To whom can I allude but to that big man who, you all agree, could have done so much, and has actually done so little. Who upon ten pages of letter press hangs a large volume of notes; whose political creed always obtruded, has been at perpetual war with his real interests; and whose style delights so in antithesis, that it seems to himself imperfect without it; who delivers his opinions with a sort of pedagogical authority, and brow-beats those whom he is unable to confute; who has wasted much of his time and talent in individual disputation, and at a considerably advanced period of life, finds that from some cause or other he has made but little progress towards that rank, in which, as far as talents, improved by much and deep learning, are concerned, he might, by the easy restraint or chastisement of his opinions, have enlightened and adorned society. But my dear child your negative catalogue is so extensive that I begin to fear I shall not make up a party. Oh yes you may, but for heaven’s sake do not let us have the BLAND AUTHOR. Bless me, whom can you mean? Nay, nay, you know well enough—Whom can I possibly mean but that eternal writer of poetry, who composes verses upon every trifling incident which occurs in the circles of fashion; prints whatever he composes, and recites them gratuitously both before and afterwards; whose collected works would fill half your library, but if they had been compelled to keep their peace nine years, would, in all probability, have never spoken at all. Who, if— Stop, stop, I entreat you, look on the other side of the picture, and candidly allow that a better tempered creature never breathed; kind, benevolent, and friendly; and whatever may be your opinion, allowed by most people to possess an excellent memory, happy articulation, and no inconsiderable portion of taste. However, we will ask him on some other occasion. But my dear have you any other exceptions to make? No I think not—Yes, yes, I would on no account have that DULL AUTHOR. Now, my good child, you are entirely incomprehensible, or rather perhaps you mean delicately to intimate that I am not to have my meditated Symposium. Have not all authors their intervals of dullness? Has not Homer himself been accused of occasionally nodding? Well, but to whom do you immediately look? Why to that bonny man who has printed as many thick quartos as would outweigh himself, comprehending etymology, criticism, politics, geography, antiquity, poetry, nay, the whole circle of the sciences. I have no particular, and certainly not any personal, objection to his society, but as you do me the favour to admit me of your parties, I think it would be possible to find an individual of better conversation talents, of more interesting, if not of more diversified information.