He himself persevered with his literary engagements, and notwithstanding his parliamentary occupations, completed them within the specified time. Besides the nine hundred pounds for the three volumes, he had to receive about one hundred and fifty pounds of a balance on other accounts. As he now had no occasion to earn profits from literary labours, he resolved to apply the proceeds to a purpose of the highest consequence to the advancement of literature. He presented the sum, in all a thousand guineas, to that WISE AND BENEFICIAL INSTITUTION--THE LITERARY FUND. Placed in such hands, he knew it would be employed with combined benignity and discrimination; and that when enlightened dispensers of bounty administer relief, they so model the donation and mode, as to alleviate distress without wounding ingenuous sensibility. The good fortune of Hamilton was pleasing to many of his acquaintances, and to all his ABLE literary associates. These trusting to their own efforts and fame, had no motives for repining at the success of another. But a considerable number of _professed_ votaries of literature were enraged at his prosperity, though not ill-pleased that it withdrew him from a field, in which they had the folly to look on him as a competitor. Of those who were the most violently provoked against that Providence that elevated Hamilton, the most incessantly querulous, and furiously acrimonious, was poor Doctor Dicky Scribble, who was now at as great pains to vilify the parliamentary exhibitions of Hamilton, as he formerly had been to revile his literary works. This virulence Dicky poured out in the midst of warm professions of friendship. Hence many may suppose, that Dicky Scribble is a very faithless and bad man. He is not so naturally; he is only so from the accident of situation. _Scribble is a bad man, because he is a bad writer_; he pours out calumny, not against all, for all do not interfere with him; but against all writers or intellectual labourers of growing or established reputation. He calls on them “with no friendly voice, but to tell them in his darkness how he hates their light.” Poor Dicky not only supposes himself to have _common sense_, and that is _straining hypothesis much too far_, but in an infatuation of self-conceit, bordering upon insanity, fancies himself to be above ordinary mediocrity; and, astonishing to say, even dreams he is a man of genius; a notion that proves the justness of one of Swift’s observations--“That there is no proposition so absurd, but that it will be believed by some of mankind.” The Doctor is the more enraged against Hamilton, because he is enraged against his own situation. The world in general, or at least that part of it which happens to know any thing of Scribble and his writings, have unfortunately found out that he is a mere plodding literary blockhead. The booksellers know this opinion, and none of them now give him any employment, except one or two, who