Going too long is a cause of abortion¹ as effectual, though not so frequent, as going too short, and holds true especially in the labours of the brain. Well fare the heart of that noble Jesuit 85 who first adventured to confess in print that books must be suited to their several seasons, like dress, and diet, and diversions; and better fare our noble notion for refining upon this among other French modes. I am living fast to see the time when a book that misses its tide shall be neglected as the moon by day, or like mackerel a week after the season. No man has more nicely observed our climate than the bookseller who bought the copy of this work. He knows to a tittle what subjects will best go off in a dry year, and which it is proper to expose foremost when the weather-glass is fallen to much rain. When he had seen this treatise² and consulted his almanac upon it, he gave me to understand that he had manifestly considered the two principal things, which were the bulk and the subject, and found it would never take but after a long vacation, and then only in case it should happen to be a hard year for turnips³. Upon which I desired to know, considering my urgent necessities, what he thought might be acceptable this month. He looked westward⁴ and said, “I doubt we shall have a bit of bad weather. However, if you could prepare some pretty little banter⁵ (but not in verse), or a small treatise upon the it would run like wildfire. But if it hold up, I have already hired an author to write something against Dr. Bentley, which I am sure will turn to account.”

At length we agreed upon this expedient⁶, that when a customer comes for one of these, and desires in confidence to know the author, he will tell him very privately⁷ as a friend, naming whichever of the wits shall happen to be that week in the vogue⁸, and if Durfey’s last play should be in course, I had as lieve he may be the person as Congreve. This I mention, because I am wonderfully well acquainted with the present

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