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.

I had given him no time to speak, nor did he seem so inclined. He
Continued looking at me for a moment with an air of whimsical
perplexity; scanned me from head to foot; looked down at the
manuscript, then up again at me, then pointed to a chair; and whistling
softly to himself, went on writing his letter.

I sat for some time waiting his reply, supposing he was making up his
mind; but he only paused occasionally to take a fresh dip of ink; to
stroke his chin or the tip of his nose, and then resumed his writing.
It was evident his mind was intently occupied upon some other subject;
but I had no idea that any other subject should be attended to and my
poem lie unnoticed on the table. I had supposed that every thing would
make way for the Pleasures of Melancholy.