seat of "
dark rolling winds
."
Crosby, my London publisher, has disposed of his second importation, and has sent to Ridge for a
third
— at least so he says. In every bookseller's window I see my
own name
, and
say nothing
, but enjoy my fame in secret. My last reviewer kindly requests me to alter my determination of writing no more: and "A Friend to the Cause of Literature" begs I will