h the utmost sincerity, her beautiful novel, _The
Recluse of Norway_. I found her full of good sense, and with much command
of language. She will forgive me for saying she had not the personal
beauty of her gentle sister Jane. She paid many compliments to the
imaginative _vivants_ of the green island; for she perceived by my tones
that I was an Irishman, though I am not sure, that she knew even my name;
for the company was numerous, and of all countries. It was an evening
assembly, in which the rooms were so full, that one could hardly move.
Tommy Moore was there, and though he is a very little man, he was the
great lion of the evening: all the young ladies were dying to see the bard
whose verses they had chanted so often with thrilling bosoms, and tears
running down their cheeks. They were not quite satisfied when they saw a
diminutive man, not reaching five feet, with a curly natural brown scratch,
handing about an ugly old dowager or two, who fondly leaned upon his arms,
even though they discovered them to be ladies of high titles.

Rogers came in late, and went away early, looking sallower and more
indifferent than usual. He paid a few bows and compliments to two or three
noble peeresses, and then retired.

The Rev. Thomas Frognel Dibdin was there. He was very facetious and quaint:
when he found himself by my side, he instantly started off, crying to me;
"Brobdignagian; We Lilliputians must not stand by you! You would make a
soldier for the King of Prussia! Look at that tall lady there, that Miss
de V----; why do you not take her for a wife?" E---- G----n heard what he
said, and looked fierce at us both! I expected another _Bluviad!_ Perhaps
the ingenious bibliographer does not recollect the conversation; but he
may be assured it took place. And I entreat also Anna Maria Porter to tax
her memory, and recall the very interesting and sensible conversation I
had with her. I told her some anecdotes of her brother, Sir Robert, whom I
met on our travels, which pleased her. Jane would not talk much that night;
something heavy seemed to have seized her spirits. Let Jane recollect how
she once related to me the curious history and character of Percival
Stockdale! It happened at the house of a friend in London, whom I shall
not point out with too much particularity. Dibdin endeavoured to excite
the envy of some of us litterateurs, that we were not, like him, members
of the Roxburgh, which had dukes, and earls, and chancellors