to thought, and it is easy to cloath that thought in words. But in a
preface, an author is obliged to forge from the brain, where he is
sometimes known to forge without fire. In one, he only reduces a
substance into form; but in the other, he must create that substance.

As I am not an author by profession, it is no wonder if I am
unacquainted with the modes of authorship; but I apprehend, the usual
method of conducting the pen, is to polish up a founding title-page,
dignified with scraps of Latin, and then, to hammer up a work to fit it,
as nearly as genius, or want of genius, will allow.

We next _turn over a new leaf_, and open upon a pompous dedication,
which answers many laudable purposes: if a coat of arms, correctly
engraven, should step first into view, we consider it a singular
advantage gained over a reader, like the first blow in a combat. The
dedication itself becomes a pair of stilts, which advance an author
something higher.

As a horse-shoe, nailed upon the threshold of a cottage, prevents the
influence of the witch; so a first-rate name, at the head of a
dedication, is a total bar against the critic; but this great name, like
a great officer, sometimes unfortunately stands at the head of
wretched troops.

When an author is too _heavy_ to swim of himself, it serves as a pair of
bladders, to prevent his sinking.

It is farther productive of a _solid_ advantage, that of a present from
the patron, more valuable than that from the bookseller, which prevents
his sinking under the pressure of famine.