I am also happy that fate has flung me into so blessed an age for the
mutual felicity of booksellers and authors, whom I may safely affirm to
be at this day the two only satisfied parties in England. Ask an author
how his last piece has succeeded, "Why, truly he thanks his stars the
world has been very favourable, and he has not the least reason to
complain". And yet he wrote it in a week at bits and starts, when he
could steal an hour from his urgent affairs, as it is a hundred to one
you may see further in the preface, to which he refers you, and for the
rest to the bookseller. There you go as a customer, and make the same
question, "He blesses his God the thing takes wonderful; he is just
printing a second edition, and has but three left in his shop". You
beat down the price; "Sir, we shall not differ", and in hopes of your
custom another time, lets you have it as reasonable as you please; "And
pray send as many of your acquaintance as you will; I shall upon your
account furnish them all at the same rate".
Now it is not well enough considered to what accidents and occasions
the world is indebted for the greatest part of those noble writings
which hourly start up to entertain it. If it were not for a rainy day,
a drunken vigil, a fit of the spleen, a course of physic, a sleepy
Sunday, an ill run at dice, a long tailor's bill, a beggar's purse, a
factious head, a hot sun, costive diet, want of books, and a just
contempt of learning,--but for these events, I say, and some others too
long to recite (especially a prudent neglect of taking brimstone
inwardly), I doubt the number of authors and of writings would dwindle
away to a degree most woeful to behold.
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