went exceedingly disappointed, because I could not find any striking difference between him and the rest of my acquaintance.

There is no character in human life, which is the subject of more frequent speculation among the vulgar, than an author. Some look on him with contempt, and others with admiration; but they all agree in believing him to be something different from all other people and it is remarkable with what greediness they attend to any little anecdotes, which they can pick up concerning his life and conversation. He is, indeed, a kind of an ideal being, of which people conceive very different notions. By some he is supposed never to stir out of a garret, to wear a rusty black coat, dirty shirt, and darned stockings, and to want all the necessaries, as well as conveniences, of life; while others regard him as a creature superior to the rest of mortals, and endowed with something more than reason. One part, therefore, is surprised to see him walk abroad, and appear as well dressed as other people; and another is disappointed, when they find him talk and act, and fill the offices of life, no better than any other common man.

Nor is it less curious to consider the different ideas they conceive of the manner, in which the business of writing is executed. The novice in literature, " smit with the love of sacred song," but not yet dipt in ink, supposes it all rapture and enthusiasm, and in ima gination sees the author running wildly about his room, talking poetry to the chairs and tables; while the mechanic considers him as working at his trade, and thinks he can sit down to write, whenever he pleases, as readily as the smith can labour at his forge, or a carpenter plane a board. Indeed, he regards the author with some veneration as a scholar, but writing appears to him a mighty easy business, and he smiles, whenever he hears any body mention the labour of it;

nor has he the least conception of the mind's being fatigued with thinking, and the fancy harrassed with pursuing a long train of ideas.

As people are led frequently to judge of a man from his ordinary conversation, so it is common for them to form an idea of the author's disposition from the peculiar turn and colour of his writings: they expect a gloom to be spread over the face of a mathematician; a controversial writer must be given to wrangling and dispute; and they imagine, that a satirist must be made up of spleen, envy, and ill-nature. But this criterion is by no means certain and determinate: I know an author of a tragedy, who is the merriest man living; and one who has wrote a very witty comedy, though he will sit an hour in company without speaking a word. Lord Buckhurst is celebrated for being "the best good man with the worst natured muse;" and Addison was remarkably shy and reserved in conversation. I remember, I once fell into company with a painter, a poet, a divine, and a physician, who were no less famous for their wit and humour, than for their excellence in their several professions. After the usual common topics were discussed, the physician and the poet fell into a dispute concerning predestination; the divine smoked his pipe quietly, without putting in a word; while the painter and myself formed a privy council for the good of the nation. Thus, were it possible to conjure up the spirits of the most eminent wits in former ages, and put them together, they would perhaps appear to be very dull. company. Virgil and Addison would probably sit staring at each other without opening their mouths; Horace and Steele would perhaps join in commendation of the liquor; and Swift would in all likelihood divert himself with sucking his cheeks, drawing figures in the wine spilt upon the table, or twirling the cork-screw round his finger.

The strange prejudices, which some persons conceive against authors, deter many a youth from drawing his pen in the service of literature: or, if he ventures to commit a favourite work to the press, he steals to the printer's with as much caution and privacy, as he would perhaps, on another occasion, to a surgeon. He is afraid, that he shall injure his character by being known to have written any thing, and that the genteel part of his acquaintance will despise him as a low wretch, as soon as they discover him to be an author: as if merely the appearing in print was a disgrace to a gentleman, and the imprimatur to his works was no more than a stamp of shame and ignominy. These are the terrors, which at first disturb the peace of almost every author, and have often put me in mind of the exclamation of that writer, who cried out, "O that mine enemy had written a book!"

These fearful apprehensions are perhaps no unlucky drawback on the vanity natural to all authors, which undoubtedly they often conceal or suppress, out of deference to the world: but, if this false modesty is too much cherished, it must of course damp all genius, and discourage every literary undertaking. Why should it be disgraceful to exert the noblest faculties given us by nature? and why should any man blush at acquit ting himself well in a work, which there is scarce one in five hundred has a capacity to perform? Even supposing an author to support himself by the profit arising from his works, there is nothing more dishonest, scandalous, or mean in it, than an officer in the army (the politest of all professions) living on his commission. Sense and genius are as proper commodities to traffic in, as courage; and an author is no more to be condemned as a hackney scribbler, though he writes at the rate of so much per sheet, than a colonel should be despised as a mercenary and a bravo, for exposing himself to be slashed, stuck, and shot at for so much per

day. The truth is, that authors themselves often create the evils they complain of, and bring a disgrace on the service of literature, by being ashamed to wear the badge of it. Voltaire, in his letters on the English, relates a remarkable instance of this kind of false pride in our own Congreve. Voltaire, when he was in England, waited on Congreve, and told him, that he was glad of an opportunity of paying his respects to a writer so much celebrated for his wit and humour. Congreve received him politely enough, but replied, that he should be glad to see him as a common gentleman, but would not be considered or conversed with as an author. The French writer was a good deal surprised at such a ridiculous piece of delicacy, and could not help telling him, that, if he had been no more than a common gentleman, he should never have had any desire of seeing him.

As

I have often pleased myself with reflecting on the. different opinions, which my readers must have formed, of me, since my first appearance as an author. poverty is one of the general characteristics of our brotherhood, those, who indulge themselves in a contempt of writers, have, I doubt not, often painted me to their imagination in a very grotesque taste. Their ideal caricatures have perhaps often represented me lodged at least three stories from the ground, composing dissertations on the modern taste in architecture: at another time I may have been delineated sitting in a tattered night-gown and the breeches of a heathen philosopher, writing satires on the present modes in dress and sometimes perhaps they have figured me half-starved for want of a hearty meal, penning invectives against luxury and debauchery.

But while these have reduced me to this low condition, and "steeped me in poverty to the very lips," I flatter myself, that some few have bestowed on me an extraordinary share of virtue and understanding.

After so many grave lessons against the vices and luxúry of the present age, they will naturally suppose that I never risked a farthing at the gaming-table, never kept a mistress, would decline an invitation to a turtle feast, and, rather than be provoked to fight a duel, would take a kick on the breech, or tweak by the nose, with all the calmness and resignation imagin able. As to my wit and humour, I should blush to set down the many compliments I have had from several unknown correspondents on that head: and I once received a note from a very honest gentleman, who desired to spend an evening with me, promising him self great diversion in cracking a bottle with the face. tious Mr. Town.

These various opinions of me as an author I shall never labour to reconcile; but shall be equally contented with instructing or amusing the gentle reader, whether he considers my papers as favours showered down upon him from a bookseller's garret, or issuing from my own apartment. However this may be, Ï shall never think it a disgrace to have written, or be ashamed to be considered as an author; and if ever Mr. Voltaire should think proper to visit England again, I shall be very glad of a literary chat with him, and will give him a most gracious reception,

T.