visited libraries on the continent, he dined
with the monks and others who possessed
them, and made a feast-day of it with the gaiety
of his company.  When he assembled his
friends over a new publication, or for the
purpose of inspecting a set of old ones, the meeting
was what he delighted to call a "symposium;"
that is to say, they ate as well as drank, and
were very merry over old books, old words,
and what they persuaded themselves was old
wine. There would have been a great deal
of reason in it all if the books had been worth
as much inside as out; but in a question
between the finest of writers, in plain calf,
and one of the fourth or fifth rate, old and
rare, and bound by Charles Lewis, the old
gentleman would have carried it hollow. He
would even have been read with the greater
devotion. However, the mania was harmless,
and helped to maintain a proper curiosity
into past ages. Tom (for though a Reverend,
and a Doctor, we can hardly think of him
seriously) was a good-natured fellow, not very
dignified in any respect; but he had the rare
merit of being candid. A moderate sum of
money was bequeathed him by Douce; and
he said he thought he deserved it, from the
"respectful attention" he had always paid
to that not very agreeable gentleman. Tom
was by no means ill-looking; yet he tells us,
that being in company, when he was young,
with an elderly gentleman who knew his
father, and the gentleman being asked, by
somebody whether the son resembled him:
"Not at all," was the answer; "Captain
Dibdin was a fine-looking fellow."

The same father was the real glory of
Tom; for the reader must know that Captain
Dibdin was no less a person than the "Tom
Bowling" of the famous sea-song:—

"Here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling,
      The darling of our crew."

Captain Thomas Dibdin was the brother of
Charles Dibdin, the songster of seamen; and
an admirable songster was Charles, and a fine
fellow in every respect the brother thus
fondly recorded by him. "No more" continues
the song, for the reader will not grudge
us the pleasure of calling it to mind—

"No more he'll hear the tempest howling,
      For death hath broach'd him to.

"His form was of the manliest beauty,
      His heart was kind and soft;
Faithful below he did his duty.
      But now he's gone aloft."

Dr. Dibdin was thus the nephew of a man of
genius, and the son of one of the best
specimens of an Englishman. His memory
may be content.

The Doctor relates an anecdote of the
house opposite him, which he considers equal
to any "romance of real life." This comes
of the antiquarian habit of speaking in
superlatives, and expressing amazement at
every little thing.  As the circumstance,
however, is complete of its kind, and the
kind, though not so rare, we suspect, as may
be imagined, is not one of everyday occurrence,
it may be worth repeating.—A handsome
widow, it seems, in the prime of life,
but in reduced circumstances, and with a
family of several children, had been left in
possession of the house, and desired to let it.
A retired merchant of sixty, who was looking
out for a house in Kensington, came to see it.
He fell in love with the widow, paid his
addresses to her on the spot, in a respectful
version of the old question put to the fair
showers of such houses—"Are you, my dear,
to be let with the lodgings?"—and, after a
courtship of six months, was wedded to the
extemporaneous object of his affections at
Kensington Church, the Doctor himself
joyfully officiating as clergyman; for the parties
were amiable; the bridegroom was a collector
of books; and the books were accompanied
by a cellar-full of burgundy and champagne.

We are not aware of any other distinguished
name connected either with Lower or with
Upper Phillimore Place, or with the Terrace
to which Wilkie removed. But continuing
our path on the Terrace side of the way, we
come to Leonard's Place and to Earl's Court
Terrace, in both of which Mrs. Inchbald
resided for some months in boarding-houses;
in the former, at a Mrs. Voysey's; in the
latter at Number Four. Boarding-houses,
though their compulsory hours of eating and
drinking did not suit her, she found more
agreeable than other lodgings, owing to their
supplying her with more companionship, and
giving her more to do for her companions.
The poor souls in these places appear to need
it. Speaking of the kind of hospital at Mrs.
Voysey's in the summer of eighteen hundred
and eighteen, she says, "All the old widows
and old maids of this house are stretched
upon beds or sofas with swollen legs, nervous
head-aches, or slow fevers, brought on by loss
of appetite, broken sleep, and other dog-day
complaints; while I am the only young and
strong person among them, and am called
upon to divert their Blue Devils from bringing
them to an untimely end. I love to be of
importance, and so the present society is
flattering to my vanity."

She was then sixty-five. What a godsend
to the poor creatures she must have been!
A woman of genius, very entertaining, full of
anecdote and old stories; and, though so
young in mind, yet of an age bodily to keep
them in heart with themselves, and make
them hope to live on.

At the back of Earl's Terrace was, and is,
a curious pretty little spot called Edwardes
Square, after the family name of the Lord
Kensingtons; and in this square Mrs. Inchbald
must often have walked, for the inhabitants
of the Terrace have keys to it, and it
gives them a kind of larger garden. We
have called the spot curious as well as pretty,