[Footnote 10:  “‘Hell,’ a gaming-house so called, where you risk little, and are cheated a good deal:  ‘Club,’ a pleasant purgatory, where you lose more, and are not supposed to be cheated at all.”]

[Footnote 11:  “As Mr. Pope took the liberty of damning Homer, to whom he was under great obligations—­’And Homer (damn him) calls’—­it may be presumed that any body or any thing may be damned in verse by poetical license; and in case of accident, I beg leave to plead so illustrious a precedent.”]

[Footnote 12:  “This well-meaning gentleman has spoilt some excellent shoemakers, and been accessary to the poetical undoing of many of the industrious poor.  Nathaniel Bloomfield and his brother Bobby have set all Somersetshire singing.  Nor has the malady confined itself to one county.  Pratt, too (who once was wiser), has caught the contagion of patronage, and decoyed a poor fellow, named Blackett, into poetry; but he died during the operation, leaving one child and two volumes of ‘Remains’ utterly destitute.  The girl, if she don’t take a poetical twist, and come forth as a shoemaking Sappho, may do well, but the ‘Tragedies’ are as rickety as if they had been the offspring of an Earl or a Seatonian prize-poet.  The patrons of this poor lad are certainly answerable for his end, and it ought to be an indictable offence.  But this is the least they have done; for, by a refinement of barbarity, they have made the (late) man posthumously ridiculous, by printing what he would have had sense enough never to print himself.  Certes, these rakers of ‘Remains’ come under the statute against resurrection-men.  What does it signify whether a poor dear dead dunce is to be stuck up in Surgeons’ or in Stationers’ Hall? is it so bad to unearth his bones as his blunders? is it not better to gibbet his body on a heath than his soul in an octavo?  ’We know what we are, but we know not what we may be,’ and it is to be hoped we never shall know, if a man who has passed through life with a sort of eclat is to find himself a mountebank on the other side of Styx, and made, like poor Joe Blackett, the laughing-stock of purgatory.  The plea of publication is to provide for the child.  Now, might not some of this ‘sutor ultra crepidam’s’ friends and seducers have done a decent action without inveigling Pratt into biography?  And then, his inscriptions split into so many modicums!  ’To the Duchess of So Much, the Right Honble.  So-and-so, and Mrs. and Miss Somebody, these volumes are,’ &c. &c.  Why, this is doling out the ’soft milk of dedication’ in gills; there is but a quart, and he divides it among a dozen.  Why, Pratt! hadst thou not a puff left? dost thou think six families of distinction can share this in quiet?  There is a child, a book, and a dedication:  send the girl to her grace, the volumes to the grocer, and the dedication to the d-v-l.”]

[Footnote 13:  That he himself attributed every thing to fortune, appears from the following passage in one of his journals:  “Like Sylla, I have always believed that all things depend upon fortune, and nothing upon ourselves.  I am not aware of any one thought or action worthy of being called good to myself or others, which is not to be attributed to the good goddess, FORTUNE!”]