Although the happiness of my own house was frequently disturbed by the whims of Mr. Ascomy as often as he visited us, generally three times a week,—for after my marriage, his daughters being then removed from him, he spent the greater part of his time in London—yet still it could not be said that my life passed without agreeable recreation, and much of it was owing to him. His acquaintances were numerous, chiefly among that set of odd and erudite characters, who constitute the regular audiences of societies and lectures, and the guests at his occasional dinners may be described as selected from the curiosities of human nature. Mr. Moth, his favoured friend, was uniformly invited, and, I believe, was the only individual ever there with whom I could not become acquainted.

In many respects that gentleman was unlike every other person— he had read a great deal,—his talk was all from books, but it was about as intelligent and instructive to me as a dictionary. It was dry words, and I never could dove-tail two of his sentences into common sense. His mind, in fact, was like a sportsman's shot-bag, filled with small, detached ideas, each of little value in itself, but capable of producing a strong effect when applied collectively. Yet, except in the vanity of fancying himself possessed of eminent conversational talent, he well deserved the epithet of worthy, and in their confidential affairs, all his friends had great faith in the strictness of his integrity. To Mr. Ascomy he was the right hand; and although I never sought his intimacy, in consequence of his inherent loquacity, his reputation for respectability in all his conduct, begat in me as much seeming respect as in any of those numbered among his friends.