More awe-struck than touched, I proceeded to obey her orders; but unluckily, paused to prepare my departure by entreaties that, if I succeeded in bringing him back, she would not expose herself to the shock of an interview. "We know not what may be the state of his mind,” said I. "Return to the house. Retire to your own room. Do not meet him, except in your father's presence. Meanwhile, dearest, I will watch over him. Be satisfied that with me he is safe." She obeyed. And having seen her into the house, I rushed to the offices, whither the fugitive had directed his steps. No one had seen him. The old coachman, to whom I addressed myself for information, stared me in the face as though he thought me as crazed as my cousin, for inquiring "whether Mr. Cuthbert had left the premises?" when all the country round knew him to be in confinement at the Heath But for the growling of the dog-but that Agnes as well as myself had witnessed the appearance, I should have begun to think it a wild coinage of my brain. Even as it was, might not the visiting be supernatural? Was it not the spectre-the wraith-the fetch of Cuthbert Westfern we had seen? Every pulse in my veins throbbed with excitement. I knew not whither to turn, or from whom to hope for enlightenment. When lo, as I retraced my steps towards the house, I discerned on the moist gravel, the prints of a horse's hoofs; whereas both Haggerston and myself were in the habit of mounting and dismounting in the stable yard. By examining these traces, I had reason to see that a horse had been recently tied to the iron staple of the porch, and that it had issued forth from the fore court in the direction of the Heath. Heaven be praised! If the poor sufferer had indeed escaped from durance, the instinct of his infirmity had at least prompted him to return to the place of safety from whence he came. I flew to Agnes. She was breathless, pale, almost speechless, and would not listen to my re-assurance. "Lose not a "Follow him!" faltered she, in incoherent accents. moment till you have seen him in security. The mountain roads are unsafe—the river lies in his way. My poor dear Cuthbert! It is your duty to protect and save him-you-his cousin-his next of kin.” I needed not a second bidding. As soon as the saddle could be placed on my horse, I was on my way, following the track left by the fugitive in that almost unfrequented road. Unluckily, however, this was in some degree perplexed by the passage of Dr. Hipsley's carriage the preceding night; the way to the Heath, lying, for nearly half its distance, along the road to Westfern Hall. As I approached Huttington, the remembrance of my poor cousin's exploit and the allusion we had made to it the night before, little suspecting how soon the poor maniac himself would traverse the spot, forced a heavy sigh from my heart. Fifty yards nearer the beetling crag on which the ruin was suspended, and that heart almost ceased to beat. A horse saddled and bridled was quietly grazing in the meadow leading from the road to the ruined postern. Doubtless my cousin's horse. He was perhaps, at that moment wandering, alone, bewildered, distracted, among those perilous ruins. Alone—alone indeed! but neither bewildered nor distracted. In a moment I was in the meadow, and my own horse ranging at large with that of Cuthbert. A damp chill struck to my very soul as I traversed the dreary vault of entrance, whose groined roof was still perfect, to reach the inner court. But I had not far to advance in my anxious search. There -on the grass-grown stones at the foot of the old tower, lay all that remained of Cuthbert-a shapeless mass-crushed and mutilated by precipitation from the dizzy height above. It might be that, ignorant of the dilapidation of the spot since his last visit, he had missed his footing, and died an accidental death. And God grant that it was so; for to urge him to the act of self-destructionwhat must have been the anguish of that pious mind. I hurried on for succour to the Heath, leaving his blood yet flowing on the stones; and ere I had proceeded a quarter of a mile, encountered persons who, the moment the alarm of his flight was given, had dispersed about the country in search of him. And again, Dormer was the origin of all the mischief. Straight from his interview with my uncle had he proceeded to the Heath on pretence of ascertaining the exact state of mind of the patient, to probe which to the quick, he asked such questions and made such disclosures, as drove the convalescent mind of the victim wild near distraction. The unknown kinsman described to him as being so dear to his Agnes, took possession of his excited imagination. He wanted to see me. He wanted to commune with her whom he suspected me of estranging from him. Ere Dormer could divine his project, he had darted from the room and locked it upon him whose visits being sacred at the Heath, the keepers were for a moment placed at liberty. Having leapt upon Dormer's horse which was waiting ready saddled in the stable, and in the linen vesture he was accustomed to wear, without hat or covering against the heat of the sun, he dashed onwards to Campley. After vainly seeking Miss Haggerston in the house, he had hurried to the favourite tree, the scene of their studies-their interviews ! But of the shock produced on his feelings by all he witnessed there, I must not permit myself to speak. Suffice it that he rushed madly from the place, and was seen no more by mortal eye till reduced to a disfigured corpse. Happily for my poor uncle, the whole truth was never known to him. None but Agnes and myself were aware of his visit to Campley; and our lips were sealed by the anguish of our souls. In the country round it transpired only that the heir of Westfern Hall, having defied the vigilance of his keepers, had galloped straight from the Heath to Huttington Castle, and, haunted by the reminiscence of his former enterprise, ascended the fatal stairs and fallen headlong from the summit. Even this modified version of the dreadful event sufficed to lay my uncle's gray head in the grave. He knew that it was from an interview with Father Dormer his son had effected his escape, and readily conjectured that the hints afforded by the Jesuit had instigated his paroxysm. Before the dust of the ill-fated Cuthbert could be gathered to that of our common fathers, Sir Ralph gave up the ghost, dying with his hand clasped in my own, and instructing me in the last wishes of his broken heart. "Let him not be utterly forgotten," murmured he, on the last dreary night of his life of care; let not that gifted being be utterly forgotten. "let Sometimes, amid your happiness with Agnes, recall to mind my poor Cuthbert, and be his memory hallowed between you." And hallowed it is, and shall ever be. But not "between us." Since the day when I followed to the family vault the two gorgeous coffins containing all that remained of the lofty line of Westfern, to whose wealth and consequence I had succeeded, I have never looked upon her face. Immediately after the sad solemnity, a letter was placed in my hands by old Bernard, apprising me that we were to meet no more in this world. She had at once taken refuge from her self-upbraidings in the convent where her youth was passed, and already entered into her novitiate. Another year, and she had taken the veil. But not in the old convent. Painfully conscious of the impossibility of inhabiting the ill-fated hall, I devoted it at once to the purpose for which it was best calculated. I wished the spot and the memory of my poor cousin to be sanctified by the perpetual prayers of beings as spotless and godly as himself, and by the intervention of Dormer with the Papal authorities, Westfern is now the refuge of a Benedictine Sisterhood, of which that beloved one-that unhappy one-is the superior. The lapse of nearly a dozen years may have endowed her, perhaps, with the peace that is not of this world. But I, who after a year spent in utter seclusion, had the weakness to seek relief amid the conflicting tides of society, from the distraction of my own mind, have acquired nothing in exchange for the precious illusions of my youth save the flightiness of a spirit at war with itself. Whether in the brilliant world where wealth and station secure me a certain degree of consideration-to me hollow as the tomb-or whether amid the beautiful scenery of this sequestered spot, where I am vainly seeking reconciliation with myself. How can I hope to divest myself of the gloomy impressions imparted by the fatal destinies of those to whom I have succeeded as NEXT OF KIN? GO FORWARD. A SONG. BY J. E. CARPENTER, ESQ. Go forward!-'tis folly, behind to be glancing, 1 LIFE AND REMINISCENCES OF THOMAS CAMPBELL. BY CYRUS REDDING CHAP. VII. Conduct of the New Monthly Magazine under Campbell-Augustus William Schlegel-Literary Dinner-Singular Dispute and Schlegel's VictoryAnecdote of the East India Company-The Anonymous ContributorThe Poetry of Johns-Sotheby-The Preface-The Queen's Case-Shiel, Curran, Banim, Grattan, Sullivan, Emerson Tennant, &c.-Song written at Sydenham-The Poet's Alterations-Campbell's Feelings in regard to Sir Walter Scott. THE fault of the New Monthly Magazine, unavoidable under an editorship that consisted in a negative, and not a positive, realization of the duty, was that it wanted an identification with, or a reflection from, some strong mind. The change of form and the name of the editor, gave the work a start, and absolutely changed the condition of that kind of periodical literature, but this was a natural consequence arising from extraneous circumstance. The work must of necessity have furnished a striking contrast to the old magazines. It must have shown a more refined literary taste, and displayed much more elegance in scholarship, as well as abound more in matter of an amusing character, not neglecting information in its double columns, portions relating to the drama, the arts and sciences, and biography in the way of fact. But the rage for what was "fashionable," a term ever antagonist to all that is really tasteful, learned, energetic and truth telling, ran strong with the superficial public. Campbell was not the man to lead any bold or novel line, either in literary or political writing. I have before observed, that his duty was negatively fulfilled. What he did was on compulsion, and a burden, however slight in reality. His temperament and habits forbade his indulging even in the prospect of, much less meeting, a hundredth part of the labour requisite to infuse a warmth of feeling through the work which should make it kindle the hearts, and move the affections of its readers. I do not believe the poet ever read through a single number of the magazine during the whole ten years he was its editor. The New Monthly might have developed important views, and taken a much higher literary standing, but Campbell had no idea of following out such an object. When he wrote himself upon any subject that involved a question of public advantage or private utility, he was ever what the man and the poet should be, eloquent, elevated, liberal, and earnest. But he had no idea of "wielding," if I may so say, "the democracy" of the literature he might have swayed to excellent purpose, in order to press forward great points, or of making deep impressions on the mind of the reader, through glowing associations produced by the strong unshackled efforts of his own, and the welltempered pens of choice contributors who partook in his views. Of this, Campbell had no notion, or if some think he had, and I am sure he had not, he never attempted, wisely never attempted, what every one who knew him well, knew he had not the enduring energy to sustain through half-a-dozen numbers. The poet all through avoided discussion, however slight. I doubt, too, whether, in composing his beautiful verses, he ever felt pleasure after the period of youthful anticipation was past, and with it all enthusiastic hope. Campbell, regarding poetical composition as a labour, it cannot be supposed he could ever have contemplated with aught but horror the heavy work of a magazine, in which he should become the stirring spirit, and appear as the master-head, in order to produce an impression on the reader for high purposes. It was impossible he could follow up such an aim, or feel that enthusiasm in the task which is essential to every man so placed to balance the drudgery. It is enough, however, that Campbell had no such aspirations; man does not frame himself; and the New Monthly, in its unparalleled success, must be judged, after all, as a work better suited to the mere reading public, than adapted to the ideal excellence and lofty desires of those who have thought deeply, acquired much knowledge, and would fain move the feelings of mankind to high and great ends. It is probable that somewhat of a stronger political bias might have appeared in the work, for Campbell, on conversing upon the subject, gave his full assent to such a course, but a phrase or two remarked upon as too liberal was mentioned to the publisher by one of those persons who affect to disapprove what they do not understand, sometimes in order to recommend themselves to the ears of those who look at literature and the invention of printing in the sense, strictly modern, of a medium to money making alone. This gossip gave an alarm, to which Campbell did not seem disposed to yield, while he really yielded to its influence. So that the range of the discussion in matters of policy, as in those of utility, did not rise above the level of a qualified reasoning, though now and then it soared a little higher, but never so high as it should have done. No periodical work loses any thing by decision. When it shows its tendency only to a fractional extent, it displeases those who are opposed to it in sentiment, losing the advantage of rising to the summit of esteem among those of the same opinions, by not becoming the champion, but merely the half-speaking advocate. Campbell might have served his friends and greatly aided, if not led, in the promulgation of those great publie truths which time has successively developed since the first number of the New Monthly appeared. But from such a demonstration the poet would have shrunk, not from the moral character of the task, and the prospect of public good it involved, but because the task would have appeared to his optics in the prospective labour, second only to the erection of an Egyptian pyramid. Tact, too, would have been wanting. He was never able to compass the leading article for a newspaper, not that he was not possessed of a hundred times more information than was necessary for such a common-place task, but that he could not clothe his thoughts in language with sufficient rapidity, under the idea of editorial responsibility. Thus devoid of the celerity required, he had no chance, in any other mode, of attaining a dexterity gained by practice. Campbell removed his lodgings in town from Margaret Street to No. 30, Foley Place, at the commencement of 1822, still keeping his house at Sydenham. It was about this time, I am persuaded from recollection, that the introduction of the elder Roscoe to Sir Walter Scott took place at Campbell's residence. It was singular that these celebrated men had never met before. I do not remember the great novelist being at the poet's at any other time, and as he was seldom in London, I think if he had been I must remember it. Yet against my recollection, Henry Roscoe, in his father's life, speaks of the introduction as happening in |