When an author is too _heavy_ to swim of himself, it serves as a pair of
bladders, to prevent his sinking.

It is farther productive of a _solid_ advantage, that of a present from
the patron, more valuable than that from the bookseller, which prevents
his sinking under the pressure of famine.

But, being wholly unknown to the great names of literary consequence, I
shall not attempt a dedication, therefore must lose the benefit of the
stilt, the bladder, and the horse-shoe.

Were I to enter upon a dedication, I should certainly address myself,
"_To the Inhabitants of Birmingham_." For to them I not only owe much,
but all; and I think, among that congregated mass, there is not one
person to whom I wish ill. I have the pleasure of calling many of those
inhabitants _Friends_, and some of them share my warm affections equally
with myself. Birmingham, like a compassionate nurse, not only draws our
persons, but our esteem, from the place of our nativity, and fixes it
upon herself: I might add, _I was hungry, and she fed me_; _thirsty, and
she gave me drink_; _a stranger, and she took me in_. I approached her
with reluctance, because I did not know her; I shall leave her with
reluctance, because I do.

Whether it is perfectly confident in an author, to solicit the
indulgence of the public, though it may stand first in his wishes,
admits a doubt; for, if his productions will not bear the light, it may
be said, why does he publish? but, if they will, there is no need to ask
a favor; the world receives one from him. Will not a piece everlastingly
be tried by its merit? Shall we esteem it the higher, because it was
written at the age of thirteen? because it was the effort of a week?
delivered extempore? hatched while the author stood upon one leg? or
cobbled, while he cobbled a shoe? or will it be a recommendation, that
it issues forth in gilt binding? The judicious world will not be
deceived by the tinselled purse, but will examine whether the _contents_
are sterling.

Will it augment the value of this history, or cover its blunders, to
say, that I have never seen _Oxford?_ That the thick fogs of penury,
prevented the sun of science from beaming upon the mind? That necessity
obliged me to lay down the battledore, before I was master of the
letters? And that, instead of handling systems of knowledge, my hands,
at the early period of seven, became callous with labour?

But, though a whole group of pretences will have no effect