" He had heard much
of the affluence of writers, a Churchil, a Smollet, and a Goldsmith, who
had depended upon that only for their support. He saw the celebrated Dr.
Johnson caressed by all parties, and acknowledged to be second to no man,
whatever were his rank, however conspicuous his station. Full of these
ideas, he soon completed a production, fraught with the fire and
originality of genius, pointed in its remarks, and elegant in its style.
He had now to experience vexations, of which he had before entertained no
idea. He carried his work from bookseller to bookseller, and was every
where refused. His performance was not seasoned to the times, he was a
person that nobody knew, and he had no man of rank, by his importunities
and eloquence, to force him into the ranks of fashion. At length he found
a bookseller foolish enough to undertake it. But he presently perceived
that the gentlemen at the head of that profession were wiser than he. All
the motives they had mentioned, and one more, operated against him. The
monarchs of the critic realm scouted him with one voice, because his work,
was not written in the same cold, phlegmatic insupportable manner as their
own.
He had now advanced however too far to retreat. He had too much spirit to
resume either of those professions, which for reasons so cogent in his
opinion, he had already quitted. He wrote essays, squibs, and pamphlets
for an extemporary support.
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