with Murray, and had a genuine booksellers' dinner, such as Lintot used to give to Pope and Gay and Swift; and Dilly, to Johnson and Goldsmith.
Those present were two Mr. Duncans, Fellows of New College, Oxford, Disraeli, author of the Quarrels and Calamities of Authors, Gifford, and Campbell.
The conversation of such a party could not long be confined to politics, even on the day when they received full news of the Duke of Wellington's successes; and, after they had drunk his health and Blucher's, they turned to literary topics as by instinct, and from seven o'clock until twelve the conversation never failed or faltered.
Disraeli, who, I think, is no great favorite, though a very good-natured fellow, was rather the butt of the party.
The two Duncans were acute and shrewd in correcting some mistakes in his books.
Gifford sometimes defended him, but often joined in the laugh; and Campbell, whose spirits have lately been much improved by a legacy of £ 5,000, was the life and wi
her phraseology, and has more the air of eloquence than I have ever heard before from a lady.
But, then, it has something of the appearance of formality and display, which injures conversation.
Her manner is gracious and elegant; and, though I should not think of comparing her to Corinne, yet I think she has uncommon powers. . . .
June 16.—We dined at Mr. Vaughan's, with Dr. Schwabe, a learned German clergyman, who gave us considerable information on the state of letters in Germany; Mr. Maltby, the successor of Porson in the London Institution, (Gifford says he is the best Greek scholar left, since Porson's death), and Elmsley, the writer of the Greek articles in the Quarterly Review.
In a note subsequently added, Mr. Ticknor stated that Elmsley was not the writer of the articles ascribed to him. He expressed to me his surprise that I spoke so good English, and spoke it, too, without an accent, so that he should not have known me from an Englishman.
This is the first instanc
, and before their determinations were known, two of the frigates went down to Algiers, to ascertain by personal inquiry.
Captain Fuller and the other captain had an audience of the Dey, but the only answer they could get was this: Your masters were fools, when they had the Frenchman in their hands, that they did not cut off his head.
If I catch him, I shall act more wisely.
At three o'clock, I went to the literary exchange at Murray's bookstore.
Gifford was there, as usual, and Sir James Burgess, who, I find, is the man of whom Cumberland so often speaks, and in conjunction with whom he wrote the Exodiad; and before long Lord Byron came in, and stayed out the whole party.
I was glad to meet him there; for there I saw him among his fellows and friends,—men with whom he felt intimate, and who felt themselves equal to him. The conversation turned upon the great victory at Waterloo, for which Lord Byron received the satirical congratulations of his ministerial friends with a good