IMPROVIDENCE OF MEN OF GENIUS.

Mr. Justice Talfourd's liberality in money matters was unbounded, and this was a dangerous virtue to practise 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.'

-'s

I objected to the rhyme, 'dear brother Jem,' as being ludicrous, but we all enjoyed the joke of hitching in our friend, James Tname, 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 been taken to his height or age, he was asked his name. He had previously determined to give one that was thoroughly Kamschatkian, but having noticed that morning, over a door in Lincoln's Inn Fields, or the Temple, the name of" Cumberbatch" (not Cumberback), he thought this word suffi

ciently outlandish, and replied "Silas Tomken Cumberbatch ;" and such was the entry in the regimental book.

In one of the laborious duties of his new capacity-the drill,-the poet so failed that the drill-sergeant thought his professional character endangered; for, after using his utmost efforts to bring his raw recruit into something like training, he expressed the most serious fears, from his unconquerable awkwardness, that he should never be able to make a soldier of him.

Mr. C., it seemed, could not even rub down his own horse, which, however, it should be known, was rather a restive one.-This rubbing down of his horse was a constant source of annoyance to Mr. C., who thought the most rational way was-to let the horse rub himself down, shaking himself clean, and so to shine in all his native beauty; but on this subject there were two opinions, and his that was to decide carried most weight. Mr. C. overcame this difficulty by bribing a young man of the regiment to perform the achievement. for him, and that on very easy terms, namely, by writing him some love stanzas to send his sweetheart.

There was no man in the regiment who met with so many falls from his horse as Silas Tomken Cumberbatch. He often calculated, with so little precision, his dué equilibrium, that, in mounting on one side-perhaps the wrong stirrup the probability was, especially if his horse moved a little, that he lost his balance, and if he did not roll back on this side, came down ponderously on the other. Then the laugh spread amongst the men-"Silas is off again." Mr. C. had often heard of campaigns, but he never before had so correct an idea of hard service.

Some mitigation was now in store for Coleridge, arising out of a whimsical circumstance. He had been placed, as a sentinel, at the door of a ball-room, or some public place of resort, when two of his officers, passing in, stopped for a moment near him, talking about Euripides, two lines from whom one of them repeated.

At the sound of Greek, the sentinel instinctively turned his ear, when he said, with all deference, touching his lofty cap, "I hope your honour will excuse me, but the lines you have repeated are not quite accurately cited. These are the lines," when he gave them in their more correct form. "Besides," said Mr. C., " instead of being in Euripides, the lines will be found in the second antistrophe of the Edipus of Sophocles." "Why, man, who are you?" said the officer; "old Faustus ground young again?" "I am your honour's humble sentinel," said Coleridge, again touching his cap.

The officers hastened into the room, and inquired of one and another about that "odd fish" at the door, when one of the mess

it is believed the surgeon-told them that he had his eye upon him, but he could neither tell where he came from, nor anything about his family of the Cumberbatches; "but," continued he, "instead of his being an odd fish,' I suspect he must be a stray bird' from the Oxford or Cambridge aviary." They learned also the laughable fact that he was bruised all over by frequent falls from his horse. "Ah!" said one of the officers, "we have had, at different times, two or three of these 'university birds' in our regiment."

This suspicion was confirmed by one of the officers, Mr. Nathaniel Ogle, who observed that he had noticed a line of Latin chalked under one of the men's saddles, and was told, on inquiring whose saddle it was, that it was Cumberbatch's.

The officers now kindly took pity on the "poor scholar,” and had Coleridge removed to the medical department, where he was appointed assistant in the regimental hospital. This change was a vast improvement in his condition; and happy was the day also, on which it took place, for the sake of the sick patients; for Silas Tomken Cumberbatch's amusing stories, they said, did them more good than all the doctor's physic.

In one of these interesting conversations, when Mr. C. was sitting on the foot of the bed, surrounded by his gaping comrades, the door was suddenly burst open, and in came two or three gentlemen, his friends: looking some time in vain, amid the uniform dresses for their man, at length they pitched on Mr. C., and taking him by the arm, led him in silence out of the room. As the supposed deserter passed the threshold, one of the astonished auditors uttered, with a sigh, "Poor Silas! I wish they may let him off with a cool five hundred." Coleridge's ransom was soon joyfully adjusted by his friends, and he was soldier no more.

THE POETS IN A PUZZLE.

Cottle, in his Life of Coleridge, relates the following amusing incident:"I led my horse to the stable, where a sad perplexity arose. I removed the harness without difficulty; but after many strenuous attempts I could not remove the collar. In despair, I called for assistance, when Mr. Wordsworth brought his ingenuity into exercise; but after several unsuccessful efforts, he relinquished the achievement as a thing altogether impracticable. Mr. Coleridge now tried his hand, but showed no more skill than his predecessors; for, after twisting the poor horse's neck almost to strangulation and the great danger of his eyes, he gave up the useless task, pronouncing that the horse's head must have grown since the collar was put on; for he said, 'it was a downright impossibility for such a huge