I Was, By Common Consent, The Juvenile Prodigy, The
Poetical Youth, The Great Genius, The Pride And Hope Of The Village,
Through Whom It Was To Become One Day As Celebrated As
Stratford-On-Avon.
My father died and left me his blessing and his business.
His blessing
brought no money into my pocket; and as to his business it soon
deserted me: for I was busy writing poetry, and could not attend to
law; and my clients, though they had great respect for my talents, had
no faith in a poetical attorney.
I lost my business therefore, spent my money, and finished my poem. It
was the Pleasures of Melancholy, and was cried up to the skies by the
whole circle. The Pleasures of Imagination, the Pleasures of Hope, and
the Pleasures of Memory, though each had placed its author in the first
rank of poets, were blank prose in comparison. Our Mrs. Montagu would
cry over it from beginning to end. It was pronounced by all the members
of the Literary, Scientific, and Philosophical Society the greatest
poem of the age, and all anticipated the noise it would make in the
great world. There was not a doubt but the London booksellers would be
mad after it, and the only fear of my friends was, that I would make a
sacrifice by selling it too cheap.
Every time they talked the matter over they increased the price. They
reckoned up the great sums given for the poems of certain popular
writers, and determined that mine was worth more than all put together,
and ought to be paid for accordingly.
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