subjects: he is superficial in all:’ here, I thought it incumbent on me to take your part; ‘I certainly (said I) think Mr. Scribble a man of extraordinary genius.’ Strongbrain was there; he looked in my face, and laughed. ‘Hamilton, you do not think him a man of extraordinary genius.’ Angry as I was at being so contradicted, I could not help laughing also.” “Laughing,” said Scribble angrily; “you, as my friend, should have knocked him down.” “By the lord, I must have then knocked down all the meeting, for they all agreed with him.” “Hamilton, you over-rate that Strongbrain; _I_ think very little of him, _I_ must say, you yourself require a good deal of care to form your judgment, Now you think highly of Robertson and Hume, and such men as those, you are quite led by prevailing opinion; that is always the way with men of no great reach of abilities; whereas men of real talents differ in their opinion from every body else.” Hamilton not recollecting he was the aggressor, and that this remark was provoked by his satirical report, was so far irritated, as to proceed in humbling poor Scribble’s arrogance. “Yes,” said our hero, “one instance of that kind of extraordinary genius is John Dennis, who, when all the world allowed praise to Addison and Pope, endeavoured to prove that neither of them possessed any genius. Zoilus too was another extraordinary personage, who endeavoured to prove that Homer was no poet.” “All that,” said Scribble, “is mere common-place: I tell you, that persons now looked up to for literature and ability, are admired without reason, and I can surpass them all myself; and will surpass them all too.” “Come, come,” said Hamilton, “don’t be angry now, I was only telling you what I heard; but we shall not touch any more on _your genius and learning_; _it is a tender point_: I know your works excel most of the age; and I dare say, every body else thinks so too, only they say the contrary to vex you.” Easily persuaded, that others thought as highly of him as he did of himself, Scribble swallowed these declarations, and soon after departed to attend an appointment. “Who is this?” said Mortimer. “Scribble,” answered his friend, “is one of that numerous class who, without genius or philosophy, set up in the trade of authorship. He is, however, much better qualified than many of the fraternity; he has received a classical education, is master of arts, has been bred to the English bar, but, finding he could get no employment, harangues against all the counsellors who receive briefs, especially Erskine, Gibbs, and Garrow; although he has not laid the foundation of erudition in either physical or moral sciences, he has raked together a great quantity of detached and miscellaneous facts, and as he has formed a decent, though stiff and pedantic style, he can write common-place observations on most subjects that occur; and while he confines himself to skimming the surface, he does well enough, and is very useful drudge