girl of my age to hear such vigorous, manly, clear expositions of the broadest aspects of all the great political and governmental questions of the day.  Admirable sound sense was the characteristic that predominated in that intellectual circle, and was brought to bear upon every subject; and I remember with the greatest pleasure the evenings I passed at Mr. Combe’s residence in Northumberland Street, with these three grave men.  Among the younger associates to whom these elders and betters extended their kindly hospitality was William Gregory, son of the eminent professor of chemistry, who himself has since pursued the same scientific course with equal success and distinction, adding a new luster to the honorable name he inherited.

Mr. William Murray, my dear Mrs. Harry’s brother, was another member of our society, to whom I have alluded, in speaking of the Edinburgh Theater, as an accomplished actor; and sometimes I used to think that was all he was, for it was impossible to determine whether the romance, the sentiment, the pathos, the quaint humor, or any of the curiously capricious varying moods in which these were all blended, displayed real elements of his character or only shifting exhibitions of the peculiar versatility of a nature at once so complex and so superficial that it really was impossible for others, and I think would have been difficult for himself, to determine what was genuine thought and feeling in him, and what the mere appearance or demonstration or imitation of thought and feeling.  Perhaps this peculiarity was what made him such a perfect actor.  He was a very melancholy man, with a tendency to moody morbidness of mind which made him a subject of constant anxiety to his sister.  His countenance, which was very expressive without being at all handsome, habitually wore an air of depression, and yet it was capable of brilliant vivacity and humorous play of feature.  His conversation, when he was in good spirits, was a delightful mixture of sentiment, wit, poetry, fun, fancy and imagination.  He had married the sister of Mrs. Thomas Moore (the Bessie so tenderly invited to “fly from the world” with the poet), and I used to think that he was like an embodiment of Moore’s lyrical genius:  there was so much pathos and wit and humor and grace and spirit and tenderness, and such a quantity of factitious flummery besides in him, that he always reminded me of those pretty and provoking songs in which some affected attitudinizing conceit mingles with almost every expression of genuine feeling, like an artificial rose in a handful of wild flowers.

I do not think William Murray’s diamonds were of the finest water, but his paste was; and it was difficult enough to tell the one from the other.  He had a charming voice, and sang exquisitely, after a fashion which I have no doubt he copied (as, however, only original genius can copy) from Moore; but his natural musical facility was such that, although no musician, and singing everything only by ear, he executed