t, he had contemplated no great and sustained
effort. My disappointment in this respect was shared
by others, who took the same interest in his fame, and
entertained the same idea of his capacity. 'There he is
cooped up in Sydenham,' said a great Edinburgh critic to me,
'simmering his brains to serve up a little dish of poetry,
instead of pouring out a whole caldron.'

"'Scott, too, who took a cordial delight in Campbell's poetry,
expressed himself to the same effect. 'What a pity is it,'
said he to me 'that Campbell does not give full sweep to his
genius. He has wings that would bear him up to the skies, and
he does now and then spread them grandly, but folds them up
again and resumes his perch, as if afraid to launch away. The
fact is, he is a bugbear to himself. The brightness of his
early success is a detriment to all his future efforts. _He is
afraid of the shadow that his own fame casts before him_.'

"'Little was Scott aware at the time that he, in truth, was
a 'bugbear' to Campbell. This I infer from an observation of
Mrs. Campbell's in reply to an expression of regret on my part
that her husband did not attempt something on a grand Scale.
'It is unfortunate for Campbell,' said she, 'that he lives in
the same age with Scott and Byron.' I asked why. 'Oh,' said
she, 'they write so much and so rapidly. Now Campbell writes
slowly, and it takes him some time to get under way; and just
as he has fairly begun, out comes one of their poems, that
sets the world agog and quite daunts him, so that he throws by
his pen in despair.'

"'I pointed out the essential difference in their kinds of
poetry, and the qualities which insured perpetuity to that of
her husband. 'You can't persuade Campbell of that,' said she.
'He is apt to undervalue his own works, and to consider his
own lights put out, whenever they come blazing out with their
great torches.'

"'I repeated the conversation to Scott sometime afterward,
and it drew forth a characteristic comment. 'Pooh!' said he,
good-humoredly, 'how can Campbell mistake the matter so
much. Poetry goes by quality, not by bulk. My poems are mere
cairngorms, wrought up, perhaps, with a cunning hand, and may
pass well in the market as long as cairngorms are the fashion;
but they are mere Scotch pebbles after all; now Tom Campbell's