He
recognized me at once, tipped me an impudent wink, and asked me how I
came on with the history of Jack Straw's castle.
The catastrophe at Crackscull Common put an end to my summer's
campaign. I was cured of my poetical enthusiasm for rebels, robbers,
and highwaymen. I was put out of conceit of my subject, and what was
worse, I was lightened of my purse, in which was almost every farthing
I had in the world. So I abandoned Sir Richard Steele's cottage in
despair, and crept into less celebrated, though no less poetical and
airy lodgings in a garret in town.
I see you are growing weary, so I will not detain you with any more of
my luckless attempts to get astride of Pegasus. Still I could not
consent to give up the trial and abandon those dreams of renown in
which I had indulged. How should I ever be able to look the literary
circle of my native village in the face, if I were so completely to
falsify their predictions. For some time longer, therefore, I continued
to write for fame, and of course was the most miserable dog in
existence, besides being in continual risk of starvation.
I have many a time strolled sorrowfully along, with a sad heart and an
empty stomach, about five o'clock, and looked wistfully down the areas
in the west end of the town; and seen through the kitchen windows the
fires gleaming, and the joints of meat turning on the spits and
dripping with gravy; and the cook maids beating up puddings, or
trussing turkeys, and have felt for the moment that if I could but have
the run of one of those kitchens, Apollo and the muses might have the
hungry heights of Parnassus for me.
Pages:
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152