Mr. C. now told them of the herces of Thermopylae, when the geographer interrupted him, by saying, "Silas, I think I know, too, where that 'Thermopple' is; isn't it somewhere up in the north?" "You are quite right, Jack," said Mr. C. "it is to the north of the Line." A conscious elevation marked his countenance, and he rose at once, five degrees in the estimation of his friends. In one of these interesting conversaziones, when Mr. C. was sitting at the foot of a bed, surrounded by his gaping comrades, who were always solicitous of, and never wearied with, his stories, the door suddenly burst open, and in came two or three gentlemen, (his friends) looking for 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, (a picture indeed, for a Wilkie!) 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!" Mr. C.'s ransom was soon joyfully adjusted by his friends, and now the wide world once more lay before him.[78] A very old friend of Mr. Coleridge has recently furnished me with the two following anecdotes of Mr. C. which were also new to me. The inspecting officer of his regiment, on one occasion, was examining the guns of the men, and coming to one piece which was rusty, he called out in an authoritative tone, "Whose rusty gun[79] is this?" when Mr. Coleridge said, "is it _very_ rusty, Sir?" "Yes Cumberbatch, it _is_" said the officer, sternly. "Then, Sir," replied Mr. C. "it must be mine!" The oddity of the reply disarmed the officer, and the poor scholar escaped without punishment. Mr. Coleridge was a remarkably awkward horseman, so much so, as generally to attract notice. Some years after this, he was riding along the turnpike road, in the county of Durham, when a wag, approaching him, noticed his peculiarity, and (quite mistaking his man) thought the rider a fine subject for a little sport; when, as he drew near, he thus accosted Mr. C. "I say, young man, did you meet a _tailor_ on the road?" "Yes," replied Mr. C. (who was never at a loss for a rejoinder) "I did; and he told me, if I went a little further I should meet a _goose!_" The assailant was struck dumb, while the traveller jogged on. Mr. C. gave me these, his translations from the German. ON A BAD READER OF HIS OWN VERSES. Hoarse Maevius reads his hobbling verse To all, and at all times, And deems them both divinely smooth, His voice, as well as rhymes. But folks say Maevius is no ass! But Maevius makes it clear, That he's a monster of an ass, An ass without an ear. * * * * * If the guilt of all lying consists in deceit, Lie on--'tis your duty, sweet youth! For believe me, then only we find you a cheat, When you cunningly tell us the truth.