An Author Places Himself Uncalled

Solitude Is Dangerous To Reason, Without Being Favourable To Virtue. Remember That The Solitary Mortal Is Certainly Luxurious, Probably Superstitious, And Possibly Mad.

Whatever Withdraws Us From The Power Of Our Senses; Whatever Makes The Past, The Distant, Or The Future Predominate Over The Present, Advances Us In The Dignity Of Thinking Beings.

How Many May A Man Of Diffusive Conversation Count Among His Acquaintances, Whose Lives Have Been Signalized By Numberless Escapes; Who Never Cross The River But In A Storm, Or Take A Journey Into The Country Without More Adventures Than Befel The Knights-errant Of Ancient Times In Pathless Forests Or Enchanted Castles! How Many Must He Know, To Whom Portents And Prodigies Are Of Daily Occurrence; And For Whom Nature Is Hourly Working Wonders Invisible To Every Other Eye, Only To Supply Them With Subjects Of Conversation?

An Author Places Himself Uncalled Before The Tribunal Of Criticism And Solicits Fame At The Hazard Of Disgrace.

Is Not A Patron, My Lord, One Who Looks With Unconcern On A Man Struggling For Life In The Water, And When He Has Reached Ground Encumbers Him With Help? The Notice Which You Have Been Pleased To Take Care Of My Labors, Had It Been Early, Had Been Kind; But It Has Been Delayed Till I Am Indifferent, And Cannot Enjoy It; Till I Am Solitary, And Cannot Impart It; Till I Am Known, And Do Not Want It.