Though at most of this composition our hero smiled; yet, the allusion to the walk in the grove, he did not relish, and was not without alarm lest the gross conception of the writer might misinterpret the matter. While he was ruminating on this subject, a female servant, with a simper, informed him, that the porter who had before made inquiries was now below, to ask if he was returned; but brought no message. In the evening, the young ladies staid at home, to prepare for a ball that was to be given in a day or two. The elderly part played a rubber at whist; Hamilton and Mortimer took a stroll to the library. At the door, they heard the voice of that worthy author, Richard Scribble, exerted in a loud tone, that they soon found to be preceptorial; and entering, observed, that his back was towards them, while he accosted a lady of a pleasing countenance, expressing intelligence and sensibility, but tinged with a pensiveness that approached to melancholy. The interesting sadness of her countenance they ascribed, though, as they afterwards learned, unjustly, to some disappointment in love. The gleams of transient mirth, that occasionally shot across her visage, they justly imputed to the absurdities which the speaker was uttering. Approaching to the orator, unobserved, they heard him pouring forth the following words: “Yes, ma’am, as I have before observed, I have read your novel really with a good deal of pleasure, and I must say, there are traits of genius in it; and if you will suspend a future publication, until you see a treatise that I myself am composing, on novel-writing, you may be enabled to make very important improvements in your materials, disposition, and expression. I shall demonstrate, that the art of novel-writing is hitherto unknown. Both Johnson and myself think meanly of Fielding; there Johnson is right: but Johnson thinks highly of Richardson; I don’t, there Johnson is wrong. Richardson is a poor paltry writer, without any of that knowledge or exhibition of sentiment, which the philologist erroneously ascribes to him. I have not the honour to be personally known to you, madam; but on announcing my name, I trust I shall immediately be recognized by any member of the republic of letters. I am Mr. Richard Scribble, author of the history of Jack the giant-killer, whose fame, I dare say, may have reached your ears.” “I am sorry,” said the lady, “I never had the pleasure of hearing of it.” “No!” said Dicky; “you surprise me, ma’am. I will venture to say, it is a history that contains views, neither to be found in Hume, Robertson, or Gibbon.” The lady answered, “I have not the least doubt of it, sir.” At this reply, our hero perceiving that the lady comprehended Mr. Scribble, burst out into a laugh. Scribble turning about angrily, to his great surprise saw that Hamilton was the laugher, and was sitting close by him. “Hamilton,” said Scribble, “is it you that are making so boisterous a noise?