great number of people who were
talking earnestly together, and the surface in front of them was strewn
with books and pamphlets. I could not help observing that these persons
were dressed in a most extraordinary mixture of costumes, for those at
the end nearest to me wore peruke wigs, swords, and all the fashions of
two centuries back; those about the centre had tight knee-breeches, high
cravats, and heavy bunches of seals; while among those at the far side
the majority were dressed in the most modern style, and among them
I saw, to my surprise, several eminent men of letters whom I had the
honour of knowing. There were two or three women in the company. I
should have risen to my feet to greet these unexpected guests, but all
power of motion appeared to have deserted me, and I could only lie still
and listen to their conversation, which I soon perceived to be all about
myself.

"Egad!" exclaimed a rough, weather-beaten man, who was smoking a long
churchwarden pipe at my end of the table, "my heart softens for him.
Why, gossips, we've been in the same straits ourselves. Gadzooks, never
did mother feel more concern for her eldest born than I when Rory Random
went out to make his own way in the world."

"Right, Tobias, right!" cried another man, seated at my very elbow.

"By my troth, I lost more flesh over poor Robin on his island, than had
I the sweating sickness twice told. The tale was well-nigh done when in
swaggers my Lord of Rochester--a merry gallant, and one whose word in
matters literary might make or mar. 'How now, Defoe,' quoth he, 'hast a
tale on hand?' 'Even so, your lordship,' I returned. 'A right merry one,
I trust,' quoth he. 'Discourse unto me concerning thy heroine, a comely
lass, Dan, or I mistake.' 'Nay,' I replied, 'there is no heroine in the
matter.' 'Split not your phrases,' quoth he; 'thou weighest every word
like a scald attorney. Speak to me of thy principal female character,
be she heroine or no.' 'My lord,' I answered, 'there is no female
character.' 'Then out upon thyself and thy book too!' he cried. 'Thou
hadst best burn it!'--and so out in great dudgeon, whilst I fell to
mourning over my poor romance, which was thus, as it were, sentenced to
death before its birth. Yet there are a thousand now who have read of
Robin and his man Friday, to one who has heard of my Lord of Rochester."

"Very true, Defoe," said a genial-looking man in a red waistcoat, who
was sitting at the modern end of the