comes wrong to Dicky.” “That is too much,” said Scribble, vouchsafing a smile; “but I certainly have considered and discussed a good many subjects; physics and metaphysics, history and poetry, criticism and compilation, divinity and morality, legislation and political œconomy, the law of nature and of nations, agriculture, manufactures, commerce, and finance, botany, chymistry, mineralogy, electricity, geology, geography, nosology, and medicine, have all exercised my pen.” Mortimer uttering interjections, expressing his admiration and surprize, Scribble, farther to transport his wonder, went on: “Though neither a physician, nor a surgeon, I am more deeply skilled in midwifery than any professed practitioner of the obstetric art. Though not called to the bar, I know better than Erskine how counsellors ought to plead. Though no clergyman, I know how men of that profession ought to preach.” “Mr. Scribble’s extraordinary merit,” said Hamilton, “is the cause of no less extraordinary envy. Nothing that he brings out has the reception which transcendent merit and abilities deserve. The malignancy of critics abuses his works, and the public most foolishly and unfortunately countenances all his detractors.” “So they do,” said Scribble, “they are all in a confederacy against _me_.” “The public,” observed Hamilton, “has acted extremely ungratefully to my friend here. If you were to collect all that his indefatigable activity has written, you would find it more than the labours of some of our ancient divines. Nay, I really do not believe, that Saint Cyril himself wrote more against the Nestorian heresy, though he contributed seven folio volumes to orthodoxy, than Mr. Scribble’s reservoir of erudition has done to attack heretics in literature, who, as he observes, abound so much in the present day; and,” continued our hero, “it is not on one subject, but on all that he writes; my friend here is not more meritorious for his genius than his courage. There’s no subject but Dicky will venture upon; I am convinced, if it were proposed to him, he would undertake to make out the longitude, or to solve all the hieroglyphics of ancient Egypt.” “But for all this,” said Scribble, “I am subject to the grossest defamation.” “Do you know,” said Hamilton, “what the impudent fellows say of poor Scribble?” “I cannot conceive,” replied Mortimer, “what is even possible to be said against such genius and erudition.” “Oh! the invention of malice will say any thing.” “Why, what do they say?” said Dick, somewhat irritated. “Insolent scoundrels,” said Hamilton; “Well, I will tell you, Scribble, that we may have a laugh at their folly.” “Ay, do,” said the other. “Why, it was only t’other evening I called at the club, and the conversation turned upon the merits of my friend Dicky Scribble here: I said nothing: but one said, ‘he’s a special fellow; he’s a good raker; he has industry; and has got together some scraps on a great variety of