tinct tone, "No; it was one Tom Campbell." The poet had -as far as a poet can-become for years indifferent to posthumous fame. In 1838, five years before this time, he had been speaking to some friends in Edinburgh on the subject. "When I think of the existence which shall commence when the stone is laid above my head, how can literary fame appear to me to any one-but as nothing? I believe, when I am gone, justice will be done to me in this way-that I was a pure writer. It is an inexpressible comfort, at my time of life, to be able to look back and feel that I have not written one line against religion or virtue." Religious feeling was, as the closing scene approached, more distinctly expressed. A friend was thinking of the lines in "The Last Man,” when he heard with delight the dying man express his belief "in life and immortality brought to light by the Saviour." To his niece he said, "Come, let us sing praises to Christ;" then, pointing to the bedside, he added, “Sit here." "Shall 66 I pray for you?" she said. Oh, yes," he replied; "let us pray for each other." The Liturgy of the Church of England was read: he expressed himself "soothed-comforted." The next day, at a moment when he appeared to be sleeping heavily, his lips suddenly moved, and he said, “We shall see ** to-morrow," naming a long-departed friend. On the next day he expired without a struggle. LETTERS OF SOUTHEY. The Letters of this excellent man afford some of the most truthful experiences of an author to be found in any record of human life and character. At the age of thirty, when struggling with the world, he wrote thus reverentially : 66 No man was ever more contented with his lot than I am; for few have ever had more enjoyments, and none had ever better or worthier hopes. Life, therefore, is sufficiently dear to me, and long life desirable, that I may accomplish all which I design. But yet, I could be well content that the next century were over, and my part fairly at an end, having been gone well through. Just as at school one wished the school-days over, though we were happy enough there, because we expected more happiness and more liberty when we were to be our own masters, might lie as much later in the morning as we pleased, have no bounds, and do no exercise,-just so do I wish that my exercises were over, that that ugly chrysalis state were passed through to which we must all come, and that I had fairly burst my shell, and got into the new world, with wings upon my shoulders, or some inherent power like the wishing-cap, which should annihilate all the inconveniences of space." There is scarcely on record a more touching instance of gratitude than is contained in a letter written by Southey to his friend, Joseph Cottle, dated April 20, 1808, from which the following is an extract: "Do you suppose, Cottle, that I have forgotten those true and essential acts of friendship which you showed me when I stood most in need of them? Your house was my house when I had no other. The very money with which I bought my wedding-ring, and paid my marriage-fees, was supplied by you. It was with your sisters that I left Edith during my six months' absence, and for the six months after my return; it was from you that I received, week by week, the little on which we lived, till I was enabled to live by other means. It is not the settling of a cash account that can cancel obligations like these. You are in the habit of preserving your letters; and if you were not, I would intreat you to preserve this, that it might be seen hereafter. Sure I am that there never was a more generous or kinder heart than yours; and you will believe me, when I add, that there does not live a man upon earth whom I remember with more gratitude and more affection. My heart throbs, and my eyes burn with these recollections. Good night! my dear old friend and benefactor. "R. S." PHILOSOPHICAL MADMEN. These unfortunate persons are in a somewhat similar position to that of theological madmen: they are mostly vain persons who have lost their way in matters too deep for them, and by reason of their vanity, and of the nature of the subject of their pursuits, are as difficult to deal with as those who speculate on religious mysteries. A deplorable instance of this class is afforded by Thomas Wirgman, who, after making a large fortune as a goldsmith and silversmith, in St. James'sstreet, London, squandered it all as a regenerating philosopher. He had paper made specially for his books, the same sheet consisting of several different colours; and as he changed the work many times while it was printing, the cost was enormous: one book of 400 pages cost 2,2767. He published a grammar of the five senses, which was a sort of system of metaphysics for the use of children, and maintained that when it was universally adopted in schools, peace and harmony would be restored to the earth, and virtue would everywhere replace crime. He complained much that people would not listen to him, and that, although he had devoted nearly half a century to the propagation of his ideas, he had asked in vain to be appointed Professor in some University or College-so little does the world appreciate those who labour unto death in its service. "Nevertheless," exclaimed Wirgman, after another useless application, "while life remains I will not cease to communicate this blessing to the rising world." William Martin, brother of the Jonathan Martin who set fire to York Minster, published several philosophical works, in which he announces himself as having overthrown the Newtonian philosophy. Reing rather rudely treated by the critics, he defied them in a publication entitled, William Martin's Challenge to all the World as a Philosopher and a Critic! Another of his titles is: A Critic on all False Men who pretend to be Critics, not being men of wisdom or genius. "Well they know that William Martin has outstript He was "convinced that he was the man whom the Divine Majesty had selected to discover the great secondary cause of things, and the true perpetual motion." "I supplicate the English Government to put an end to the abominable system that is practised under the eyes of God and man. A fool may rise and make a noise, but noise is not argument, and whoever from among the servants of the devil oppose the system of Martin, let them stand up one after another, and give a good reason for their opposition." The irritated philosopher was evidently in earnest. A certain John Steward, who died in 1822, travelled over a great part of the world with the object of discovering the Polarization of Moral as Truth." He published several books, and he was of opinion that the kings of the earth would form a league for the purpose of destroying them; he begged of his friends that they would carefully wrap up some copies, so as to preserve them from moisture, and bury them 7 or 8 feet deep, taking care on their death-bed to declare, under the seal of secrecy, the place where they had buried them. EASE IN MONEY-MATTERS. Godwin, the author and bookseller, enjoyed a remarkable share of this kind of balm. Talfourd, in his Final Memorials of Charles Lamb, relates, that "He (Godwin) met the exigencies which the vicissitudes of business sometimes caused, with the trusting simplicity which marked his course -he asked his friends for aid without scruple, considering that their means were justly the due of one who toiled in thought for their inward life, and had little time to provide for his own outward existence; and took their excuses, when afforded, without doubt or offence. The very next day after I had been honoured and delighted by an introduction to him at Lamb's chambers, I was made still more proud and happy by his appearance at my own on such an errand-which my poverty, not my will, rendered abortive. After some pleasant chat on indifferent matters, he carelessly observed, that he had a little bill for £150 falling due on the morrow, which he had forgotten till that morning, and desired the loan of the necessary amount for a few weeks. At first, in eager hope of being able thus to oblige one whom I regarded with admiration akin to awe, I began to consider whether it was possible for me to raise such a sum; but, alas! a moment's reflection sufficed to convince me that the hope was vain, and I was obliged, with much confusion, to assure my distinguished visitor how glad I should have been to serve him, but that I was only just starting as a special pleader, was obliged to write for magazines to help me on, and had not such a sum in the world. O dear,' said the philosopher, 'I thought you were a young gentleman of fortune. Don't mention it-don't mention it; I shall do very well elsewhere:' and then, in the most gracious manner, reverted to our former topics, and sat in my small room for half an hour, as if to convince me that my want of fortune made no difference in his esteem." ILLEGIBLE HANDWRITING. Jacob Bryant said of Archdeacon Coxe's hieroglyphics, that they could be called neither a hand nor a fist, but a foot, and that a club one. They formed a clumsy, tangled, black skein, that ran across the paper in knots it was impossible to untie into a meaning. On one occasion, Bishop Barrington, while expostulating with the Archdeacon for sending him a letter he could not read, told him of a very bad writer, a Frenchman, who answered a letter thus: "Out of respect, sir, I write to you with my own hand: but to facilitate the reading, I send you a copy, which I have caused my amanuensis to make." John Bell, of the Chancery bar, wrote three hands: one, which no one could read but himself; another, which his clerk could read, and he could not; and a third which nobody could read. CHARLES LAMB AND THE COMPTROLLER OF STAMPS. Haydon, in his Autobiography and Journals, relates many a droll story, but none exceeding in genuine fun the account of a dinner which he gave, in his painting-room, to Wordsworth, Lamb, Keats, and Ritchie the traveller. Wordsworth was in fine cue, Lamb got exceedingly mirthful and exquisitely witty; and his fun, in the midst of Wordsworth's solemn intonations of oratory, was like the sarcasm and wit of the fool in the intervals of Lear's passion. Lamb soon got delightfully merry. "Now," said Lamb, "you old Lake-poet, you rascally poet, why do you call Voltaire dull?" The party all defended Wordsworth, and affirmed there was a state of mind when Voltaire would be dull. "Well," said Lamb, "here's Voltaire, the Messiah of the French nation, and a very proper one too." It was delightful to see the good humour of Wordsworth in giving in to all these frolics without affectation, and laughing as heartily as the best of the party. In the morning of this delightful day, a gentleman, a perfect stranger, had called on Haydon. He said he knew his friends had an enthusiasm for Wordsworth, and begged an introduction. He added he was a Comptroller of Stamps, and often had correspondence with Wordsworth. Haydon thought it a liberty, but at length consented; and when the party retired to tea, they found the Comptroller. In introducing him to Wordsworth, Haydon forgot to say who he was. After a little time the Man of Stamps looked down, looked up, and said to Wordsworth, "Don't you think, sir, Milton was a great genius?" Keats looked at Haydon, Wordsworth |