voluminous works, his glorious eulogies of Luther, Knox
and Cromwell, his vivid histories, his pessimistic utterances, his
hatred of falsehood and his true, pure and laborious life, I have no
time or space to write. He was the last of the giants in one department
of British literature. He will outlive many an author who slumbers in
the great Abbey. I owe him grateful thanks for many quickening,
stimulating thoughts, and shall always be thankful that I grasped the
strong hand of Thomas Carlyle.

One of the literary celebrities to whom I had credentials was the
venerable Mrs. Joanna Baillie, not now much read, but then well known
from her writings and her intimacy with Sir Walter Scott, and to whom
Lockhart devotes a considerable space in the biography. Her residence
was in Hampstead, and I was obliged, after leaving the omnibus, to walk
nearly a mile across open fields which are now completely built over by
mighty London. The walk proved a highly profitable one from the society
of an intelligent stranger who, like every true English gentleman, when
properly approached, was led to give all the information in his power.
When I reached the suburban village of Hampstead, after passing over
stiles and through fields, I at last succeeded in finding her residence,
a quiet little cottage, with a little parlor which had been honored by
some of the first characters of our age. "The female Shakespeare," as
she was sometimes called in those days, was at home and tripped into the
room with the elastic step of a girl, although she was considerably over
three score years and ten. She was very petite and fair, with a sweet
benignant countenance that inspired at once admiration and affection.
Almost her first words to me were: "What a pity you did not come ten
minutes sooner; for if you had you would have seen Mr. Thomas Campbell,
who has just gone away." I was exceedingly sorry to have missed a sight
of the author of "Hohenlinden" and the incomparable "Battle of the
Baltic," but was quite surprised that he was still seeking much society;
for in those days he was lamentably addicted to intoxicants. On more
than one public occasion he was the worse for his cups; and when, after
his death, a subscription was started to place his statue in Westminster
Abbey, Samuel Rogers, the poet, cynically said, "Yes, I will gladly give
twenty pounds any day to see dear old Tom Campbell stand steady on his
legs." It is a matter of congratulation that the