'Out, out, alas!' ill-fated gas, That shin'st round Covent Garden, And so on. The reader has, no doubt, already discovered "which is the justice, and which is the teeth." Lord Byron at that time wore a very narrow cravat of white sarsnet, with the shirt-collar falling over it; a black coat and waistcoat, and very broad white trousers to hide his lame foot-these were of Russia duck in the morning, and jean in the evening. His watch-chain had a number of small gold seals appended to it, and was looped up to a button of his waistcoat. His face was void of colour; he wore no whiskers. His eyes were grey, fringed with long black lashes; and his air was imposing, but rather supercilious. He undervalued David Hume; denying his claim to genius on account of his bulk, and calling him, from the Heroic Epistle, "The fattest hog in Epicurus' sty." One of this extraordinary man's allegations was, that "fat is an oily dropsy." To stave off its visitation, he frequently chewed tobacco in lieu of dinner, alleging that it absorbed the gastric juice of the stomach, and prevented hunger. "Pass your hand down my side," said his Lordship to the writer; "can you count my ribs ?" "Every one of them." "I am delighted to hear you say so. I called last week on Lady -; 'Ah, Lord Byron,' said she, 'how fat you grow !' But But you know Lady is fond.of saying spiteful things!" Let this gossip be summed up with the words of Lord Chesterfield, in his character of Bolingbroke: "Upon the whole, on a survey of his extraordinary character, what can we say, but 'Alas, poor human nature !'” The writer never heard Lord Byron allude to his deformed foot, except upon one occasion, when, entering the green-room of Drurylane, he found Lord Byron alone, the younger Byrne and Miss Smith, the dancer, having just left him, after an angry conference about a pas seul. Had you been here a minute sooner," said Lord B., "you would have heard a question about dancing referred to me-me (looking mournfully downward) whom fate from my birth has prohibited from taking a single step.' 66 In 1814 Byron re-visited Cambridge, cn his way north, and entered the Senate House in company with Dr. E. D. Clarke. He had only proceeded a few paces when he was recognised, and a chorus of voices repeated aloud,— *Notes to "Rejected Addresses." "Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime?" I know not what possessed us," said the informant, who was then a student of Trinity, "but it was a sort of freemasonry feeling-we could not restrain ourselves. The 'Bride of Abydos' was then in every one's hand.” Literary fame, Lord Byron_ affected to despise, in the following entry in his Ravenna Journal, January 4th, 1821 : "I was out of spirits-read the papers-thought what fame was, on reading in a case of murder that Mr. Wych, grocer, at Tunbridge, sold some bacon, flour, cheese, and, it is believed, some plums, to some gipsy woman accused. He had on his counter (I quote faithfully) a book, the Life of Pamela, which he was tearing for waste paper, &c. &c. In the cheese was found, &c., and a leaf of Pamela, wrapped round the bacon. What would Richardson, the vainest and luckiest of living authors (i.e. while alive)-he who, with Aaron Hill, used to prophesy and chuckle over the presumed fall of Fielding (the prose Homer of human nature), and of Pope (the most beautiful of poets)--what would he have said could he have traced his pages from their place on the French prince's toilets (see Boswell's Johnson) to the grocer's counter and the gipsy murderess's bacon? What would he have said what can anybody say-save what Solomon said long before us? After all, it is but passing from one counter to another-from the bookseller's to the other tradesmen's, grocer or pastry-cook. For my part, I have met with most poetry upon trunks; so that I am apt to consider the trunk-maker as the sexton of authorship." THOMAS CAMPBELL-UNIVERSITY SPREE. A respectable apothecary, named Fife, had a shop in the Trongate of Glasgow (when Campbell, at the age of seventeen, was attending the University of that city in 1795), with this notice in his window, printed in large letters, "Ears pierced by A Fife;" meaning the operation to which young ladies submit for the sake of wearing earrings. Mr. Fife's next-door neighbour was a citizen of the name of Drum, a spirit-dealer, whose windows exhibited various samples of the liquors which he sold. The worthy shopkeepers having become alienated by jealousy in trade, Thomas Campbell and two trusty college chums fell upon the following expedient for reconciling them. During the darkness of night, long before the streets of Glasgow were lighted with gas, Campbell and his two associates having procured a long fir-deal, had it extended from window to window of the two contiguous shops, with this inscrip tion from Othello, which it fell to the youthful poet, as his share of the practical joke, to paint in flaming capitals : "" THE SPIRIT-STIRRING DRUM, THE EAR-PIERCING FIFE." Hitherto (observes Campbell's biographer) the two neighbours had pursued very distinct callings; but, to their utter surprise, a sudden co-partnership had been struck during the night, and Fife and Drum were now united in the same martial line. A great sensation was produced in the morning, when, of course, the new copartnery was suddenly dissolved. Campbell was, after some inquiry, found to have been the sign-painter, and threatened with pains and penalties, which were, however, commuted into a severe reprimand, suggesting to the poet the words of Parolles "I'll no more drumming: a plague of all Drums." LAST HOURS OF CAMPBELL. On the 6th of June, 1844, Campbell was able to converse freely; but his strength had become reduced, and on being assisted to change his posture, he fell back in the bed insensible. Conversation was carried on in the room in whispers; and Campbell uttered a few sentences, so unconnected that his friends were doubtful whether he was conscious or not of what was going on in his presence, and had recourse to an artifice to learn. One of them spoke of the poem of "Hohenlinden," and, pretending to forget the author's name, said he had heard it was by a Mr. Robinson. Campbell saw the trick, was amused, and said playfully, in a calm but distinct 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 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: "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 wishingwhich should annihilate all the inconveniences of space." сар, 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 Wirgmar, who, after making a large fortune as a goldsmith and silversmith, in St. James's-street, 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 22761. 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 Collegeso 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. Being rather rudely treated by the critics, he defied them in a pubcation 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. He was "Well they know that William Martin has outstript Newton, Bacon, Boyle, and Lord Bolingbroke." "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 |