head of his clan, the Duke of Argyle, and the premier, the late lamented Sir Robert Peel); they all vied with each other in paying a last tribute of respect to the merits of this admired genius. Since Campbell's decease, a full-length statue, by Mr. W. C. Marshall, has been finished, and is proposed to be erected in Poets' Corner, Westminster Abbey. We close this short sketch of the career of this gifted individual, by a few quotations from his own words at the age of sixty-one, recorded in Reminiscences of the Poet by Members of his Family. He spoke frequently, if led to it, of his feelings while writing his poems. When he wrote the "Pleasures of Hope," fame, he said, was every thing in the world to him: if any one had foretold to him then, how indifferent he would be now to fame and public opinion, he would have scouted the idea. He said he hoped he really did feel, with regard to his posthumous fame, that he left it, as well as all else about himself, to the mercy of God. "I believe when I am gone, justice will be done to me in this way-that I was a pure writer. It is an inexpressible comfort, at my time of life, to be able to look back and feel that I have not written one line against religion or virtue." Another time, speaking of the insignificance which in one sense posthumous fame must have, he said, "When I think of the existence which shall commence when the stone is laid above my head,-when I think of the momentous realities of that time, and of the awfulness of the account I shall have to give of myself, how CAN literary fame appear to me but as nothing. Who will think of it then? If, at death, we enter on a new state of eternity, of what interest beyond his present life can a man's literary fame be to |