a pretty collection of books, and who frequented our printing-house,
took notice of me, invited me to his library, and very kindly lent
me such books as I chose to read. I now took a fancy to poetry,
and made some little pieces; my brother, thinking it might turn
to account, encouraged me, and put me on composing occasional ballads.
One was called The Lighthouse Tragedy, and contained an account
of the drowning of Captain Worthilake, with his two daughters:
the other was a sailor's song, on the taking of Teach (or Blackbeard)
the pirate. They were wretched stuff, in the Grub-street-ballad style;
and when they were printed he sent me about the town to sell them.
The first sold wonderfully, the event being recent, having made
a great noise. This flattered my vanity; but my father discouraged
me by ridiculing my performances, and telling me verse-makers
were generally beggars. So I escaped being a poet, most probably
a very bad one; but as prose writing bad been of great use to me
in the course of my life, and was a principal means of my advancement,
I shall tell you how, in such a situation, I acquired what little
ability I have in that way.

There was another bookish lad in the town, John Collins by name,
with whom I was intimately acquainted. We sometimes disputed,
and very fond we were of argument, and very desirous of confuting
one another, which disputatious turn, by the way, is apt to become
a very bad habit, making people often extremely disagreeable in company
by the contradiction that is necessary to bring it into practice;
and thence, besides souring and spoiling the conversation,
is productive of disgusts and, perhaps enmities where you may have
occasion for friendship. I had caught it by reading my father's
books of dispute about religion. Persons of good sense, I have
since observed, seldom fall into it, except lawyers, university men,