My fair client burst out a-laughing at the account I gave her of my escape, and went away seemingly convinced of the reasonableness of my discourse to her.
As soon as she was gone, my maid brought up the following epistle, which by the style and the description she gave of the person, I suppose was left by Nick Doubt. "Harkee," said he, "girl, tell old Basket-hilt, I would have him answer it by the first opportunity." What he says is this:
"You seem a very honest fellow; therefore pray tell me, did not you write that letter in praise of the squire and his lucubrations yourself?" &c.[271]
The greatest plague of coxcombs is, that they often break upon you with an impertinent piece of good sense, as this jackanapes has hit me in a right place enough. I must confess, I am as likely to play such a trick as another; but that letter he speaks of was really genuine. When I first set up, I thought it fair enough to let myself know from all parts that my works were wonderfully inquired for, and were become the diversion, as well as instruction, of all the choice spirits in every county of Great Britain. I do not doubt but the more intelligent of my readers found it, before this jackanapes (I can call him no better) took upon him to observe upon my style and my basket-hilt. A very pleasant gentleman of my acquaintance told me one day a story of this kind of falsehood and vanity in an author. Mævius showed him a paper of verses, which he said he had received that morning by the penny post from an unknown hand. My friend admired them extremely. "Sir," said he, "this must come from a man that is eminent: you see fire, life, and spirit run through the whole, and at the same time a correctness, which shows he is used to writing. Pray, Sir, read them over again." He begins again, title and all: "To Mævius on his incomparable poems." The second reading was performed with much more vehemence and action than the former; after which my friend fell into downright raptures. "Why, they are truly sublime! There is energy in this line! description in that! Why, it is the thing itself! This is perfect picture!" Mævius could bear no more; "but, faith," says he, "Ned, to tell you the plain truth, I writ them myself."