nal, the farmer writes the process
of his annual labour; he that succeeds in his trade, thinks his wealth a
proof of his understanding, and boldly tutors the publick; he that
fails, considers his miscarriage as the consequence of a capacity too
great for the business of a shop, and amuses himself in the Fleet with
writing or translating. The last century imagined, that a man, composing
in his chariot, was a new object of curiosity; but how much would the
wonder have been increased by a footman studying behind it[2]! There is
now no class of men without its authors, from the peer to the thrasher;
nor can the sons of literature be confined any longer to Grub street or
Moorfields; they are spread over all the town, and all the country, and
fill every stage of habitation, from the cellar to the garret.

It is well known, that the price of commodities must always fall, as the
quantity is increased, and that no trade can allow its professors to be
multiplied beyond a certain number. The great misery of writers proceeds
from their multitude. We easily perceive, that in a nation of clothiers,
no man could have any cloth to make but for his own back; that in a
community of bakers every man must use his own bread; and what can be
the case of a nation of authors, but that every man must be content to
read his book to himself? For, surely, it is vain to hope, that of men
labouring at the same occupation, any will prefer the work of his
neighbour to his own; yet this expectation, wild as it is, seems to be
indulged by many of the writing race, and, therefore, it can be no
wonder, that like all other men, who suffer their minds to form
inconsiderate hopes, they are harassed and dejected with frequent
disappointments.

If I were to form an adage of misery, or fix the lowest point to which
humanity could fall, I should be tempted to name the life of an author.
Many universal comparisons there are by which misery is expressed. We
talk of a man teased like a bear at the stake, tormented like a toad
under a harrow, or hunted like a dog with a stick at his tail; all these
are, indeed, states of uneasiness, but what are they to the life of an
author; of an author worried by criticks, tormented by his bookseller,
and hunted by his creditors! Yet such must be the case of many among the
retailers of knowledge, while they continue thus to swarm over the land;
and, whether it be by propagation or contagion, produce new writers to
heighten the g