first time. Unfortunately, however, the "Pilgrim," notwithstanding its excellencies, was felt to be inferior to his first productions, and was rated accordingly. But he was no longer the same youthful spirit that had produced the "Pleasures of Hope" and "Gertrude of Wyoming." Flashes, indeed, of his former self would still break out from his poetry and conversation, but they were the fitful irradiations of a once steady but now departing sunshine. He had now reached the age of sixty-six, and perhaps he had drawn too fervently and fast upon the resources of a naturally delicate constitution, to be otherwise than a feeble broken-down man at such a period of life. To add also to his distresses, the sale of his poems, which for some years had produced him about ₤500 per annum, could not now realize above ₤60 or ₤70. From the double motive of health and economy, he resolved to make his future residence in Boulogne, to which he repaired in July, 1843. His friends—and few had more attached friends than Campbell—felt as if this was a final departure, to be followed by no happy return.
These mournful forebodings were too truly verified. His constitution was already so old, and so completely exhausted, that no change of climate could enable it to rally; and the winter of Boulogne, instead of alleviating his ailments, only seemed to aggravate them beyond the power of removal. Spring came, and summer succeeded; but their bright sunshine only half lighted the curtained sick-room, and finally flickered upon the death-bed of him who had so often watched its changes, and delighted in its beauty. But in his last hours he was not alone, for besides his affectionate niece, who attended him with a daughter's solicitude, his bed-side was solaced by the presence of Dr. Beattie, his faithful friend, physician, and biographer, who had crossed from London to Boulogne, to soothe the departing hours of his affectionate patient. Amidst such gentle guardianship, by which every aid and alleviation was administered, Thomas Campbell died without a struggle, and apparently without pain, solaced to the last moment by the consoling portions of Scripture that were read to him, in which he expressed his earnest faith and hope; and by the prayers in which he joined in look and attitude when the power of speech had departed. His death occurred on the 15th of June, 1844, in the sixty-seventh year of his age. The body was removed from Boulogne to London, and interred in Westminster Abbey; a handful of earth from the tomb of Kosciusko, the Polish hero, that had been treasured for the purpose, was thrown into the grave of the poet who had written so eloquently and laboured so much in behalf of Poland; and his ashes now repose in the neighbourhood of the monuments erected to Addison, Goldsmith, and Sheridan.
CHALMERS, Alexander, M.A., F.S.A.—The life of this laborious literary workman is more remarkable for untiring industry, and its immense amount of produce, than for greatness or originality of genius. He was born at Aberdeen, on the 29th of March, 1759, and was the youngest son of James Chalmers, printer in Aberdeen, an accomplished scholar, who established the first newspaper that existed in that town. Alexander, after completing a classical education, continued his studies for the medical profession; and, on finally being appointed to practice as surgeon in the West Indies, he left Aberdeen in 1777, to join the ship which was to carry him to his destination. But on reaching Portsmouth, instead of stepping on board, he suddenly flew off to London. He had either lost heart at the thought of a residence in the West Indies, at that time one of the worst of exiles, or had suddenly become enamoured with the
