weeds of prejudice. 2. Since I
have escaped from the long perils of my childhood, the serious advice
of a physician has seldom been requisite. "The madness of superfluous
health" I have never known; but my tender constitution has been
fortified by time, and the inestimable gift of the sound and peaceful
slumbers of infancy may be imputed both to the mind and body. 3. I have
already described the merits of my society and situation; but these
enjoyments would be tasteless or bitter if their possession were not
assured by an annual and adequate supply. According to the scale of
Switzerland, I am a rich man; and I am indeed rich, since my income is
superior to my expence, and my expence is equal to my wishes. My friend
Lord Sheffield has kindly relieved me from the cares to which my taste
and temper are most adverse: shall I add, that since the failure of
my first wishes, I have never entertained any serious thoughts of a
matrimonial connection?

I am disgusted with the affectation of men of letters, who complain that
they have renounced a substance for a shadow; and that their fame (which
sometimes is no insupportable weight) affords a poor compensation for
envy, censure, and persecution. [Note: M. d'Alembert relates, that as
he was walking in the gardens of Sans Souci with the King of Prussia,
Frederic said to him, "Do you see that old woman, a poor weeder, asleep
on that sunny bank? she is probably a more happy being than either of
us." The king and the philosopher may speak for themselves; for my part
I do not envy the old woman.] My own experience, at least, has taught
me a very different lesson: twenty happy years have been animated by
the labour of my History; and its success has given me a name, a rank,
a character, in the world, to which I should not otherwise have been
entitled. The freedom of my writings has indeed provoked an implacable
tribe; but, as I was safe from the stings, I was soon accustomed to
the buzzing of the hornets: my nerves are not tremblingly alive, and my
literary temper is so happily framed, that I am less sensible of pain
than of pleasure. The rational pride of an author may be offended,
rather than flattered, by vague indiscriminate praise; but he cannot, he
should not, be indifferent to the fair testimonies of private and public
esteem. Even his moral sympathy may be gratified by the idea, that
now, in the present hour, he is imparting some degree of amusement or
knowledge to his friends i