law-politics, and swindling, and blasphemy, and philosophy is there any one subject you will favour me by opening upon?" The wight writhed his countenance into a grinSir," said he, can you say anything clever about bendleather?" (thick leather for soleing.)

66

66

SITTING FOR A PORTRAIT.

Sir Walter Scott, on being asked to sit for his portrait for Terry, the comedian, said, that both he and his dog, Maida, were tired of that sort of thing-Maida particularly so; for, she had been so often sketched, that whenever she saw an artist unfurl his paper and arrange his brushes, she got up, and walked off with a dignity and an expression of loathing almost human.

AN INCOMPLETE CHARM.

John Bruce, Highland piper to Sir Walter Scott, at Abbotsford, prescribed, as a remedy for cramp, with which his master was often afflicted, twelve stones taken from twelve south running streams, on which Sir Walter was to sleep, and be of course restored. Sir Walter told the piper the receipt was infallible, but to make it entirely successful, the stones must be wrapped in a petticoat belonging to a widow who had never wished to marry again. This was hopeless, and the piper abandoned his efforts to complete the charm.

INDIFFERENCE TO MONEY.

Men who gloat over their money-bags will scarcely credit the following anecdote of Cavendish, the wealthy chemist, one of whose eccentricities was his entire disregard of money:

"The bankers (says Mr. Pepys) where he kept his account, in looking over their affairs, found he had a considerable sum in their hands, some say nearly eighty thousand pounds, and one of them said, that he did not think it right that it should lie so without investment. He was therefore commissioned to wait upon Mr. Cavendish, who at that time resided at Clapham. Upon his arrival at the house he desired to speak to Mr. Cavendish. The servant said, 'What is your business with him?' He did not choose to tell the servant. The servant then said, 'You must wait till my master rings his bell, and then I will let him know.' In about a quarter of

Mr.

the curiosity to

Sir, there is a
Who is he?
'He says he
Cavendish, in

an hour the bell rang, and the banker had listen to the conversation which took place. person below, who wants to speak to you.' Who is he? What does he want with me?' is your banker, and must speak to you.' great agitation, desires he may be sent up, and, before he entered the room, cries, 'What do you come here for? What do you want with me?' 'Sir, I thought it proper to wait upon you, as we have a very large balance in hand of yours, and wish for your orders respecting it.' 'If it is any trouble to you, I will take it out of your hands. Do not come here to plague me.' 'Not the least trouble to us, sir, not the least; but we thought you might like some of it to be invested.' 'Well! well! What do you want to do?' 'Perhaps you would like to have forty thousand pounds invested.' 'Do so! Do so; and don't come here and trouble me, or I will remove it.""

Cavendish lived a retired life, and to strangers he was very reserved. His library was immense, and he fixed it at a distance from his own residence, that he might not be disturbed by those who came to consult it. His friends were allowed to take books, and he himself never withdrew a book without giving a receipt for it. Cavendish died in 1810, leaving more than a million sterling among different relations.

IMPROVIDENCE OF MEN OF GENIUS.

Mr. Justice Talfourd's liberality in money matters was unbounded, and this was a dangerous virtue to practice amongst the circle in which he acquired his first experience of literary life in London. More than one of the most famous of these were wont to regard their friends' purses as common property, and as Talfourd's was seldom quite empty, he was constantly laid under contribution, with slender chance of reciprocation or return. On one occasion, Haydon, the painter, applied for pecuniary aid in what he represented as unforeseen and pressing distress. Talfourd had laid aside a sum for a holiday trip to Ramsgate with his family, but deeming a friend's necessities a paramount call, he at once handed over the whole of his reserve to the painter, who thanked him with tears, as for a deliverance from disgrace and misery. The credulous donor happening, a day or two after, to go to the Tower

Stairs to see a friend's family (with whom his own meditated trip had been concocted) off by the packet, one of the first persons he met upon deck was Haydon, who, having reasons of his own for wishing to spend a month by the sea-side, had got up his sad story and his rueful countenance to raise the required funds.

Talfourd was fond of relating also the following illustration of the improvidence of a man of genius who has largely contributed to the intellectual enjoyments of most of us. This gentleman had invited a large party to dinner, and nothing seemed wanting to the festivity, when it was observed that, although wine was served in profusion, there were no two bottles of the same. The mystery was explained without hesitation or compunction by the Amphitryon.

"I have no

credit with my wine-merchant, nor, to say the truth, with any other man's wine-merchant; and I was sadly puzzled how to manage for you, when a fellow knocked at the door with specimens of Italian wines, or what he called wines; so I told him to leave a bottle of each on trial, and call again to-morrow." This announcement was far from reassuring, and as some of the company complained of incipient pains in the stomach, he was requested to send for some brandy by way of antidote. "With all my heart," was the reply, "but you must first club your sixpence apiece;" and the sixpences being clubbed accordingly, the threatened sickness was averted, and the half-empty bottles of wine were put aside to be returned to the composer.

TALFOURD AT THE THEATRE.

Nothing could exceed Talfourd's passion for the stage. If he took up a newspaper, his eye wandered instinctively to the theatrical columns, and he may have been seen daily stopping to read one set of play-bills after another, on his way to and from Westminster Hall. The late Mr. Rogers used to relate that a literary friend, with whom he was walking on the sands near Broadstairs, happening to say that he should see Talfourd that evening, he (Rogers) asked, "Are you going to town or is he coming here?" "Neither one nor the other; but I see that Glencoe is to be acted to-night at the Dover Theatre. I am sure he will be there; and as I wish to see him, I shall go over upon the chance." He did

go, and the first object that met his eye on entering the theatre, was Talfourd in a stage box, listening in wrapt attention to his own verses.

A WORDSWORTHIAN DISPUTE.

Next in order to Justice Talfourd's mania for the stage was his admiration for Wordsworth's poetry, "which," he maintained, "has exerted a purifying influence on the literature of this country, such as no other individual power has ever wrought." He was fond of telling an amusing illustration of his enthusiasm on this subject. During one of his visits to Edinburgh, he was dining with Professor Wilson, who professed the same taste, and when they were tolerably far advanced into the mirth and fun of a Nox Ambrosiana, a laughing dispute arose as to which recited Wordsworth best. A young Scotchman who alone, of all the original party, had endured the pitiless pelting of the storm, having decided in the Professor's favour, the learned Serjeant protested against this judgment as unfair, and seizing his hat, rushed out to appeal to the watchman, who was crying "past two," before the door. He could never recall the terms of the Scotch Dogberry's award; but he well remembered waking and finding himself, the next afternoon, in bed, at his hotel, his intention having been to start at 8 A.M. for Loch Lomond:

"WE ARE SEVEN."

This popular poem by Wordsworth, was composed, while the author was walking in the grove at Alfoxden. As he paced to and fro, the poet produced the last stanza first, having begun with the last line. "When it was all but finished, I" (says Wordsworth,) "came in and recited it to Mr. Coleridge and my sister, and said, 'A prefatory stanza must be added, and I should sit down to our little tea-meal with greater pleasure if my task were finished.' I mentioned in substance what I wished to express, and Coleridge immediately threw off the stanza thus:

'A little child, dear brother Jem.'

I objected to the rhyme, dear brother Jem,' as being ludicrous, but we all enjoyed the joke of hitching in our friend, James T--'s name, who was familiarly called Jem.

He was the brother of the dramatist, and this reminds me of an anecdote which may be worth while here to notice. The said Jem got a sight of the Lyrical Ballads, as it was going through the press at Bristol, during which time I was residing in that city. One evening he came to me with a grave face, and said, 'Wordsworth, I have seen the volume that Coleridge and you are about to publish. There is one poem in it which I earnestly entreat you will cancel, for if published, it will make you everlastingly ridiculous.' I answered that I felt much obliged by the interest he took in my good name as a writer, and begged to know what was the unfortunate piece he alluded to. He said 'It is called "We are seven.' Nay! said I, that shall take its chance, however, and he left me in despair."

"TOM CRINGLE'S LOG."

The author of the Log was a Mr. Mick Scott, born in Edinburgh in 1789, and educated at the High School there. Several years of his life were spent in the West Indies; he ultimately married, returned to his native country, and there embarked in commercial speculations, in the leisure between which he wrote the Log. Notwithstanding its popularity in Europe and America, the author preserved his incognito to the last. He survived his publisher for some years, and it was not till the death of the author that the sons of Mr. Blackwood were aware of his name.

The Log is, perhaps, the earliest specimen of that vicious plan of narrative writing in magazines and serials, which renders it indispensable that each month's number should have its "sensation" incidents; so that when the work is completed, and read in a volume, it generally tires you with its thickset catastrophes. When Tom Cringle's Log was finished, it was found to present this very unsatisfactory result.

COLERIDGE, A LIGHT DRAGOON.

When Coleridge was at Cambridge, he paid his addresses to a Mary Evans, who, rejecting his offer, he took it so much in dudgeon, that he withdrew from the university to London; and, in a reckless state of mind, he enlisted in the 15th regiment of Elliot's Light Dragoons. No objection having