of the Immortals,—of Wordsworth at a literary entertainment in the house of Mr. Hoare of Hampstead, sitting mute and miserable all evening in a corner,—which, as Miss Aikin truly remarked, was "disappointing and provoking"; of Lamb carried by the indefatigable Crabb Robinson to call on Mrs. Barbauld. This visit appears to have been a distinct failure. Lamb's one recorded observation was that Gilbert Wakefield had a peevish face,—an awkward remark, as Wakefield's daughter sat close at hand and listening. "Lamb," writes Mr. Robinson, "was vexed, but got out of the scrape tolerably well,"—having had, indeed, plenty of former experiences to help him on the way.
There is a delightful passage in Miss Jane Porter's diary which describes at length an evening spent at the house of Mrs. Fenwick, "the amiable authoress of 'Secrecy.'" (Everybody was the amiable authoress of something. It was a day, like our own, given over to the worship of ink.) The company consisted of Miss Porter and her sister Maria, Miss Benger and her brother, the poet Campbell, and his
