tion, but who can tell his feelings
after judgment is passed upon his works? His only consolation is
accusing the critic of injustice, and thinking the world in the wrong.
But if repentence should not follow the culprit, hardened in scribbling,
it follows, his bookseller, oppressed with _dead works_. However, if all
the evils in Pandora's box are emptied on a blasted author, this one
comfort remains behind--The keeper of a circulating library, or the
steward of a reading society can tell him, "His book is more _durable_
than the others."

Having, many years ago, entertained an idea of this undertaking, I made
some trifling preparations; but, in 1775, a circumstance of a private
nature occurring, which engaged my attention for several years, I
relinquished the design, destroyed the materials, and meant to give up
the thought for ever. But the intention revived in 1780, and the
work followed.

I may be accused of quitting the regular trammels of history, and
sporting in the fields of remark: but, although our habitation justly
stands first in our esteem, in return for rest, content, and protection;
does it follow that we should never stray from it? If I happen to veer a
moment from the polar point of Birmingham, I shall certainly vibrate
again to the center. Every author has a manner peculiar to himself, nor
can he well forsake it. I should be exceedingly hurt to omit a
necessary part of intelligence, but more, to offend a reader.

If GRANDEUR should censure me for sometimes recording the men of mean
life, let me ask, _Which is preferable_, he who thunders at the anvil,
or in the senate? The man who earnestly wishes the significant letters,
ESQ. spliced to the end of his name, will despise the question; but the
philosopher will answer, "They are equal."

Lucrative views have no part in this production: I cannot solicit a kind
people to grant what they have already granted; but if another finds
that pleasure in reading, which I have done in writing, I am paid.

As no history is extant, to inform me of this famous nursery of the
arts, perfection in mine must not be expected. Though I have
endeavoured to pursue the road to truth; yet, having no light to guide,
or hand to direct me, it is no wonder if I mistake it: but we do not
_condemn_, so much as _pity_ the man for losing his way, who first
travels an unbeaten road.

Birmingham, for want of the recording hand, may be said to live but one
generation; the transaction