With Coventry, and with Salt, in their walks upon the terrace, most commonly Peter Pierson would join, to make up a third.  They did not walk linked arm in arm in those days—­“as now our stout triumvirs sweep the streets,”—­but generally with both hands folded behind them for state, or with one at least behind, the other carrying a cane.  P. was a benevolent, but not a pre-possessing man.  He had that in his face which you could not term unhappiness; it rather implied an incapacity of being happy.  His cheeks were colourless, even to whiteness.  His look was uninviting, resembling (but without his sourness) that of our great philanthropist.  I know that he did good acts, but I could never make out what he was.  Contemporary with these, but subordinate, was Daines Barrington—­another oddity—­he walked burly and square—­in imitation, I think, of Coventry—­howbeit he attained not to the dignity of his prototype.  Nevertheless, he did pretty well, upon the strength of being a tolerable antiquarian, and having a brother a bishop.  When the account of his year’s treasurership came to be audited, the following singular charge was unanimously disallowed by the bench:  “Item, disbursed Mr. Allen, the gardener, twenty shillings, for stuff to poison the sparrows, by my orders.”  Next to him was old Barton—­a jolly negation, who took upon him the ordering of the bills of fare for the parliament chamber, where the benchers dine—­answering to the combination rooms at college—­much to the easement of his less epicurean brethren.  I know nothing more of him.—­Then Read, and Twopenny—­Read, good-humoured and personable—­Twopenny, good-humoured, but thin, and felicitous in jests upon his own figure.  If T. was thin, Wharry was attenuated and fleeting.  Many must remember him (for he was rather of later date) and his singular gait, which was performed by three steps and a jump regularly succeeding.  The steps were little efforts, like that of a child beginning to walk; the jump comparatively vigorous, as a foot to an inch.  Where he learned this figure, or what occasioned it, I could never discover.  It was neither graceful in itself, nor seemed to answer the purpose any better than common walking.  The extreme tenuity of his frame, I suspect, set him upon it.  It was a trial of poising.  Twopenny would often rally him upon his leanness, and hail him as Brother Lusty; but W. had no relish of a joke.  His features were spiteful.  I have heard that he would pinch his cat’s ears extremely, when any thing had offended him.  Jackson—­the omniscient Jackson he was called—­was of this period.  He had the reputation of possessing more multifarious knowledge than any man of his time.  He was the Friar Bacon of the less literate portion of the Temple.  I remember a pleasant passage, of the cook applying to him, with much formality of apology, for instructions how to write down edge bone of beef in his bill of commons.  He was supposed to know, if any man in the world did.  He decided