Of All The Grief's That Harass The

Nothing Detains The Reader's Attention More Powerfully Than Deep Involutions Of Distress, Or Sudden Vicissitudes Of Fortune; And These Might Be Abundantly Afforded By Memoirs Of The Sons Of Literature. They Are Entangled By Contracts Which They Know Not How To Fulfill, And Obliged To Write On Subjects Which They Do Not Understand. Every Publication Is A New Period Of Time, From Which Some Increase Or Declension Of Fame Is To Be Reckoned. The Gradations Of A Hero's Life Are From Battle To Battle, And Of An Author's From Book To Book.

Spring Is The Season Of Gaiety, And Winter Of Terror; In Spring The Heart Of Tranquility Dances To The Melody Of The Groves, And The Eye Of Benevolence Sparkles At The Sight Of Happiness And Plenty: In Winter, Compassion Melts At Universal Calamity, And The Tear Of Softness Starts At The Wailing Of Hunger And The Cries Of The Creation In Distress

Must Helpless Man, In Ignorance Sedate, Roll Darkly Down The Torrent Of His Fate.

Among The Many Inconsistencies Which Folly Produces Or Infirmity Suffers In The Human Mind, There Has Often Been Observed A Manifest And Striking Contrariety Between The Life Of An Author And His Writings... Those Whom The Appearance Of Virtue Or The Evidence Of Genius Has Tempted To A Nearer Knowledge Of The Writer, In Whose Performances They May Be Found, Have Indeed Had Frequent Reason To Repent Their Curiosity.

Instead Of Rating The Man By His Performances, We Rate Too Frequently The Performances By The Man.