Authorship in the Long Eighteenth Century

By Dustin Griffin

This book deals with changing conditions and conceptions of authorship in the long eighteenth century, a period often said to have witnessed the birth of the modern author. It focuses not on authorial self-presentation or self-revelation but on an author’s interactions with booksellers, collaborators, rivals, correspondents, patrons, and audiences. Challenging older accounts of the development of authorship in the period as well as newer claims about the “public sphere” and the “professional writer,” it engages with recent work on print culture and the history of the book. Methodologically eclectic, it moves from close readings to strategic contextualization. The book is organized both chronologically and topically. Early chapters deal with writers – notably Milton and Dryden – at the beginning of the long eighteenth century, and later chapters focus more on writers — among them Johnson, Gray, and Gibbon — toward its end. Looking beyond the traditional canon, it considers a number of little-known or little-studied writers, including Richard Bentley, Thomas Birch, William Oldys, James Ralph, and Thomas Ruddiman. Some of the essays are organized around a single writer, but most deal with a broad topic – literary collaboration, literary careers, the republic of letters, the alleged rise of the “professional writer,” and the rather different figure of the “author by profession.”

Published by University of Delaware Press. Distributed worldwide by Rutgers University Press.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: University of Delaware Press
• Release date: Dec 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781644530610

Book preview

Authorship in the

Long Eighteenth Century

Authorship in the

Long Eighteenth Century

Dustin Griffin

UNIVERSITY OF DELAWARE PRESS

Newark

University of Delaware Press

© 2014 by Dustin Griffin

All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

Distributed by the University of Virginia Press

ISBN 978-1-64453-061-0 (paper)

ISBN 978-1-64453-062-7 (ebook)

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Information Available

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Authorship in the Long Eighteenth Century / Dustin Griffin.

            pages cm

Includes bibliographical references and index.

1. Authorship—History—18th century. 2. Books and reading—History. 3. Authorship—Sociological aspects. 4. Comparative literature. I. Title.

PN145.G74 2014

808.02—dc23

2013032850

For my grandchildren: Anna, Elodie, Hadley, Ben, and Flynn

Acknowledgments

Earlier versions of seven of the eleven chapters have appeared in the following publications and are used (with substantial revisions and/or different titles) by permission of the original editors and publishers.

Chapter 2: Milton in Italy: Contexts, Image, Contradictions, ed. Mario de Cesare (Binghamton, 1991), 19–27.

Chapter 3: Milton Quarterly, 24 (1990), 1–7.

Chapter 4: Modern Language Quarterly, 37 (1976), 133–50.

Chapter 5: Essays in Criticism, 37 (1987), 1–10.

Chapter 6: Cambridge History of English Literature, 1660-1780, ed. John Richetti (2005), 37–60.

Chapter 10: Essays in Criticism, 28 (1978), 208–15.

Chapter 11: Cambridge History of the Book in Britain, vol. V, ed. Michael Suarez and Michael Turner (Cambridge, 2009), 132–45.

My thanks to readers and editors of earlier versions of these pieces, especially John Richetti and Michael Suarez, and to Robert DeMaria, Steven Fix, and Paul Hunter for readings of and comments on more recent chapters. Thanks also to the Abraham and Rebecca Stein Faculty Publication Fund of New York University, Department of English, for a timely grant which made it possible to print this book with footnotes rather than endnotes, for the convenience of the curious reader.

Chapter 1

Introduction

Representing Authorship

The eighteenth century, so Samuel Johnson declared with some ironic amusement in 1753, could rightly be called The Age of Authors, as never before had so many authors found their way into print.[1] He elsewhere cited Swift’s estimate that the authors in London alone numbered several thousands, and assumed that the number (larger than in the late seventeenth century) had not decreased since Swift’s day.[2] Johnson was not troubled by the numbers of authors who surrounded him. But other observers saw those numbers as deplorable: Pope claimed that his Dunciad Variorum (1729) was provoked by the fact that paper had become so cheap and printers so numerous that a deluge of authors cover’d the land. In either case, the proliferation of writers is identified as one of the significant changes in the conditions of authorship over the course of the long eighteenth century. Most modern critics and literary historians have agreed and have collectively concluded that the eighteenth century witnessed a series of changes—the invention of copyright, the decline of literary patronage, the rise of the literary marketplace and of print culture, the decline of the gentleman amateur writer, the rise of the independent professional writer—that may be said to have constituted the birth of the modern author. This book examines the changing conditions of authorship during the period and subjects many of the large claims about those changes to critical scrutiny.

One of the recurrent topics of Johnson’s own criticism is authorship. From his early poem The Young Author (1743) to his late Lives of the Poets (1779–1781)—as they soon became called—Johnson wrote acutely and poignantly on the understandable differences between an author’s life and his writings, on the aspirations and disappointments that feature prominently in almost all authors’ lives, and on (as he saw them) the duties and responsibilities of authors to use their talents or to enable their readers better to enjoy or better to endure the world.

Authors at the beginning of the long eighteenth century had addressed most of the same topics: from Milton, who in autobiographical asides in both prose and poetry reflected on his own authorial ambitions and fears, to John Oldham, who in a series of poems explored the topics of authorial delights and especially discouragements,[3] and the Earl of Rochester, who adopted an insolent version of the ethic of the aristocratic amateur poet, writing to please himself and his friends.[4] Swift was preoccupied with authorship from his early prose—author is the second most common word in Tale of a Tub (1710)—to his late poetry. On Poetry: A Rapsody (1733) subversively surveys the world of would-be poets who perversely refuse to acknowledge their lack of talent. Pope famously declared that the life of a wit is a warfare upon earth, and notably developed, in the preface to his 1717 Works, a masterfully self-protective stance that declared that he was simultaneously a private gentleman who wrote for his own pleasure, a Poet deeply conscious of a high vocation, and a successful author, who could boast that he had already succeeded in pleasing the public.[5] And Pope went on, in a series of Horatian poems in the 1730s, to place himself at the center of the action, where, in the controversial figure of the public satirist, he deftly posed the pleasures of detached amusement at and outraged engagement with the follies and vices he saw around him. Pope’s contemporary Richard Savage looked upon the same spectacle not from the vantage of a successful poet but that of an underemployed self-loathing aspirant, renewing the traditional topic of the world’s ill treatment of authors by viewing the author as a prostituted hack.[6]

Johnson’s own contemporaries likewise addressed the topics of authorship, from James Ralph, whose Case of Authors (1758) lamented the plight of authors in a world dominated by booksellers, to Oliver Goldsmith, who in the Enquiry into the Present State of Polite Learning in Europe (1759) and in essays in the Citizen of the World (1760–1762) often focused on the figure of the author, and from David Hume, whose My Own Life reviewed the life of a writer, to Edward Gibbon, who in his Memoirs of My Life and Writings looks back on the pleasures and pains of authorship.

If one takes a broader view of hundreds of representations of writers in poems, plays, critical essays, or merely casual asides, it is possible to see that a small handful of familiar images or stories circulated in the eighteenth century around the topic of authorship. Writers were to be regarded as humble and hungry hacks, essentially as figures of fun, as victims of callous and ungrateful patrons and booksellers, or (particularly in writers’ own eyes) as heroic figures who overcame adversity and served as witnesses, legislators, or prophets. Where these images were not designed as satire, they were self-serving, and should thus be reviewed skeptically, particularly when they are developed into what might be regarded as enabling fictions, stories told or promoted by an identifiable cultural group, and designed ultimately to bolster and justify cultural practice. A good example is the story, told repeatedly by Pope, Swift, and their literary allies, that literature had been corrupted by politics and commerce.[7]

This is essentially the story of a fall. In olden times, literature was the province of learned gentlemen (sometimes merely learned, sometimes merely gentlemen), presided over by ancestral fathers, the Ancients, and encouraged by enlightened patrons, men of sense and taste.[8] The writer lived in a kind of garden—Horace’s Sabine villa and its modern recreations such as Cowley’s at Chertsey, Temple’s at Moor Park, or Pope’s at Twickenham. Then came the fall. In the facetious version of the story told by Pope’s Martinus Scriblerus, after providence had permitted the Invention of Printing (as a scourge for the Sins of the learned) Paper also became so cheap, and printers so numerous, that a deluge of authors cover’d the land.[9] The villains in this narrative are booksellers, who will buy and print anything they think they can sell; hack writers, who without education, breeding, or even a name, pretend to compete with gentlemen; and politicians, who hire hacks to write lies. This familiar story is told most fully in The Dunciad, where writing is defiled by dirt, disease, and a lust for money. But it continues to be told by some modern commentators and literary historians who take Pope at his word, and tend (usually unconsciously) to idealize the elegance of the eighteenth-century gentleman writer, and implicitly to endorse the distinction between literary high culture and trashy popular culture, a distinction that Pope worked to establish. Insofar as literary scholars primarily focus their attention on the best writers of the day—the canonical figures of Dryden, Pope, Swift, and Gay—and on their allies, they tend to accept this version of events. Even though popular writers like Tom Brown, Ned Ward, and John Dunton have received attention in recent years, and even though critical efforts have been made to look freshly at such figures as Lewis Theobald and Edmund Curll, whom Pope had dismissed as dunces, it is difficult to resist the power of Dunciadic myth.

This narrative of a fall is of course grossly oversimplified, as Johnson, a great debunker, insisted. A sort of hack himself, Johnson thought it quite honorable to write for money. Booksellers, he argued, were generous and liberal men. But the myth had its uses for those who accepted it. It permitted gentlemen writers (and those who liked to consider themselves gentlemen) to think they were excluding hordes of hacks from joining the club because standards had to be preserved. The motive of the exclusion was in part economic self-interest: if you increase the supply of writers and writing, the price of literature goes down, and patrons, so thought at least one eighteenth-century observer, give up trying to choose between the better and the worse, and simply abandon the patronage of writers altogether.[10] The myth also permitted a writer like Pope to try to conceal the fact that he himself had discovered how to make a lot of money from selling copyrights, and it permitted disappointed writers to rationalize their lack of rewards. It’s the fault of the politician, who, as Swift declares, stoops to the vilest Offices of hiring Scoundrels to write Billingsgate of the lowest and most prostitute Kind, and has none but Beasts and Blockheads for his Pen-men, whom he pays in ready Guineas very liberally.[11] This led, for example, to what we are now seeing more clearly to be the myth of Gay’s neglect.[12] Or it’s the fault of the rapacious bookseller. Any writer, whether gentleman or low-born hack, can on this point find the myth useful, just as booksellers find the myth useful in blaming hacks for being ignorant and unreliable.[13]

There is of course another way to look at the same events. As I’ve suggested, Johnson (who showed that a great writer need not be a gentleman) implicitly proposed an alternative narrative, a fiction not of the fall of literature into commerce, but of the rise of the independent author. In this version, booksellers are liberal and in fact raise the price of literature.[14] Johnson, however, was quite ambivalent about independence—often in his view a sign of pride. For the master narrative of liberation, we can turn to nineteenth-century historians. In this fiction, writers in the bad old days of the seventeenth century (before the Glorious Revolution of 1688), precisely because they were dependent on patrons, had to be flatterers and lackeys. But in the eighteenth century they at last became independent and gained both dignity and economic power. Once again the narrative has its villains, this time the patrons, or government censors, or craven writers like Dryden who unhappily pandered too slavishly and too completely to the taste of his time.[15] And its heroes, like Addison, who led the way by rising (through merit, of course) to become secretary of state, and Pope, who dedicated his Iliad not to a patron but to a fellow writer.

This story is told most fully in three old standard and now outdated books: Beljame’s Men of Letters and the English Public in the Eighteenth Century, 1660–1744 and A. S. Collins’ two studies of Authorship in the Days of Johnson and The Profession of Letters.[16] Both Beljame and Collins tell stories of emancipation and progress. Both see the Restoration court as depraved, frivolous, and callous. The turning point is the Revolution of 1688, which opened the way for the development of constitutional monarchy and middle-class culture. A great symbolic moment in this narrative is Johnson’s famous 1755 letter to Chesterfield, when the proud, independent writer rejects the belated offers of a haughty aristocrat. This is, of course, essentially a political tale, and it is not surprising to find that both Collins and Beljame base their views of Restoration and eighteenth-century English culture on Macaulay, the great exponent of the Whig interpretation of history. In Macaulay’s The History of England from the Ascension of James the Second (1849–1861), the villain is James II and the liberating hero William III. Restoration comedy is a scene of immorality and dissolution in which dramatists corrupted the spectators and spectators the dramatists. Patronage led to a degrading traffic in praise, and left the writer somewhere between a pandar and a beggar. But after 1688, all that changed. Henceforth, or for the next twenty-five years, men of literary merit were rewarded with salaries and dignity.[17] Macaulay consciously wrote at a time—the middle of the nineteenth century—when, as he saw it, Englishmen enjoyed the benefits of political liberty and writers could support themselves comfortably with the fruits of their writing.[18] His account of eighteenth-century literary culture validates his celebration of a more perfect present.

The fiction of liberation is just as much a selective and partisan version of events as is the fiction of corruption. Beljame and Macaulay judged the court-based culture of the Restoration by the standards of their own day and seemed not to be able to imagine a cultural economy based on honor (which flows from the sovereign), privilege, protection, and praise (which can serve as advice). They had difficulty explaining the crucial transition from 1688 to 1714, when patronage (which had been a bad thing) became a good thing, and then (under Sir Robert Walpole, beginning in the 1720s) a bad thing again. They were foggy about the sudden appearance and allegedly rapid growth of a reading public. And they averted their eyes from some of the details of the new economy (based on money) in which most writers lived hand to mouth—Pope was an exception—and in which the author exchanged his dependence on a patron for an equally galling dependence on a bookseller and on the whims of a fickle book-buying public. What is more, the alleged transition away from a patronage system was slow and incomplete. Many writers at mid-century (e.g., Thomson, Young, Fielding, and Johnson) continued to seek and to enjoy patrons, pensions, or places. Johnson’s letter to Chesterfield should be seen not as a dismissal of a patron and the patronage system but as a complaint that, having agreed to serve as a patron, Chesterfield had not lived up to his part of the deal.[19]

But despite its cracks and its competitors, the nineteenth-century fiction of liberation has been durable. It has its foundation in expressions of pride by writers like Pope or Gay, who exulted that The Beggar’s Opera succeeded without servility or flattery,[20] and Johnson, who insisted on sitting at the head of the table when booksellers were present. It lies at the center of Alvin Kernan’s Samuel Johnson and the Impact of Print, where the great symbolic moment of the transfer of cultural power is Johnson’s dignified public meeting with the king in 1767. It persists in our hesitation to recognize how England at the end of the eighteenth century was still a country based on landed wealth and the patronage of a dependent professional class,[21] or to acknowledge that, to the extent that a writer was independent of political and economic influence, he or she may have become of less account in a culture that saw little direct connection between writing and the goods—money and power—for which men competed. The independence of a writer who inhabits an autonomous realm of art, and who thereby loses a direct relationship with an audience, may be dearly bought.[22]

Johnson’s own representations of authorship were the subject of a pioneering 1971 book by Paul Fussell entitled Samuel Johnson and the Life of Writing. It was probably that book, and in particular his discussion of The Irony of Literary Careers, which in retrospect may be said to have initiated the present phase of the study of eighteenth-century authorship and that set me thinking about the topic, and to writing about contemporary representations of the life of writing, first in an essay published in 1976 on Dryden’s well-known elegy To the Memory of Mr. Oldham, in 1978 on Pope’s 1717 Preface itself, and in 1985 on Rochester’s lordly gestures.[23] In time I put together an undergraduate course at New York University on The Life of Writing in The Age of Authors and then graduate seminars on The Rise of the Professional Writer and The Birth of the Author. And what began in the early 1990s as a book-length study of eighteenth-century authorship evolved into a more narrowly focused (and more feasible) study that appeared in 1996 as Literary Patronage in England, 1650–1800, and into two of the chapters in this volume: The Rise of the Professional Author? and Eighteenth-Century Literary Careers.

Critical and scholarly approaches to the topic of eighteenth-century authorship have changed substantially from the mid-1970s, when the earliest of my essays first appeared in print, to the present. These thirty-five or forty years have witnessed significant shifts: the end of formalist New Criticism, the appearance and decline of French theory (first structuralism, and then post-structuralism), the rise of New Historicism in the 1980s and ‘90s, and the subsequent rise of such specialized studies as the history of the book. During the middle part of that period, a preoccupation with the Habermasian public sphere (focused on the Tatler and the Spectator)[24] gave way to concern with print culture and the literary marketplace and then to the scribal culture of the Restoration period that persisted at least through Pope’s lifetime, and in isolated areas up to the time of Frances Burney and Jane Austen. One of the most marked changes over the whole thirty-five year period is of course the recovery of knowledge of many other women writers of the period, first the novelists and then the poets and dramatists, and the general loosening of the canon to make room not only for women authors but also for a number of male authors once overlooked as decidedly minor. The chapters in this volume reflect the broadening of the canon: among the women writers treated are not only Aphra Behn and Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, but also Katharine Philips, Anne Killigrew, and Anne Finch, as well as some little-known or little-studied male writers such as Richard Bentley, Thomas Birch, William Oldys, James Ralph, and Thomas Ruddiman.

All of the larger scholarly movements I have mentioned had an impact on the study of authorship, which, far from subsiding during the dominance of theory and New Historicism (when critical attention shifted away from authors toward textuality and context), simply took new forms. Indeed, although the period in question began in the aftermath of Roland Barthes’ famous "La mort de l’auteur [The Death of the Author] and Michel Foucault’s Qu’est-ce qu’un auteur? [What is an Author?"], suggesting as they did that it is not an originary author who produces a piece of writing but the language itself, or a network of received knowledge and texts, the figure of the author in fact never died.[25] In Walter Jackson Bate’s influential The Burden of the Past and the English Poet and Harold Bloom’s The Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry, authors were shown to be engaged in dubious battle against mighty predecessors.[26] In the 1970s and ‘80s, scholars paid new attention to the material and legal conditions of authorship (Elizabeth Eisenstein and Alvin Kernan on print culture; Martha Woodmansee, Mark Rose, and David Saunders on copyright),[27] but traditional scholarly biographies—by definition the most author-centered of critical genres—continued to focus on writers themselves, and were met with great acclaim: Bate’s Samuel Johnson in 1975; the last volume of Irwin Ehrenpreis’ Swift: The Man, His Works, and the Age in 1983; Maynard Mack’s Alexander Pope: A Life in 1985; James Winn’s John Dryden and His World in 1987; and Paula Backscheider’s Defoe in 1992, to name only a handful of major writers.[28]

As late as about 1970, aspiring scholars in graduate schools were still being trained to detach a piece of writing from its author, but it was not long before psychological connections between writers and texts were again being teased out. My own 1978 book on Pope was subtitled The Poet in the Poems, and suggested that in a sense Pope himself was the hero of the Dunciad.[29] What was later to emerge as career criticism made its first appearance in the early 1980s with Lawrence Lipking’s Life of the Poet and Richard Helgerson’s Self-Crowned Laureates, books that frankly viewed authors as figures who shaped themselves and their careers. At the same time, it was being argued by theorists that authorship was itself a socially constructed category, and that what counted as an author changed over time. But this did not prevent critics from looking for the author in his or her writings, as in Lipking’s well-received 1998 book on Johnson, and later in Stephen Greenblatt’s widely acclaimed 2004 book on Shakespeare.[30] Indeed, it is more common now than it was twenty-five years ago to find critics assuming not only that the writer’s life can be traced in his or her works, but even that we can go to the works for evidence about his or her life. As James Shapiro suggests in Contested Will (2010), his book about Shakespeare, it is the way we read now.[31] In the chapters that follow, however, emphasis falls not on the ways in which a writer’s life is revealed in his or her works, but on the writing life: a writer’s interactions with booksellers, patrons, collaborators, and correspondents, and how and why those interactions change over time.

One of the main currents of eighteenth-century criticism in the last two decades has been work on print culture and the literary marketplace. As new authors poured into Grub Street, they had to compete with each other and with other figures—from patrons to editors, from booksellers and printers to the influential new critical reviewers—over what would reach print, what would sell, and what would enter the canon.[32] This led on the one hand to studies of the relationship between major writers and their booksellers and even their printers,[33] and more recently to studies of the interactive relationship between writers and readers.[34] This also led in turn to renewed claims that the period saw the end of patronage and the emergence of the professional writer[35] —claims that in both cases I think are overstated.[36] As I argue in a chapter on William Oldys, Thomas Birch, and James Ralph (see chapter 9), we need to pay more attention to what was in their day called the author by profession, a more ordinary and less heroic figure than the independent professional writer, with one foot in the patronage economy and one foot in the literary marketplace.

In the last fifteen years or so, new attention has been paid to the social world of authorship: the interaction between authors and the other figures—whether writers or patrons—in their social networks.[37] This has indeed been one of the continuing themes of my own work, from my 1996 book on literary patronage, through my 2005 essay on The Social World of Authorship, 1660–1714 (the title of which refers to literary coteries and clubs, coffee houses, and correspondence networks through which the materials of scribal culture circulated), to my 2010 book Swift and Pope: Satirists in Dialogue, which argued that we should read these two poets as engaged in a lifelong conversation of emulation and response.

Finally, at a time when print culture is yielding to digital culture, when such eminent scholars such as Robert Darnton and Anthony Grafton have urged us to look back at the eighteenth century as a time when the republic of letters represented print culture at its peak,[38] we need to be careful about how we use that term so that we do not misrepresent the past. As I argue at length (see chapter 8), the old republic of letters—an international community of scholars—was in fact fading by 1750, and as a new republic of authors was appearing, many contemporary observers were not at all confident that the new authors had the necessary qualifications, and that the so-called republic was anything but an anarchy.

It is clear then that eighteenth-century authorship has continued to be a lively center of critical and scholarly work for the past thirty-five or forty years. Much work remains to be done. It seems likely that with the assistance of new data bases, from EEBO (Early English Books Online) and ECCO (Eighteenth-Century Collections Online) to GoogleBooks, scholars are likely to assemble a base of quantitative data about authors and their writings: how many authors were there in fact in eighteenth-century England, and by how much did they increase over the course of the period? How many titles did they produce? How much did they typically get paid? How did the demographics of authorship change over the course of the century? The alarmist claims of early observers like Pope will no doubt be corrected and supplemented by more fine-grained fact-based studies. More attention to quantitative data will lead to an adjustment of some current claims. Some of the presentist bias of modern histories of authorship in the long eighteenth century might be corrected, for example, by careful use of some late eighteenth century catalogs of British authors, from William Rider’s A Historical Account of the Lives and Writings of the Living Authors of Great-Britain (1762) to the New Catalogue of Living English Authors (1799).[39] It might lead, for example, to a new estimate of the number of working writers. The 1799 New Catalogue estimates that Rider’s list of fifty writers includes only an hundredth part of the authors then in existence,[40] so that the number of living authors in Britain at that date was about five thousand. (Many of them, it turns out, are religious, medical, legal, political, or even horticultural writers, and would not qualify as authors under our narrower conception of literature.) The catalogues cannot be regarded as objective and complete: the editors of the New Catalogue point to defects or omissions in the works of all their predecessors.[41] But by uncovering the names of many authors once regarded as noteworthy but now largely forgotten, these catalogs provide a better sample for drawing conclusions about the state of authorship in England in the period than even the expanded canons of modern literary historians.

As I look back on them, what links my essays published earlier with those pieces completed in 2013 and published now for the first time, apart from their focus on the changing conceptions and conditions of authorship over the course of the long eighteenth century, is what might be called their typical manner of proceeding. What prompts most of them is a sense that some piece of received opinion in the literary history of the long eighteenth century—the decline of patronage, the rise of the professional writer, the transformative effect of Milton’s journey to Italy, the corruption of literature by hacks, the flowering of a public sphere, the importance of the Virgilian career model—is overdue for reexamination and is in some important respects demonstrably wrong.[42] By the same token, some recently emergent terms—literary marketplace, along with literary production and consumption—need to be deployed with care, lest the currently fashionable economic/materialist account of literary culture harden into myth. Only by scrupulous attention to the literary past and the patient reconstruction of it through extended and detailed study of the factual record are literary historians going to be able to make well-grounded claims about the nature of authorship in the long eighteenth century.

This book is organized both chronologically and topically. Early chapters deal with writers—notably Milton and Dryden—at the beginning of the long eighteenth century, and later chapters focus more on writers—among them Johnson, Gray, and Gibbon—toward its end. A few of the essays are organized around a single writer: Milton, Dryden, Gray. But most deal with a broad topic: literary collaboration, literary careers, the republic of letters, the alleged rise of the professional writer. This has led me to look at some writers from more than one perspective and has required a certain amount of repetition.

1. Adventurer 115 in Idler and Adventurer, ed. W. J. Bate, J. M. Bullitt, and L. F. Powell (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1963), 457.

2. Rambler 145 in