regard to the common motives of writers; which are profit, favour, and reputation. As to profit, I am assured by persons of credit, that the best ballad upon Mr. Wood will not yield above a groat to the author; and the unfortunate adventurer Harding[1] declares he never made the drapier any present, except one pair of scissars. As to favour, whoever thinks to make his court by opposing Mr. Wood, is not very deep in politicks. And as to reputation, certainly no man of worth and learning would employ his pen upon so transitory a subject, and in so obscure a corner of the world, to distinguish himself as an author. So that I look upon myself, the drapier, and my numerous brethren, to be all true patriots in our several degrees.
All that the publick can expect for the future, is, only to be sometimes warned to beware of Mr. Wood's halfpence; and to be referred for conviction to the drapier's reasons. For, a man of the most superiour understanding, will find it impossible to make the best use of it, while he writes in constraint; perpetually softening, correcting, or blotting out expressions, for fear of bringing his printer, or himself, under a prosecution from my lord chief justice Whitshed. It calls to my remembrance the madman in Don Quixote, who, being soundly beaten by a weaver for letting a stone (which he always carried on his shoulder) fall upon a spaniel, apprehended that every cur he met was of the same species.
For these reasons I am convinced, that what I have now written will appear low and insipid; but, if it contributes in the least to preserve that union
- ↑ The printer of the drapier's letters.
