Those Authors Who Would Find Many Readers,

We Are All Prompted By The Same Motives, All Deceived By The Same Fallacies, All Animated By Hope, Obstructed By Danger, Entangled By Desire, And Seduced By Pleasure.

He That Outlives A Wife Whom He Has Long Loved, Sees Himself Disjoined From The Only Mind That Has The Same Hopes, And Fears, And Interest; From The Only Companion With Whom He Has Shared Much Good And Evil; And With Whom He Could Set His Mind At Liberty, To Retrace The Past Or Anticipate The Future. The Continuity Of Being Is Lacerated; The Settled Course Of Sentiment And Action Is Stopped; And Life Stands Suspended And Motionless.

Those Who Have Any Intention Of Deviating From The Beaten Roads Of Life, And Acquiring A Reputation Superior To Names Hourly Swept Away By Time Among The Refuse Of Fame, Should Add To Their Reason And Their Spirit The Power Of Persisting In Their Pur

People Seldom Read A Book Which Is Given To Them; And Few Are Given. The Way To Spread A Work Is To Sell It At A Low Price. No Man Will Send To Buy A Thing That Costs Even Sixpence Without An Intention To Read It.

The Present Time Is Seldom Able To Fill Desire Or Imagination With Immediate Enjoyment, And We Are Forced To Supply Its Deficiencies By Recollection Or Anticipation.