you proceeding against Horseley and Priestley?” “Demonstrating that both know nothing about the matter, and as before, that no one knows any thing about the subject but myself.” “Fifthly, mathematics. How goes your essay upon the Cycloid?” “It’s not quite so far advanced, really,” “I must begin another hand,” said Nincompoop. “Sixthly, Ethics. What are you doing against Paley?” “I demonstrate him to be a fool, and myself only thoroughly to understand the subject; but history is my sheet anchor.” “Do you think you would have time to do any thing for me there?” “Oh yes,” “I want a smart history; I don’t care on what subject,--or two or three.” “Suppose a second edition of my Jack the giant killer, or to make it a more general title, the history of British Giants. I have got some valuable materials about Gog and Magog myself,” “I should like something more modern. Could you cut me out from the gazettes and magazines, a good dashing original history of the American war?” “Oh yes, if I cannot write a better history than Hume, Robertson, or Gibbon, I will promise never to write another line.” “Do not make rash vows,” said Billy, “for you would assuredly break them.” “Another very clever man is strongly recommended to me as a capital hand for the military part.” “Aye, who’s that,” “Spontoon, drum-major of militia, now, I am told, at Brighton. I think if he do the military part, and you the rest, it will be a capital job. I shall agree on the usual terms; three half crowns a sheet, thirty shillings a volume for books to be broken up;” “but I must have an additional six-pence per sheet for flour paste.” “I dont like to find the flour; it would be establishing a bad precedent for my other authors, and would stand me in a sack of flour each quarter; besides they might be making puddings as well as books. No; all my authors must find their own scissars and paste; you know the workman at every craft finds his own tools; and the master only finds the materials. I must hear of no charge for paste:” “well, be it so, we shall not out about that, let’s see about Spontoon to-morrow.” “Scribble,” resumed Nincompoop, “do you know of any good hand at methodist sermons and hymns?” “Oh yes, I can undertake them myself.” “No; you have enough in hand already.” “Well then, there is a tall Irishman, called O’Rourke, I think he might be brought to do; he is gone a-preaching now; a good sharp fellow, but I rather doubt if he can spell.”--“Spell indeed, what does that signify? If I were to employ no authors, but those who could spell, I would not do one quarter of my present business,” “and you do a great deal, my respectable patron.” “Aye, how do I do so much business? Why by not being nice, either in my subject or my writing.” “I will introduce you to that young man that you saw with me; a decent enough youth.” “Oh, Hamilton you mean; I know him by sight; he is a very able writer I am told.” “Who tells you so?” says Scribble. “The booksellers, the