suspecting, as unknowing of guilt, he was ten
times longer in reaching Hanover-Square, than one less sensible and
curious would have been. When he arrived, he found he had paid for his
curiosity; his pocket was picked of his handkerchief, and all the
letters that were wrapped up in it. This accident would have proved very
mortifying to a man less philosophical than Thomson; but he was of a
temper never to be agitated; he then smiled at it, and frequently made
his companions laugh at the relation.

It is natural to suppose, that as soon as Mr. Thomson arrived in town,
he shewed to some of his friends his poem on Winter[3]. The approbation
it might meet with from them, was not, however, a sufficient
recommendation to introduce it to the world. He had the mortification of
offering it to several Booksellers without success, who, perhaps, not
being qualified themselves to judge of the merit of the performance,
refused to risque the necessary expences, on the work of an obscure
stranger, whose name could be no recommendation to it. These were severe
repulses; but, at last, the difficulty was surmounted. Mr. Mallet,
offered it to Mr. Millan, now Bookseller at Charing-Cross, who without
making any scruples, printed it. For some time Mr. Millan had reason to
believe, that he should be a loser by his frankness; for the impression
lay like as paper on his hands, few copies being sold, 'till by an
accident its merit was discovered.[4] One Mr. Whatley, a man of some
taste in letters, but perfectly enthusiastic in the admiration of any
thing which pleased him, happened to cast his eye upon it, and finding
something which delighted him, perused the whole, not without growing
astonishment, that the poem should be unknown, and the author obscure.
He learned from the Bookseller the circumstances already mentioned, and,
in the extasy of his admiration of this poem, he went from Coffee-house
to Coffee house, pointing out its beauties, and calling upon all men of
taste, to exert themselves in rescuing one of the greatest geniuses that
ever appeared, from obscurity. This had a very happy effect, for, in a
short time, the impression was bought up, and they who read the poem,
had no reason to complain of Mr. Whatley's exaggeration; for they found
it so compleatly beautiful, that they could not but think themselves
happy in doing justice to a man of so much merit.

The poem of Winter is, perhaps, the most finished, as well as most
picturesque,