One evening as I was rambling out, I observed
a man &longs;itting on the trunk of an old tree, with a
paper and pencil in his hand; at fir&longs;t I &longs;uppo&longs;ed
him to be drawing, but, on a nearer approach, I
found him to be writing.

Pray, Sir, &longs;aid I, advancing, and paying him the
compliments of the evening, what may be the subject
which &longs;o agreeably engages your attention?
I pre&longs;ume you are &longs;acrificing at the &longs;hrine of the
Mu&longs;es—I am, Sir, &longs;aid he, ri&longs;ing and putting the
paper in his pocket—I have been writing all this

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&longs;ummer, and in the winter I hope to have my
works in print—It is a novel, Sir, entirely calculated
to amu&longs;e—

In how many volumes?

Two.

And are you &longs;ure of &longs;elling them?

I am engaged, Sir, to write for a per&longs;on who
&longs;carcely ever publi&longs;hes any thing but novels.

What may be the plot or foundation of your novel?

It is called Annabella; or Suffering Innocence—
my heroine is beautiful, accompli&longs;hed, and rich;
an only child, and &longs;urrounded by admirers—&longs;he
contracts an attachment for a man, her inferior in
point of birth and fortune; but honorable, handsome,
&c.—She has a female friend to whom &longs;he
relates all that pa&longs;&longs;es in her brea&longs;t—her hopes, fears,
meetings, partings, &c.—She is treated hardly by
her friends—combats innumerable difficulties in
the &longs;entimental way, but at la&longs;t overcomes them all,
and is made the bride of the man of her heart.

P&longs;haw, &longs;aid I, that is &longs;tale; there are at this
pre&longs;ent day above two thou&longs;and novels in exi&longs;tence
which begin and end exactly in the &longs;ame way—
the novel writers have now taken another road;
and, if you will give me leave, I will ju&longs;t give you
a few hints which may, perhaps, be of &longs;ome service
to you in writing a novel in future.