I put him at his ease in a moment, for I felt that I had but to come,
see, and conquer. I made known my name, and the name of my poem;
produced my precious roll of blotted manuscript, laid it on the table
with an emphasis, and told him at once, to save time and come directly
to the point, the price was one thousand guineas.
I had given him no time to speak, nor did he seem so inclined. He
Continued looking at me for a moment with an air of whimsical
perplexity; scanned me from head to foot; looked down at the
manuscript, then up again at me, then pointed to a chair; and whistling
softly to himself, went on writing his letter.
I sat for some time waiting his reply, supposing he was making up his
mind; but he only paused occasionally to take a fresh dip of ink; to
stroke his chin or the tip of his nose, and then resumed his writing.
It was evident his mind was intently occupied upon some other subject;
but I had no idea that any other subject should be attended to and my
poem lie unnoticed on the table. I had supposed that every thing would
make way for the Pleasures of Melancholy.
My gorge at length rose within me. I took up my manuscript; thrust it
into my pocket, and walked out of the room: making some noise as I
went, to let my departure be heard. The publisher, however, was too
much busied in minor concerns to notice it. I was suffered to walk
down-stairs without being called back. I sallied forth into the street,
but no clerk was sent after me, nor did the publisher call after me
from the drawing-room window. I have been told since, that he
considered me either a madman or a fool. I leave you to judge how much
he was in the wrong in his opinion.
When I turned the corner my crest fell. I cooled down in my pride and
my expectations, and reduced my terms with the next bookseller to whom
I applied. I had no better success: nor with a third: nor with a
fourth. I then desired the booksellers to make an offer themselves; but
the deuce an offer would they make. They told me poetry was a mere
drug; everybody wrote poetry; the market was overstocked with it. And
then, they said, the title of my poem was not taking: that pleasures of
all kinds were worn threadbare; nothing but horrors did now-a-days, and
even these were almost worn out. Tales of pirates, robbers, and bloody
Turks might answer tolerably well; but then they must come from some
established well-known name, or the public would not look at them.
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. The printer's bill drained my purse, and the
only notice that was taken of my work was contained in the
advertisements paid for by myself.
I could have borne all this, and have attributed it as usual to the
mismanagement of the publisher, or the want of taste in the public: and
could have made the usual appeal to posterity, but my village friends
would not let me rest in quiet. They were picturing me to themselves
feasting with the great, communing with the literary, and in the high
course of fortune and renown. Every little while, some one came to me
with a letter of introduction from the village circle, recommending him
to my attentions, and requesting that I would make him known in
society; with a hint that an introduction to the house of a celebrated
literary nobleman would be extremely agreeable.
I determined, therefore, to change my lodgings, drop my correspondence,
and disappear altogether from the view of my village admirers. Besides,
I was anxious to make one more poetic attempt. I was by no means
disheartened by the failure of my first. My poem was evidently too
didactic. The public was wise enough. It no longer read for
instruction. "They want horrors, do they?" said I, "I'faith, then they
shall have enough of them." So I looked out for some quiet retired
place, where I might be out of reach of my friends, and have leisure to
cook up some delectable dish of poetical "hell-broth."
I had some difficulty in finding a place to my mind, when chance threw
me in the way Of Canonbury Castle.
