the corroding brush, and racking press as usual, I was at liberty to indulge my reflections, and the last day’s expedition afforded me ample matter. Gods! exclaimed Sable, could I have credited that such things were really practised, had I not been a witness to them! Is it not, says the sage adventurer to his gay companion, greatly to be lamented, that men of such excellent talents, should prostitute them to such hurtful purposes to the community, and reversing morality, industriously pursue evil, that they may boast of blemishes they should rather blush for; as he amongst these pillagers of society, is esteemed the most worthy who is the most wicked. But I will not, continued Sable, spend the precarious minutes in making reflections which your own perspicuity will furnish you with, but proceed in the detail of my next adventure. I was next, continued Sable, ordered by a tall long visaged person to be tried upon him, and the Monmouth-Street merchant pronounced that if I had been cut out on purpose for him, I could not have fitted him better; on this I was engaged by him for the day. I soon discovered by some detached pieces of poetry in blank verse, and other papers of the like nature put into my pocket, that I was accompanying an author.—His wan and dead complexion made me at first imagine him to be a person confined to a sedentary life, but notwithstanding his unfavourable aspect, I could conceive strong marks of the gentleman, and likewise imagined him to be a scholar, though the rays of learning which beamed from his countenance, seemed to be clouded by misfortune and care.—But to proceed, three times did this son of Apollo attend the door of a certain great man, before he could gain admittance: the first time the servant said his master was dressing, the second time he was busy, and the third we were so fortunate as to be shewn into a small antechamber, with directions to sit down, and my comrade should be informed when he could speak with this very great man, whom, but for the situation of the house, I should have imagined was a prime minister: at last, after waiting above an hour, my companion was desired to walk into a parlour, where was sitting by the fire side, surrounded by half a dozen little kittens, an old man (gentleman I cannot with propriety term him). Without asking the gentleman to sit, he began,—Well, sir, what do you want with me? I wait upon you, sir, replied the author, in relation to a play I some time ago left in your hands.—How long since? says this well mannered gentleman. Fifteen months, Sir, replied the author—O, is that all, says he,—well, and pray, what is this extraordinary play of yours, continues he; a tragedy, I suppose? It is a tragedy, Sir, answered the author, still standing, (which gave me an opportunity of remarking a letter that lay upon the table directed to the manager of one of the theatres). What do you call it? says this important gentleman. It is called ——, replied the author,—and hope