with the
impartial eye, yet one reason pleads strongly in my favor--no such thing
ever appeared as _An History of Birmingham_. It is remarkable, that one
of the most singular places in the universe is without an historian:
that she never manufactured an history of herself, who has manufactured
almost every thing else; that so many ages should elapse, and not one
among her numerous sons of industry, snatch the manners of the day from
oblivion, group them in design, with the touches of his pen, and exhibit
the picture to posterity. If such a production had ever seen the light,
mine most certainly would never have been written; a temporary bridge
therefore may satisfy the impatient traveller, till a more skilful
architect shall accommodate him with a complete production of elegance,
of use, and of duration.--Although works of genius ought to come out of
the mint doubly refined, yet history admits of a much greater latitude
to the author. The best upon the subject, though defective, may meet
with regard.

It has long been a complaint, that local history is much wanted. This
will appear obvious, if we examine the places we know, with the
histories that treat of them. Many an author has become a cripple, by
historically travelling through _all England_, who might have made a
tolerable figure, had he staid at home. The subject is too copious for
one performance, or even the life of one man. The design of history is
knowledge: but, if simply to tell a tale, be all the duty of an
historian, he has no irksome task before him; for there is nothing more
easy than to relate a fact; but, perhaps, nothing more difficult than to
relate it well.

The situation of an author is rather precarious--if the smiles of the
world chance to meet his labours, he is apt to forget himself; if
otherwise, he is soon forgot. The efforts of the critic may be necessary
to clip the wings of a presuming author, lest his rising vanity becomes
insupportable: but I pity the man, who writes a book which none will
peruse a second time; critical exertions are not necessary to pull him
down, he will fall of himself. The sin of writing carries its own
punishment, the tumultuous passions of anxiety and expectation, like
the jarring elements in October, disturb his repose, and, like them, are
followed by stirility: his cold productions, injured by no hand but that
of time, are found sleeping on the shelf unmolested. It is easy to
describe his fears before publica