After the interest excited in your society by the adventures of a Cheesemonger’s Daughter, I am the less apprehensive of shocking their delicacy by entertaining them with the produce of a Cheesemonger’s Shop.
You must know that I am an economist and have brought my family to know the use and value of the paper which comes into a house in the shape of wrappers; and being of a curious turn, I sometimes inspect the repository where such acquisitions are stored, where I find many curious scraps.
The other day a glimpse of some manuscript poetry, which had been degraded to the office of enveloping pounds of butter, caught my eye, and I have copied all I could make out from the greasy fragments, for your amusement.
They appear to have been the spoils of an epic poem, once illustrated by arguments, commendatory verses, and all the pomp which was wont to usher such productions into the world. To what generation of booksellers the guilt of suppressing such a work is to be attributed, I am at a loss to guess; at the present day a publisher is readily found for anything, and if it were only for the novelty of two poets (twin-born for aught I know) pouring forth a joint invocation unexampled in the turn of it I should think success could hardly be doubtful.
I have fortunately recovered the argument and opening of the first book, and if my housemaid (who finds these precious fragments excellent for kindling fires) has not too much mutilated one of the commendatory epistles, I will add a transcript of that.
Yours, Mr Editor, with much truth.
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