now," says my lord. "See!
he takes her arm! The report is, he is engaged to her."

"You don't mean to say such a fellow is engaged to any of the Lowthers
of the North?" cries out Jack. "Curse me, what is the world come to,
with your printers, and your half-pay ensigns, and your schoolmasters,
and your infernal nonsense?"

The Dictionary-maker, who had shown so little desire to bow to my Lord
Chesterfield, when that famous nobleman courteously saluted him, was
here seen to take off his beaver, and bow almost to the ground, before
a florid personage in a large round hat, with bands and a gown, who
made his appearance in the Walk. This was my Lord Bishop of Salisbury,
wearing complacently the blue riband and badge of the Garter, of which
Noble Order his lordship was prelate.

Mr. Johnson stood, hat in hand, during the whole time of his
conversation with Dr. Gilbert; who made many flattering and benedictory
remarks to Mr. Richardson, declaring that he was the supporter of
virtue, the preacher of sound morals, the mainstay of religion, of all
which points the honest printer himself was perfectly convinced.

Do not let any young lady trip to her grandpapa's bookcase in
consequence of this eulogium, and rashly take down Clarissa from the
shelf. She would not care to read the volumes, over which her pretty
ancestresses wept and thrilled a hundred years ago; which were commended
by divines from pulpits and belauded all Europe over. I wonder, are our
women more virtuous than their grandmothers, or only more squeamish? If
the former, then Miss Smith of New York is certainly more modest than
Miss Smith of London, who still does not scruple to say that tables,
pianos, and animals have legs. Oh, my faithful, good old Samuel
Richardson! Hath the news yet reached thee in Hades that thy sublime
novels are huddled away in corners, and that our daughters may no more
read Clarissa than Tom Jones? Go up, Samuel, and be reconciled with
thy brother-scribe, whom in life thou didst hate so. I wonder whether
a century hence the novels of to-day will be hidden behind locks and
wires, and make pretty little maidens blush?

"Who is yonder queer person in the high headdress of my grandmother's
time, who stops and speaks to Mr. Richardson?" asked Harry, as a
fantastically dressed lady came up, and performed a curtsey and a
compliment to the bowing printer.

Jack Morris nervously struck Harry a blow in the side with the butt end
of his whip. L