a man to be asked to dine out anywhere in society in those days.  In 1821 the proprietors began to give dinners in Waterloo Place once a month to their contributors, who, after the cloth was removed, were expected to talk over the prospects of the magazine, and lay out the contents for next month.  Procter described to me the authors of his generation as they sat round the old “mahogany-tree” of that period.  “Very social and expansive hours they passed in that pleasant room half a century ago.  Thither came stalwart Allan Cunningham, with his Scotch face shining with good-nature; Charles Lamb, ‘a Diogenes with the heart of a St. John’; Hamilton Reynolds, whose good temper and vivacity were like condiments at a feast; John Clare, the peasant-poet, simple as a daisy; Tom Hood, young, silent, and grave, but who nevertheless now and then shot out a pun that damaged the shaking sides of the whole company; De Quincey, self-involved and courteous, rolling out his periods with a pomp and splendor suited, perhaps, to a high Roman festival; and with these sons of fame gathered certain nameless folk whose contributions to the great ‘London’ are now under the protection of that tremendous power which men call Oblivion.”

It was a vivid pleasure to hear Procter describe Edward Irving, the eccentric preacher, who made such a deep impression on the spirit of his time.  He is now dislimned into space, but he was, according to all his thoughtful contemporaries, a “son of thunder,” a “giant force of activity.”  Procter fully indorsed all that Carlyle has so nobly written of the eloquent man who, dying at forty-two, has stamped his strong personal vitality on the age in which he lived.

Procter, in his younger days, was evidently much impressed by that clever rascal who, under the name of “Janus Weathercock,” scintillated at intervals in the old “London Magazine.”  Wainwright—­for that was his real name—­was so brilliant, he made friends for a time among many of the first-class contributors to that once famous periodical; but the Ten Commandments ruined all his prospects for life.  A murderer, a forger, a thief,—­in short, a sinner in general,—­he came to grief rather early in his wicked career, and suffered penalties of the law accordingly, but never to the full extent of his remarkable deserts.  I have heard Procter describe his personal appearance as he came sparkling into the room, clad in undress military costume.  His smart conversation deceived those about him into the belief that he had been an officer in the dragoons, that he had spent a large fortune, and now condescended to take a part in periodical literature with the culture of a gentleman and the grace of an amateur.  How this vapid charlatan in a braided surtout and prismatic necktie could so long veil his real character from, and retain the regard of, such men as Procter and Talfourd and Coleridge is amazing.  Lamb calls him the “kind and light-hearted Janus,” and thought he liked him.  The contributors often