My journey was joyous. My heart was light as my purse, and my head full
of anticipations of fame and fortune. With what swelling pride did I
cast my eyes upon old London from the heights of Highgate. I was like a
general looking down upon a place he expects to conquer. The great
metropolis lay stretched before me, buried under a home-made cloud of
murky smoke, that wrapped it from the brightness of a sunny day, and
formed for it a kind of artificial bad weather. At the outskirts of the
city, away to the west, the smoke gradually decreased until all was
clear and sunny, and the view stretched uninterrupted to the blue line
of the Kentish Hills.
My eye turned fondly to where the mighty cupola of St. Paul's swelled
Dimly through this misty chaos, and I pictured to myself the solemn
realm of learning that lies about its base. How soon should the
Pleasures of Melancholy throw this world of booksellers and printers
into a bustle of business and delight! How soon should I hear my name
repeated by printers' devils throughout Pater Noster Row, and Angel
Court, and Ave Maria Lane, until Amen corner should echo back the
sound!
Arrived in town, I repaired at once to the most fashionable publisher.
Every new author patronizes him of course.
