The Complaint, Therefore, That All Topicks Are

Life Affords No Higher Pleasure Than That Of Surmounting Difficulties, Passing From One Step Of Success To Another, Forming New Wishes And Seeing Them Gratified.

To Write Is, Indeed, No Unpleasing Employment, When One Sentiment Readily Produces Another, And Both Ideas And Expressions Present Themselves At The First Summons; But Such Happiness, The Greatest Genius Does Not Always Obtain; And Common Writers Know It Only To Such A Degree, As To Credit Its Possibility. Composition Is, For The Most Part, An Effort Of Slow Diligence And Steady Perseverance, To Which The Mind Is Dragged By Necessity Or Resolution, And From Which The Attention Is Every Moment Starting To More Delightful Amusements.

No Man Can Taste The Fruits Of Autumn While He Is Delighting His Scent With The Flowers Of Spring.

The Real Satisfaction Which Praise Can Afford, Is When What Is Repeated Aloud Agrees With The Whispers Of Conscience, By Showing Us That We Have Not Endeavored To Deserve Well In Vain.

By The Consultation Of Books, Whether Of Dead Or Living Authors, Many Temptations To Petulance And Opposition, Which Occur In Oral Conferences, Are Avoided. An Author Cannot Obtrude His Service Unasked, Nor Can Be Often Suspected Of Any Malignant Intention To Insult His Readers With His Knowledge Or His Wit. Yet So Prevalent Is The Habit Of Comparing Ourselves With Others, While They Remain Within The Reach Of Our Passions, That Books Are Seldom Read With Complete Impartiality, But By Those From Whom The Writer Is Placed At Such A Distance That His Life Or Death Is Indifferent.