My eye turned fondly to where the mighty cupola of St. Paul’s swelled Dimly through this misty chaos, and I pictured to myself the solemn realm of learning that lies about its base.  How soon should the Pleasures of Melancholy throw this world of booksellers and printers into a bustle of business and delight!  How soon should I hear my name repeated by printers’ devils throughout Pater Noster Row, and Angel Court, and Ave Maria Lane, until Amen corner should echo back the sound!

Arrived in town, I repaired at once to the most fashionable publisher.  Every new author patronizes him of course.  In fact, it had been determined in the village circle that he should be the fortunate man.  I cannot tell you how vaingloriously I walked the streets; my head was in the clouds.  I felt the airs of heaven playing about it, and fancied it already encircled by a halo of literary glory.

As I passed by the windows of bookshops, I anticipated the time when my work would be shining among the hotpressed wonders of the day; and my face, scratched on copper, or cut in wood, figuring in fellowship with those of Scott and Byron and Moore.

When I applied at the publisher’s house there was something in the loftiness of my air, and the dinginess of my dress, that struck the clerks with reverence.  They doubtless took me for some person of consequence, probably a digger of Greek roots, or a penetrator of pyramids.  A proud man in a dirty shirt is always an imposing character in the world of letters; one must feel intellectually secure before he can venture to dress shabbily; none but a great scholar or a great genius dares to be dirty; so I was ushered at once to the sanctum sanctorum of this high priest of Minerva.

The publishing of books is a very different affair now-a-days from what it was in the time of Bernard Lintot.  I found the publisher a fashionably-dressed man, in an elegant drawing-room, furnished with sofas and portraits of celebrated authors, and cases of splendidly bound books.  He was writing letters at an elegant table.  This was transacting business in style.  The place seemed suited to the magnificent publications that issued from it.  I rejoiced at the choice I had made of a publisher, for I always liked to encourage men of taste and spirit.

I stepped up to the table with the lofty poetical port that I had Been accustomed to maintain in our village circle; though I threw in it something of a patronizing air, such as one feels when about to make a man’s fortune.  The publisher paused with his pen in his hand, and seemed waiting in mute suspense to know what was to be announced by so singular an apparition.

I put him at his ease in a moment, for I felt that I had but to come, see, and conquer.  I made known my name, and the name of my poem; produced my precious roll of blotted manuscript, laid it on the table with an emphasis, and told him at once, to save time and come directly to the point, the price was one thousand guineas.