ourselves into a Literary, Scientific, and Philosophical Society, and
fancied ourselves the most learned philos in existence. Every one had a
great character assigned him, suggested by some casual habit or
affectation. One heavy fellow drank an enormous quantity of tea; rolled
in his armchair, talked sententiously, pronounced dogmatically, and was
considered a second Dr. Johnson; another, who happened to be a curate,
uttered coarse jokes, wrote doggerel rhymes, and was the Swift of our
association. Thus we had also our Popes and Goldsmiths and Addisons,
and a blue-stocking lady, whose drawing-room we frequented, who
corresponded about nothing with all the world, and wrote letters with
the stiffness and formality of a printed book, was cried up as another
Mrs. Montagu. I was, by common consent, the juvenile prodigy, the
poetical youth, the great genius, the pride and hope of the village,
through whom it was to become one day as celebrated as
Stratford-on-Avon.

My father died and left me his blessing and his business. His blessing
brought no money into my pocket; and as to his business it soon
deserted me: for I was busy writing poetry, and could not attend to
law; and my clients, though they had great respect for my talents, had
no faith in a poetical attorney.

I lost my business therefore, spent my money, and finished my poem. It
was the Pleasures of Melancholy, and was cried up to the skies by the
whole circle. The Pleasures of Imagination, the Pleasures of Hope, and
the Pleasures of Memory, though each had placed its author in the first
rank of poets, were blank prose in comparison. Our Mrs. Montagu would
cry over it from beginning to end. It was pronounced by all the members
of the Literary, Scientific, and Philosophical Society the greatest
poem of the age, and all anticipated the noise it would make in the