He was quick, of keen perception--always making the most of his opportunities; had fair schooling; gets launched somehow upon an attorney’s career, to which he never took with great enthusiasm. He was an apt French scholar--passed four or five years, too, studying in Germany; his assurance and intelligence, aptitude, and good-nature bringing him to know almost everybody of consequence. He is familiar with Madame de Staël--hob-nobs with many of the great German writers of the early part of this century--is for a time correspondent of the _Times_ from the Baltic and Stockholm; and from Spain also, in the days when Bonaparte is raging over the Continent. He returns to London, revives old acquaintances, and makes new ones; knows Landor and Dyer and Campbell; is hail fellow--as would seem--with Wordsworth, Southey, Moore, and Lady Blessington; falls into some helpful legacies; keeps lazily by his legal practice; husbands his resources, but never marries; pounces upon every new lion of the day; hears Coleridge lecture; hears Hazlitt lecture; hears Erskine plead, and goes to play whist and drink punch with the Lambs. He was full of anecdote, and could talk by the hour. Rogers once said to his guests who were prompt at breakfast: “If you’ve anything to say, you’d better say it; Crabb Robinson is coming.” He talked on all subjects with average acuteness, and more than average command of language, and little graceful subtleties of social speech--but with no special or penetrative analysis of his subject-matter. The very type of a current, popular, well-received man of the town--good at cards--good at a club dinner--good at supper--good in travel--good for a picnic--good for a lady’s tea-fight. He must have written reams on reams of letters. The big books of his _Diary and Reminiscences_[8] which I commend to you for their amusing and most entertaining gossip, contained only a most inconsiderable part of his written leavings. He took admirable care of himself; did not permit exposure to draughts--to indigestions, or to bad company of any sort. Withal he was charitable--was particular and fastidious; always knew the best rulings of society about ceremony, and always obeyed; never wore a dress-coat counter to good form. He was an excellent listener--especially to people of title; was a judicious flatterer--a good friend and a good fellow; dining out five days in the week, and living thus till ninety: and if he had lived till now, I think he would have died--dining out. Mr. Robinson was not very strong in literary criticism. I quote a bit from his _Diary_, that will show, perhaps as well as any, his method and range. It is dated _June 6, 1812_: