id nothing to my paradoxes;
nothing at all, Sir. Every man of them was employed in praising his
friends and himself, or condemning his enemies; and unfortunately, as I
had neither, I suffered the cruellest mortification, neglect.

'As I was meditating one day in a coffee-house on the fate of my
paradoxes, a little man happening to enter the room, placed himself in
the box before me, and after some preliminary discourse, finding me to
be a scholar, drew out a bundle of proposals, begging me to subscribe to
a new edition he was going to give the world of Propertius, with notes.
This demand necessarily produced a reply that I had no money; and
that concession led him to enquire into the nature of my expectations.
Finding that my expectations were just as great as my purse, I see,
cried he, you are unacquainted with the town, I'll teach you a part of
it. Look at these proposals, upon these very proposals I have subsisted
very comfortably for twelve years. The moment a nobleman returns from
his travels, a Creolian arrives from Jamaica, or a dowager from her
country seat, I strike for a subscription. I first besiege their hearts
with flattery, and then pour in my proposals at the breach. If they
subscribe readily the first time, I renew my request to beg a dedication
fee. If they let me have that, I smite them once more for engraving
their coat of arms at the top. Thus, continued he, I live by vanity, and
laugh at it. But between ourselves, I am now too well known, I should
be glad to borrow your face a bit: a nobleman of distinction has just
returned from Italy; my face is familiar to his porter; but if you
bring this copy of verses, my life for it you succeed, and we divide the
spoil.'

'Bless us, George,' cried I, 'and is this the employment of poets now!
Do men of their exalted talents thus stoop to beggary! Can they so far
disgrace their calling, as to make a vile traffic of praise for bread?'

'O no, Sir,' returned he, 'a true poet can never be so base; for
wherever there is genius there is pride. The creatures I now describe
are only beggars in rhyme. The real poet, as he braves every hardship
for fame, so he is equally a coward to contempt, and none but those who
are unworthy protection condescend to solicit it.

'Having a mind too proud to stoop to such indignities, and yet a fortune
too humble to hazard a second attempt for fame, I was now, obliged to
take a middle course, and write for bread. But I was unqualifi