When it was
completed I hurried to London, and considered every moment that passed
before its publication, as lost in a kind of neutral existence, and cut
off from the golden hours of happiness and fame. The piece was at last
printed and disseminated by a rapid sale; I wandered from one place of
concourse to another, feasted from morning to night on the repetition of
my own praises, and enjoyed the various conjectures of criticks, the
mistaken candour of my friends, and the impotent malice of my enemies.
Some had read the manuscript, and rectified its inaccuracies; others had
seen it in a state so imperfect, that they could not forbear to wonder
at its present excellence; some had conversed with the author at the
coffeehouse; and others gave hints that they had lent him money.
I knew that no performance is so favourably read as that of a writer who
suppresses his name, and therefore resolved to remain concealed, till
those by whom literary reputation is established had given their
suffrages too publickly to retract them. At length my bookseller
informed me that Aurantius, the standing patron of merit, had sent
inquiries after me, and invited me to his acquaintance.
The time which I had long expected was now arrived.
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