btedly a singularly lovable character, and he possessed the
gift of eloquence in no ordinary degree. For the rest, his
natural qualities and acquired accomplishments were above the
ordinary level, without reaching an extraordinary height. He was
a man who never ceased working, and whose temper was always
angelic, though he sometimes suffered from severe depression. He
was adored by his pupils both at Oxford and in Bohemia. His
memory was always bright, and his conversation always sparkled
with fresh thoughts and poetical ideas. He composed with
extraordinary facility in Latin prose and verse; but the extant
fragments of these literary exercises do not strike us as being
of unusual excellence, though genuinely admired in their day. He
was certainly an ideal missioner: saintly, inspired, eloquent,
untireable, patient, consumed with the desire for the success of
his undertaking, and unfaltering in his faith that success would
follow by the providential action of God, despite the obvious
fact that all appearances were against him.

Campion landed at Dover late in June, 1580, and reached London
at the end of the month. There was an immediate rush to hear
him, and Lord Paget was persuaded to lend his great hall at
Paget House in Smithfield to accommodate a congregation for the
feast of Saints Peter and Paul. The sermon was delivered on the
text from the Gospel of the day, _Tu es Christus, Filius Dei
vivi_. The hall was filled, and the impression caused by the
sermon was profound; but the number of hearers had been
imprudently large. Though no arrests followed, the persecutors
took the alarm, and increased their activity to such an extent
that large gatherings had for ever to be abandoned; and after a
couple of weeks both Campion and Persons left London to escape
the notice of the pursuivants, whose raids and inquisitorial
searches were making the lot of Catholics in town unbearable,
whereas in the country the pursuit was far less active, and
could be much more easily avoided. The two Fathers met for the
last time at Hoxton, then a village outside London, to concert
their plans for the next couple of months, and were on the point
of starting, each for his own destination, when a Catholic of
some note rode up from London. This was Thomas Pounde, of
Belmont or Beaumont, near Bedhampton, a landed gentleman of
means, an enthusiastic Catholic, and for the last five years or
so a prisoner for religion. Mr. Pounde's message in eff