Be these the terms for literary men: _First pay us authors_, let booksellers then Feed after us who wield the godlike pen. O what shall I. O. U, learn'd ION, when,
Thy happy bill, by law shall here prevail, Leaving to me (and to my sons in tail), Of all my works the profit of the sale: As for the publishers—why, rat it, _they'll_ fail.
Was there ever such confounded ill-luck? My whole life has been a tissue of ill luck: although I have laboured, perhaps, harder than any man to make a fortune, something always tumbled it down. In love and in war I was not like others. In my marriages, I had an eye to the main chance; and you see how some unlucky blow would come and throw them over. In the army I was just as prudent, and just as unfortunate. What with judicious betting, and horse-swapping, good luck at billiards, and economy, I do believe I put by my pay every year,—and that is what few can say who have but an allowance of a hundred a-year.
I'll tell you how it was. I used to be very kind to the young men; I chose their horses for them, and their wine; and showed them how to play billiards, or écarté, of long mornings, when there was nothing better to do. I didn't cheat: I'd rather die than cheat; but if fellows _will_ play, I wasn't the man to say no—why should I? There was one young chap in our regiment of whom I really think I cleared 300_l._ a-year.
His name was Dobble. He was a tailor's son, and wanted to be a gentleman. A poor, weak young creature; easy to be made tipsy: easy to be cheated; and easy to be frightened. It was a blessing for him that I found him; for if anybody else had, they would have plucked him of every shilling.
Ensign Dobble and I were sworn friends. I rode his horses for him, and chose his champagne: and did everything, in fact, that a superior mind does for an inferior—when the inferior has got the money. We were inseparables—hunting everywhere in couples. We even managed to fall in love with two sisters, as young soldiers will do, you know; for the dogs fall in love with every change of quarters.
Well: once, in the year 1793 (it was just when the French had chopped poor Louis's head off), Dobble and I, gay young chaps as ever wore sword by side, had cast our eyes upon two young ladies, by the name of Brisket, daughters of a butcher in the town where we were quartered. The dear girls fell in love with us, of course. And many a pleasant walk in the country; many a treat to a tea-garden; many a smart riband and brooch, used Dobble and I (for his father allowed him 600_l._, and our purses were in common) to present to these young ladies. One day, fancy our pleasure at receiving a note couched thus:—