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, the thought crossed my mind to appropriate it, and make my fortune by selling it to some of his absurd admirers in America.
But I let the goose-quill sleep.
What a different person I have just been conversing with for three hours or more!—Basil Montagu; one of the sweetest men, with honeyed discourse, that I ever met. His mind is running over with beautiful images and with boundless illustration and allusion.
He has known as bosom friends Mackintosh, Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Lord Eldon; ours out his heart, as I freely mention their names, like water.
He has just published a charming little book, entitled, Essays and Selections; and he has given me a copy, in which he has written my name, with the affectionate good wishes of Basil Montagu.
I have been amused at what was told me to-night with regard to my admission to the Athenaeum.
I am an Honorary Member, admitted as a foreigner of distinction, a title which it made me shrink to see applied to my name.
But it seems I was n