Another: "The tax upon paper does not lessen the number of
scribblers who daily pester," &c.

Another: "When every little would-be wit takes pen in hand, 'tis in
vain to enter the lists," &c.

Another: "To observe what trash the press swarms with," &c.

Another: "Sir, it is merely in obedience to your commands that I
venture into the public, for who upon a less consideration would be
of a party with such a rabble of scribblers," &c.

Now, I have two words in my own defence against this objection.
First, I am far from granting the number of writers a nuisance to
our nation, having strenuously maintained the contrary in several
parts of the following discourse; secondly, I do not well understand
the justice of this proceeding, because I observe many of these
polite prefaces to be not only from the same hand, but from those
who are most voluminous in their several productions; upon which I
shall tell the reader a short tale.

A mountebank in Leicester Fields had drawn a huge assembly about
him. Among the rest, a fat unwieldy fellow, half stifled in the
press, would be every fit crying out, "Lord! what a filthy crowd is
here. Pray, good people, give way a little. Bless need what a
devil has raked this rabble together. Z----ds, what squeezing is
this? Honest friend, remove your elbow." At last a weaver that
stood next him could hold no longer. "A plague confound you," said
he, "for an overgrown sloven; and who in the devil's name, I wonder,