6 no doubt that he was the Doctor Thomas Campbell of whom Boswell thus writes:- On Thursday, 6th April, I dined with him (Dr. Johnson). I mentioned that Dr. Thomas Campbell had come from Ireland to London, principally to see Dr. Johnson. He seemed angry at this observation.' Mr. Croker, in a note upon this passage, quotes Mrs. Thrale's description of an Irish Dr. Campbell, whom she met at Bath in 1776, and of whom she writes to Johnson, as if he had been unacquainted with the Irishman, describing him as very handsome, hot-headed, loud and lively.' Mr. Raymond thinks that Mrs. Thrale referred to a different person of the same name. We are not sure of this, for although the Diary of Dr. Thomas Campbell, and the records of Boswell, unquestionably show that Johnson and the Irish clergyman often met in 1775, and several times at Thrale's house, yet there are passages in the Diary of the Irish Dr. Campbell,' as Boswell calls him, which are lively' enough to be attached to such a person as Mrs. Thrale describes. The lady might not have met him in 1775. Our Divine seems to have been ready enough to mix in all companies; and to describe what he saw with a freedom which belonged to the manners of the time when he made his appearance in the fashionable and literary society of London. But that the writer of the Diary was the Irish Dr. Campbell' of Boswell there can be no doubt. · "We commence our extracts with the Editor's account of the papers which he has so judiciously given to the world :— "How long the Manuscript, now offered to the public, lay in its dusty hiding-place in one of the offices of the Supreme Court of New South Wales I have been unable to find out. How it came there, or how it came to the Colony, I have not been able to ascertain; at all events, sufficient has not been elicited by my inquiries to give any clue to the rightful owner of it, or to interfere with my right by discovery to give it to the public. Should it be attempted to cast any doubt on the authenticity of the manuscript, I would without fear submit it to the most rigid scrutiny; it bears upon its face the impress of being, what for the most part it purports to be, a record of the thoughts, feelings, and occurrences likely to attract the notice of an Irishman on his first visit to London in 1775, and subsequently to Paris in 1787. The writing itself, of which a fac-simile is annexed, is quaint, and characteristic of the man, who, at his first breakfast in England, measured the size of the eggs, which struck him as being much smaller than those of his own country. It betrays, but is certainly not disfigured by, the prejudices of the writer's class and country. * * * He appears, during his short visits to England, to have been much noticed by people of rank and station, as well amongst the English, as his own countrymen; and to have been admitted into that literary circle, which, in that day, revolved around the great luminary of learning, and which is so admirably depicted in the pages of Boswell.' Having given this general notice of the book before us, we proceed, without much comment, which would be quite unnecessary, to furnish some extracts, to which we affix distinctive headings." CHAPTER IX. Herbert would IVE summers ago, I was staying for a month at Langley in Buckinghamshire. The immediate neighbourhood had objects of abiding interest. At Richings, Pope and Addison, Gay and Prior, capped verses amongst the trees which Bathurst planted. The young Milton dwelt with his father at Horton. A venerable church is that of Langley-with restorations in good taste. Beautiful, as well as spacious, is its churchyard. The low-roofed parsonage-a primitive cottage, such as George have rejoiced in-is on the west. itself is a very "garden of roses." and the china-rose climb over the railings of the wellpreserved tombs. The one yew, of six or eight centuries' growth, is decaying amidst scores of rose trees, the grafts of the last six or eight autumns. The wearied labourer, and the giddy schoolboy, pass reverently by these rose trees, and touch not a flower; for some they recognise as tokens of love, and every tree that sheds its rich June blossoms over the grassy mounds soothingly whispers "all must die." The churchyard I was told that the small building abutting on the church is a Library. I found from a County History that Sir John Kedermister had "prepared and adjoined" a Library to Langley church, and there, by his will dated 1631, he provided for some additions to the existing books. I had no difficulty in obtaining admission to this Library, for its guardian was a good-humoured dame dwelling in an adjacent almshouse, who was seldom troubled with the visits of strangers resorting to the village, dignified in the will of the founder as a "Town." I pass through the family pew of the lords of the manor of Langley, and find myself in a tolerably spacious room, of a very singular character. Five presses, enclosed with panelled doors, line this room. The doors are painted, outside and inside, in various styles of ornamentation--escutcheons, trophies, small figures of apostles and prophets. The figures-in which we recognise the traditional forms which some of the great masters have handed down from the middle' ages are rather coarsely painted; but they are dashed in with a freedom that might not be unworthy of the hand of some minor Flemish or Italian artist, who came to England, as Tempesta came, to paint landscapes and groups upon the wainscoting of great houses. It was a fashion of the day of Charles I. The effect of the coloured panels of this library is not out of character with the purpose of the room. The Great Eye, that looks upon all in heaven and earth, is here attempted to be represented. On the pupil of the eye we read Deus videt. Behind the ornamented doors stand, in their proper numerical order, long files of folios, ranged shelf over shelf-well preserved, clean. Crabbe has described the externals of such a collection : "That weight of wood, with leathern coat o'erlaid ; The close-press'd leaves, unclosed for many an age; It is a brilliant morning, this last of June. I am alone in this antique library. I read the catalogue of the books, written on vellum, which hangs on the wall:- Catalogus Librorum Omnium in hac Bibliotheca-Aprill, 1638.' What curious volume shall I take down from its seldom disturbed resting-place? Not one of the Greek or Latin classics is here; there is only one secular English writer. It is essentially a library for divinity scholars. Here is a large part of the armoury of the great controversialists of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries-plain names in this catalogue, without any saintly prefix even to the greatest of the Fathers of the Church. What a delicious place for study! The solemn yew shuts out the glare of the noonday sun from these quarried windows. A place for study-and for reverie. I take down, in a dreamy mood, four folio volumes of "Purchas, his Pilgrimes." I turn over the pages that used to delight my boyhood-those marvellous explorations by land and sea which this laborious old compiler got together with so much taste and judgment. I look at his pilgrimages in India. I light upon the high turrets of Agra, overlaid with pure massive gold! In the chapter upon the Magnificence of the Great Mogoll,' I see the gorgeous despot, covered with huge gems'-diamonds, emeralds, pearls, rubies. I see fifty elephants, with turrets of gold, bearing ladies looking through 'grates of gold wire,' canopies over them of cloth of silver.' Jehanghir is giving audience. I half unconsciously repeat : High on a throne of royal state, which far |