y so, and I can assure you ample justice was done to their merits here.—Memoirs of Mrs. Anne Grant, of Laggan. . . . . . Not a great deal of society came to her house, and what there was did not much interest me. I met there Owen of Lanark, who talked me out of all patience with his localities and universalities; Wilson, of The Isle of Palms, a pretending young man, but with a great deal of talent
John Wilson, Christopher North, whose chief acknowledged production at this time was the Isle of Palms, a poem.; Hogg, the poet, vulgar as his name, and a perpetual contradiction, in his conversation, to the exquisite delicacy of his Kilmeny. . . . .
Mrs. Fletcher is the most powerful lady in conversation in Edinburgh, and has a Whig coterie of her own, as Mrs. Grant has a Tory one.
She is the lady in Edinburgh by way of eminence, and her conversation is more sought than that of anybody there.
An interesting autobiography of Mrs. Fletcher, with selections from her letters, etc., h