1 Of that great and multitudinous writer, Doctor Samuel Johnson, the following anecdote is told: “Being one morning in the library at Buckingham House honoured with the presence of Royalty, the King, his late Majesty, inquired why he, (Mr. Johnson) did not continue to write. “May it please your Majesty,” answered the Doctor, “I think I have written enough.”—“I should have thought so too,” his Majesty replied, “if, Doctor Johnson, you had not written so well.”
In this opinion the visitants, who were both well conversant with our native literature, readily acquiesced.
“Have you never,” asked Dashall, “thought of publishing a volume by subscription?”
“I meditated such intention,” answered the Poet, “not long ago; drew up the necessary Prospectus, with a specimen of the Poetry, and perambulated the Metropolis in search of patronage. In some few instances I was successful, and, though limited the number, yet the high respectability of my few Subscribers gave me inexpressible satisfaction; several of our nobility honoured me with their names, and others, my patrons, were of the very first class of literature. Nevertheless, I encountered much contumelious reception; and after an irksome and unavailing perseverance of a month's continuance, I was at last compelled to relinquish all hope of success.
“Having then on my list the name of a very worthy Alderman who lately filled the Civic Chair with honour to himself and advantage to his fellow-citizens, I submitted my prospectus in an evil hour to another Alderman, a baronet, of this here and that there notoriety!
“Waiting in his Banking-house the result of my application, he condescended to stalk forth from the holy of holies, his inner room, with the lofty demeanour of conscious importance, when, in the presence of his Clerks and others, doubtless to their great edification and amusement, the following colloquy ensued, bearing in his hand my unlucky Prospectus, with a respectful epistle which had accompanied it:—
“Are you the writer,” he asked in a majesterial tone, “of this here letter?”
“I am, Sir W*****m, unfortunately!”
“Then,” he continued, “you may take them there papers back again, I have no time to read Prospectuses, and so Mister Poet my compliments, and good morning to you!!!”
“These literally were his words; and such was the astounding effect they produced on my mind, that, although I had meant to have passed through the Royal Exchange, I yet, in the depth of my reverie, wandered I knew not where, and, before recovering my recollection, found myself in the centre of London Bridge!”