THOMAS CAMPBELL.*

IF it could be possible for the souls of poets dead and gone to keep themselves posted with regard to current publications, we are not quite sure that Messrs. Bell's excellent " Aldine " series would be universally popular in the happy fields and mossy caverns of Elysium. It has certainly rendered a most thankwor thy service to many of the obscurer sort, whose light would, but for their kindly aid, have remained under a bushel which few would care to remove,—let alone the expenses of providing a candlestick. With the greatest poets, on the other hand, the popularisation of their works is such an advantage to the world at large, that it matters little whether the result is pleasing or the reverse to the gentlemen them- selves. But between these two classes come a considerable number of names, well enough known to fame, but not placed by general consent upon the heights that defy criticism ; and we can well imagine that many of these would prefer to be known only by such of their greater works as are to be found in general collections. Few poets seem at first sight to profit more by the system of selection than Campbell. The admirers who have known him only as the author of "The Battle of theBaltic" or of" Hohenlinden," may be led to alter their opinions considerably when they are called upon to take account of Theodric or Gertrude of Wyoming. Still, of course, the public has a right—however seldom exer- cised—to judge for itself of the whole man as he was, without trusting to the fallible medium of a selection; and the neat little edition of Campbell which is now before us, gives a hope- ful opportunity.

The exact place in the ranks of British poetry which should be assigned to Campbell would be no easy task to decide. Up to the present time, he has usually received at least his fair share of public approbation. In his own day, his popu- larity was extraordinary, considering the number of far greater men who were his contemporaries, and continued to the end of his life, in spite of the acknowledged failure of his later publications. No doubt one im- portant factor in his success was the fact that he was in a manner the first on the field. When he achieved his first great success with The Pleasures of Hope—the success which made him a man of mark for life—there was a kind of pause in the history of letters, a brief period of quiescence preceding the great outburst of genius in the first twenty years of this century. Burns, a great forerunner of the newer and more natural school of poetry, had died a year or two before; Wordsworth and Coleridge were as yet unknown names ; Byron, Shelley, and Keats were children; and Walter Scott, when he gave at his own table the health of the modest young author of The Pleasures of Hope, was as yet only known by his social powers, and what would be called in those days an elegant taste for letters. This may partly explain the enthusiasm which Campbell aroused, not only in Edinburgh society—which has always been distinguished by a tendency to emballer itself about the last new clever young man—but even in less impressionable London. More remarkable, however, is the fact that he continued to maintain his popularity when his great contemporaries were at the height of their glory. It is true that the poet did his part in keeping it up for a while by giving to the world from time to time one work of real genius, usually in company with others of very inferior calibre. One year would be marked by the "Mariners of England," another by " Hohenlinden." a third by "The Battle of the Baltic." But however much these great works might do—and it is easy to admire even what is really fine when it is written by a poet of established reputation—it certainly • The Poetical Works of Thomas CanipbeiL Edited by his Nephew.in.Law, the Rev. W. Alfred Hill, M.A. With a Sketch of his Life by William Allingham, London ; groorge Bell and Sons. 1890.

seems that the continued honour paid to Campbell had its real source in the prestige acquired by the publication of The Pleasures of Hope.

It is not easy for the modern reader to understand the ex- traordinary success of those long-winded poetical disserta- tions upon nothing in particular which charmed the mind of the eighteenth century by their elegance and refinement. We cannot admire or be grateful to the poet who is willing, like Dogberry, to bestow all his tediousness upon us, or feel any delight in his polished versification or classical diction. To form anything like an impartial judgment upon The Pleasures of Hope, for instance, we must be content to see with the eyes of the society for whom it was written. In the short biography by the late William Allingham which is pre- fixed to the book before us, a good description is given of the "correct" school of poetry, in which Campbell achieved his first trinmph

" It aimed at and produced a refinement of general manners, so to speak, in poetry, and had at the same time the effect of dis- couraging and obliterating individuality. As people at a sermon expected—and, indeed, as many congregations still expect—their preacher to address them within the limits of certain well-known formalities, so when readers took up a poem (and the run was on didactic and reflective poetry) they expected everything there to be said after a particular manner, and nothing to be said which could not be so said gracefully. The best models were familiar ; there was no doubt as to the standard of excellence; and every new aspirant to public favour naturally kept this before him and strove to reach it."

Alas, poor correct school ! It is dead and gone to its place in literary history, which is not often among the highest. In a

letter quoted by Mr. Allingham, which probably suggested the idea of The Pleasures of Hope, a friend of Campbell's says :— " We have now three 'Pleasures' by first-rate men of genius, viz., The Pleasures of Imagination, The Pleasures of Memory, and The Pleasures of Solitude." How many are there among

us who know of these works, even what manner of things they may be ? Who would venture now to speak of Akenside,

or of Samuel Rogers, as "first-rate men of genius "? How many have even heard the name of Zimmermann? Yet, if we can judge by the canons of this defunct school, we may find somewhat to admire in The Pleasures of Hope, which is a decidedly favourable specimen of its class. There are many passages in it which show considerable power, though weakened by the affectation and mannerisms of the day, and the perpetual strivings after over-refinement. To pass over the familiar and somewhat turgid verses which record the conduct of Freedom at the death of Kosciusko, we may instance the passage which deals with the loss of hope caused by the disbelief in a future life :—

" I smile on death if Heaven-ward Hope remain.

But if the warring winds of Nature's strife Be all the faithless charter of my life, If Chance awaked, inexorable power, This frail and feverish being of an hour ; Doom'd o'er the world's precarious scene to sweep Swift as the tempest travels on the deep, To know delight but by her parting smile, And toil, and wish, and weep a little while ; Then melt, ye elements that form'd in vain This troubled pulse and visionary brain !

Fade, ye wild flowers, memorials of my doom, And sink, ye stare, that light me to my tomb !"

There mast undoubtedly have been some of the sacred fire of poetry in the man who wrote these lines, if he could only have shaken himself free of the trammels which hampered him.

To put Pegasus in harness is often a very healthful process, calculated to eradicate any symptoms of vice, and to cure that tendency to jibbing which is characteristic of the winged steeds of poetry ; but when poor Pegasus is so misguided as to fasten himself the harness on his back, or to add to the con- ventional restraints of the day an extra bearing-rein of his own, it is odds if the spirit is not driven out of him altogether.

The same conventional restraints prevent the development of his real powers in his other long poems. These, however, generally show us his faults alone, with hardly a glimpse of higher possibilities. Gertrude of Wyoming is one of the many instances where the fatal facility of versification has

led the writer into the belief that he had achieved a poem when he had really merely strung together verses. We can imagine a foreigner who should learn to read English so far as to be able to pronounce it without understanding the words, being charmed by Gertrude of Wyoming. Even to a fuller comprehension, there is often a kind of glamour about florid descriptions in easy-flowing metre, which makes it look at first uncommonly like poetry. But there is an entire absence of genuine feeling, even of genuine language, about Gertrude, which makes us wonder even at its temporary popularity. It has also a great deal more than its share of bad lines ; we do not mean bad in versification, but weak or inflated, though these are seldom wanting in Campbell's longer works, in spite of their constant revisions,—for Campbell, though naturally indolent, was a staunch observer of Boileau's rule : " Polissez- le sans cease, et le repolissez." It is astonishing how badly Campbell could write when he set his mind to it, and what terrible pitfalls of anti-climax he would fall into, often spoiling by the imbecility of the conclusion what seems at first a strong passage. The profoundest depth of bathos is reached in his absurd ballad of "The Ritter Bann," the concluding stanza of which we quote, as a sad example of the kind of stuff that a man with a real apprehension of poetry can be led into :—

" One moment may with bliss repay Unnumbered hours of pain ;

Such was the throb and the mutual sob Of the Knight embracing Jane"

The last two lines have perhaps never been equalled. At least, we hope not.

But there is nothing in all his failures which can in any manner counterbalance the two or three great lyrics which show us how much poorer the world would have been if Campbell had not lived. There is hardly anything in our literature which could be regarded as superior in its line to "The Battle of the Baltic." There is no higher ideal to be sought for in poetry than that of loftiness of thought com- bined with felicity of expression, and both of these are here, while the selection of exactly the suitable metre—the grand, rolling stanzas so perfectly in accordance with the theme of the Bea-fight—shows the complete appreciation of detail which marks the true artist. As a martial lyric, it is almost perfect. It is curious to find that this most apparently spontaneous effort of the poet's was only elaborated after due revision. At any rate, the right note was not struck at first, for Mr. Allingham, in his biography, presents to us as the original commencement of the poem, the following feeble stanza :—

"Of Nelson and the North Sing the day,

When their haughty powers to vex, He engaged the Danish decks, And with twenty floating wrecks, Crowned the fray."

As great as" The Battle of the Baltic," in a slightly different tone, is the grand patriotic song of the "Mariners of England." Perhaps no other of his finer poems can be placed in quite the same rank with these great national lyrics,

though that masterpiece of metre, " Hohenlinden " comes not far below them. It is singular, by-the-way, that, if Campbell himself had been asked, he would probably have said that there was no cause nearer to his heart than that of the Poles ; yet the many pieces of impassioned declamation which he has left to us in defence of Poland, and against the tyranny of Russia, appear tumid and feeble beside the poems inspired by the love of his own country. Perhaps this may also be attributed to the fact that the former are usually cast in a more elaborate and artificial strain. There is so much power and spirit in the lyrical vehicle which Campbell employs for his patriotic songs, that the thought and expression seem to mould themselves into the lines almost automatically. Take, for instance, a song which has much less backbone in it than those already referred to, the "Address to the Men of England: "—

" Men of England ! who inherit

Rights that cost your sires their blood ! Men whose undegenerate spirit Has been proved on field and flood."

ça va tout seul. The poet who can once set such a machine in motion has little to do but to sit tight and let himself be carried on. There is nothing easier to burlesque than this

style of rhythm, but it is almost impossible to write weak verses in it.

There are also others of his smaller pieces, of which the tone is simpler and less lofty, but whose sincerity of feeling gives them a charm which is wanting in his more ambitious efforts. Most of these are so familiar, that it would be absurd to quote from them ; but we venture to give a few stanzas from one which is less generally known—less known certainly than it deserves to be—the ballad of "Napoleon and the British Sailor," a plain story plainly told, in perhaps the simplest, though not the least melodious, verse that Campbell ever used :— "Twas when his banners at Boulogne Arm'd in our island every freeman, His navy chanced to capture one Poor British seaman.

They suffered him—I know not how, Unprison'd on the shore to roam ; And aye was bent his longing brow On England's home.

. . ..... . .

At last when care had banished sleep He saw one morning—dreaming—doting, An empty hogshead from the deep Come shoreward floating ; He hid it in a cave, and wrought The livelong day laborious ; lurking Until he launch'd a tiny boat By mighty working.

Heaven help us ! 'twas a thing beyond Description wretched : such a wherry Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond, Or cross'd a ferry.

For ploughing in the salt sea field, It would have made the boldest shudder, Untared, uncompass'd and unkeerd, No sail—no rudder.

From neighbouring woods he interlaced

His sorry skiff with wattled willows' -

And thus equipp'd he would have pass'd The foaming billows."

His project is, however, discovered, and Napoleon, happening to hear of the matter, has the sailor brought before him. We may mention that the incident is supposed to be more or less authentic :—

"r Rash man, that wouldst you Channel pass

On twigs and staves so rudely fashion'd; Thy heart with some sweet British lass Must be impassion'd.' 'I have no sweetheart,' said the lad ;

But—absent long from one another—

Great was the longing that I had To see my mother.'

And so thou shalt,' Napoleon said, Ye've both my favour fairly won ; A noble mother must have bred So brave a son.'

He gave the tar a piece of gold, And, with a flag of truce, commanded He should be shipp'd to England Old, And safely landed.

Our sailor oft could scantly shift To find a dinner, plain and hearty ; But never changed the coin and gift Of Bonaparte."

Cheap sentiment, some will say, a charge, by-the-way, which no one feared in Campbell's time. At any rate, it is of that class of poetry which cannot be written by one who has not the root of the matter in him.

There is not much to be said about the actual edition before us. It is of a neat and convenient form, and the type and paper leave nothing to be desired. The editor's work has been the better done that our attention is never called to it ; and the biography prefixed to the poems gives a sufficient account of Campbell's life, even if the criticisms with which it is garnished are not always judicious.