At Last I Offered To Leave My Poem With A Bookseller To Read It And
Judge For Himself.
"Why, really, my dear Mr. - a - a - I forget your
name," said he, cutting an eye at my rusty
Coat and shabby gaiters,
"really, sir, we are so pressed with business just now, and have so
many manuscripts on hand to read, that we have not time to look at any
new production, but if you can call again in a week or two, or say the
middle of next month, we may be able to look over your writings and
give you an answer. Don't forget, the month after next - good morning,
sir - happy to see you any time you are passing this way" - so saying he
bowed me out in the civilest way imaginable. In short, sir, instead of
an eager competition to secure my poem I could not even get it read! In
the mean time I was harassed by letters from my friends, wanting to
know when the work was to appear; who was to be my publisher; but above
all things warning me not to let it go too cheap.
There was but one alternative left. I determined to publish the poem
myself; and to have my triumph over the booksellers, when it should
become the fashion of the day. I accordingly published the Pleasures of
Melancholy and ruined myself. Excepting the copies sent to the reviews,
and to my friends in the country, not one, I believe, ever left the
bookseller's warehouse.
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