writer were a person of repute or ability, one pound; and for each page of
verse, two pounds. Charles Lamb received (very fitly) for his brief and
charming Essays, two or three times the amount of the other writers. When
they purchased the Magazine, the proprietors opened a house in Waterloo
Place for the better circulation of the publication.

It was there that the contributors met once a month, over an excellent
dinner given by the firm, and consulted and talked on literary matters
together. These meetings were very social, all the guests coming with a
determination to please and to be pleased. I do not know that many
important matters were arranged, for the welfare of the Magazine, at these
dinners; but the hearts of the contributors were opened, and with the
expansion of the heart the intellect widened also. If there had been any
shades of jealousy amongst them, they faded away before the light of the
friendly carousal; if there was any envy, it died. All the fences and
restraints of authorship were cast off, and the natural human being was
disclosed.

Amongst others, Charles Lamb came to most of these dinners, always dressed
in black (his old snuff-colored suit having been dismissed for years);
always kind and genial; conversational, not talkative, but quick in reply;
eating little, and drinking moderately with the rest. Allan Cunningham, a
stalwart man, was generally there; very Scotch in aspect, but ready to do
a good turn to any one. His talk was not too abundant, although he was a
voluminous writer in prose. His songs, not unworthy of being compared with
even those of Burns, are (as everybody knows) excellent. His face shone at
these festivities. Reynolds came always. His good temper and vivacity were
like condiments at the feast.

There also came, once or twice, the Rev. H. F. Cary, the quiet gentleness