Thomas Campbell. J. Cuthbert Hadden

Cunninghame draws a charming picture of the fireside politicians, with Campbell at their head, discussing the French Revolution, and defending their ultra-liberal opinions against the assaults of outsiders. For his age the poet probably took the world and the powers that be much too seriously; but his early political leanings are not without a certain significance in view of his after interest in the cause of liberty.

      His last session at the University ended, Campbell, in June 1796, returned to Argyllshire, again as a tutor. This time his engagement was at Downie, near Lochgilphead. The house stood in a secluded spot on the shore of that great arm of the sea known as the Sound of Jura. The view to be obtained from its neighbourhood made a wonderful combination of sea and mountain scenery; but, like Sunipol, the place was altogether too dull for the city-bred youth. Campbell speaks of himself as living the life of a poor starling, caged in by rocks and seas from the haunts of man; as ‘lying dormant in a solitary nook of the world, where there is nothing to chase the spleen,’ and where the people ‘seem to moulder away in sluggishness and deplorable ignorance.’ Still, it was not quite so bad as Mull. For one thing, Inverary was comparatively near, and Hamilton Paul was there, as well as the adorable Caroline, to whose charms Paul, as appears from a poetical tribute, had also succumbed. Campbell, we may be sure, was oftener at Inverary than his letters show, for the ‘Hebe of the West’ clearly had magnetic powers of a quite unusual kind.

      Paul has a lively account of the last day he spent with his friend at Inverary. It was the occasion of a ‘frugal dinner,’ when two old college companions joined the tutors around the table at the Inverary Arms. ‘Never,’ says Paul, ‘did schoolboy enjoy an unexpected holiday more than Campbell. He danced, sang, and capered, half frantic with joy. Had he been only invested with the philabeg, he would have exhibited a striking resemblance to little Donald, leaping and dancing at a Highland wedding.’ The company had a delightful afternoon together, and on the way home Campbell worked himself up into a state of ecstacy. He ‘recited poetry of his own composition—some of which has never been printed—and then, after a moment’s pause, addressed me: “Paul, you and I must go in search of adventures. If you will personate Roderick Random, I will go through the world with you as Strap.” “Yes, Tom,” said I, “I perceive what is to be the result: you are to be a poet by profession.” ’

      Campbell’s greatest difficulty at present was to settle upon any profession; but if his penchant for reciting poetry in the open air could have made him a poet, then indeed was his title clear. He told Scott some years after this that he repeated the ‘Cadzow Castle’ verses so often, stamping and shaking his head ferociously, while walking along the North Bridge of Edinburgh, that all the coachmen knew him by tongue, and quizzed him as he passed. The habit was mad enough in Edinburgh; in the Highlands it evidently suggested something like lunacy. His successor in the tutorship says that in Campbell’s frequent walks along the shore he was often observed by the natives to be ‘in a state of high and rapturous excitement,’ of the cause and tendency of which they formed very strange and inconsistent ideas.

      If the simple natives had suspected that the tutor was in love, they might, without knowing their Shakespeare, have paid less heed to these manifestations. Campbell had told Paul some time before that a poet should have only his muse for mistress; but it was easier to preach the precept than to practise it. It is in a letter to his friend Thomson that we first hear of this amourette. Speaking of a temporary brightening of his prospects, he says: ‘To console me still further (but Thomson, I challenge your secrecy by all our former friendship), my evening walks are sometimes accompanied by one who, for a twelvemonth past, has won my purest but most ardent affection.