I alluded to the former, as merely proving the inefficacy of mental labour in realizing the necessaries of life to an author whom celebrity declines acknowledging.

Similarly situated, it would appear was the Dutchman mentioned by the late Doctor Walcot, "My Broder is te poet, look, As all te world must please, For he heb wrote, py Got, a book So big as all this cheese!" "On the other hand, Collins, Hammond, and Gray, wrote each of them but little, yet their names will descend to posterity!--And had Gray, of his poems the _Bard_, and the _Elegy in a Country Church Yard_, written only one, and written nothing else, he had required no other or better passport to immortality!"{1} 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." ~348~~ 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!" ~349~~ The detail of this fact, so characteristic of rude, ungentlemanly manners, and the barbarian ignorance of this great man of little soul, excited against him, with Dashall and his friend, a mingled feeling of ridicule, contempt and reprobation! "Real Life in London still!" exclaimed Talltho; "intellect and indigence in a garret, and wealth and ignorance in a banking-house!--I would at least have given him, in deficiency of other means, the wholesome castigation of reproof." "I did," said the Poet, "stung to the quick by such unmerited contumely, I retired to my attic, and produced a philippic named the Recantation: I cannot accommodate you at present with a copy of the Poem, but the concluding stanzas I can repeat from memory:-- "C****s, thy house in Lombard Street Affords thee still employment meet, Thy consequence retaining; For there thy Partners and thy Clerks Must listen to thy sage remarks, Subservient, uncomplaining.
And rob'd in Aldermanic gown, With look and language all thy own, Thou mak'st thy hearers stare, When this here cause, so wisely tried, Thou put'st with self-applause aside, To wisely try that there.
Nor can thy brother Cits forget When thou at civic banquet sate, And ask'd of Heaven a boon, A toast is call'd, on thee all eyes Intent, when peals of laughter rise-- A speedy peace and soon! Nor yet orthography nor grammar, Vain effort on thy pate to hammer, Impregnable that fort is! Witness thy toast again,--Three Cs; For who would think that thou by these Meant Cox, and King, and Curtis C****s, though scant thy sense, yet Heaven To thee the better boon hast given Or wealth--then sense despise, And deem not Fate's decrees amiss, For still "where ignorance is bliss 'Tis folly to be wise!" ~350~~ "Bravo!" exclaimed Dashall; "re-issue your Prospectus, my friend, and we will accelerate, with our best interest and influence, the publication of your volume.