public, the world.” “The booksellers, the public, the world, are a parcel of ignorant blockheads. I tell you, Hamilton is not a clever fellow, and you, and whoever says he is,” continued Scribble, “only shew their own ignorance.” Scribble was warm with liquor, otherwise he would never have ventured to talk so cavalierly to his supreme employer in the book manufactory. Nincompoop was a cunning fellow; regarded his own set of authors merely as productive journeymen, and, as many saleable books could be compiled without learning or genius, the chief qualifications he sought, in the usual routine of his business, were laborious drudgery, and readiness of raking. He could not distinguish between pains-taking dullness, and real ability: and therefore prized Mr. Scribble. Proud and irritable, however, he replied disdainfully to his journeyman: “I will not suffer such language from any man; no, if instead of being a common literary hack, a jade of all work, he had the powers and learning of Dr. Strongbrain.” Scribble, too intoxicated for prudence, screamed with rage, “let me tell you, sir, I am superior to a hundred Strongbrains put together.” Nincompoop, who was perfectly sober, and extremely quick in surveying his own interest, recollecting the serviceableness of Scribble’s manufacturing talents, resolved to avoid a quarrel; and, by unsaying all that he had said, imputing it to the hastiness of his temper, and asserting his thorough conviction, that Scribble far surpassed Strongbrain, and every other literary man, he pacified the enraged author, called for a fresh bowl, and spent the remainder of the evening in friendly conversation, that was ended, by Dicky’s falling from his chair on the carpet, where he slept without disturbance till the following morning. This day, a party was proposed to Worthing; and to the great pleasure of the ladies, Scribble not being to be found, was not of the company. Even Hamilton himself, though from his satirical humour, he relished occasional meetings with the vanity, self-conceit, and absurdity of Dicky; yet, tired of him a daily dish, and agreed with the rest in thinking him, to use the fashionable language of that time, a shocking _bore_. Arriving at the pleasant village of Worthing, they repaired to the inn of the celebrated Mr. Hogsflesh; where, while the elderly part of the company took a short walk on the sands, the two young gentlemen and ladies directed their steps towards an eminence on the right, which, as they heard, commanded a prospect that included Hampshire and the Isle of Wight. It was near the end of September, and a very charming day. The scene was rural and solitary, being a succession of fields, leading to a small and scattered village, containing a venerable old church, which, at different turnings of the path, presented several points of picturesque aspect.