knowledge: but, if simply to tell a tale, be all the duty of an
historian, he has no irksome task before him; for there is nothing more
easy than to relate a fact; but, perhaps, nothing more difficult than to
relate it well.

The situation of an author is rather precarious--if the smiles of the
world chance to meet his labours, he is apt to forget himself; if
otherwise, he is soon forgot. The efforts of the critic may be necessary
to clip the wings of a presuming author, lest his rising vanity becomes
insupportable: but I pity the man, who writes a book which none will
peruse a second time; critical exertions are not necessary to pull him
down, he will fall of himself. The sin of writing carries its own
punishment, the tumultuous passions of anxiety and expectation, like
the jarring elements in October, disturb his repose, and, like them, are
followed by stirility: his cold productions, injured by no hand but that
of time, are found sleeping on the shelf unmolested. It is easy to
describe his fears before publication, but who can tell his feelings
after judgment is passed upon his works? His only consolation is
accusing the critic of injustice, and thinking the world in the wrong.
But if repentence should not follow the culprit, hardened in scribbling,
it follows, his bookseller, oppressed with _dead works_. However, if all
the evils in Pandora's box are emptied on a blasted author, this one
comfort remains behind--The keeper of a circulating library, or the
steward of a reading society can tell him, "His book is more _durable_
than the others."

Having, many years ago, entertained an idea of this undertaking, I made
some trifling preparations; but, in 1775, a circumstance of a private
nature occurring, which engaged my attention for several years, I
relinquished the design, destroyed the materials, and meant to give up