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. For my part, I was modest in my
expectations, and determined that I would be satisfied with a thousand
guineas. So I put my poem in my pocket and set off for London.
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. In fact, it had been
determined in the village circle that he should be the fortunate man.
