“’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 are real diamonds, and diamonds of the first water.’”

“The foregoing is new to us, and full of a double interest.  It is followed, however, by a statement, that needs a word of explanation.  Mr. Irving says: 

“’I have not time at present to furnish personal anecdotes of my intercourse with Campbell, neither does it afford any of a striking nature.  Though extending over a number of years, it was never very intimate.  His residence in the country, and my own long intervals of absence on the continent, rendered our meetings few and far between.  To tell the truth, I was not much drawn to Campbell, having taken up a wrong notion concerning him, from seeing him at times when his mind was ill at ease, and preyed upon by secret griefs.  I thought him disposed to be querulous and captious, and had heard his apparent discontent attributed to jealous repining at the success of his poetical contemporaries.  In a word, I knew little of him but what might be learned in the casual intercourse of general society; whereas it required the close communion of confidential friendship, to sound the depth of his character and know the treasures of excellence hidden beneath its surface.  Beside, he was dogged for years by certain malignant scribblers, who took a pleasure in misrepresenting all his actions, and holding him up in an absurd and disparaging point of view.  In what hostility originated I do not know, but it must have given much annoyance to his sensitive mind, and may have affected his popularity.  I know not to what else to attribute a circumstance to which I was a witness during my last visit to England.  It was at an annual dinner of the Literary Fund, at which Prince Albert presided, and where was collected much of the prominent talent of the kingdom.  In the course of the evening Campbell rose to make a speech.  I had not seen him for years, and his appearance showed the effect of age and ill-health; it was evident, also, that his mind was obfuscated by the wine he had been drinking.  He was confused and tedious in his remarks; still, there was nothing but what one would have thought would have been received with indulgence, if not deference, from a veteran of his fame and standing; a living classic.  On the contrary, to my surprise, I soon observed signs of impatience in the company; the poet was repeatedly interrupted by coughs and discordant sounds, and as often endeavored to proceed; the noise at length became intolerable, and he was absolutely clamored down, sinking into