Readers have been accustomed to expect some account of a new author. And the essayists seem to think that they are invested with some peculiar right to talk of themselves, inherited perhaps from their ancestor Montaigne.

But since experience always teaches us, that expectation produces disappointment, I shall not attempt to impress upon you, or your readers, any such particular character of myself, as may enable you to anticipate my performances. I shall not inform you whether I was born on the North or the South side of Trent;2 whether my life has been idle or active, whether my youth was passed in assemblies of gaiety or clubs of politics, among critics in the theatre or among sportsmen on the course;3 whether I am now struggling in the bustle of life, or only a spectator of the shifting scene.

Those hours of life, says Horace, for which we do not hope, will be doubly welcome.4 What is true of life itself, is sure not less true of all its gratifications. That which pleases much, must be more than was expected. I shall therefore leave it uncertain how my observation has been employed, what I have collected in my book of common-places, and what will be the most frequent subjects of my thoughts. I hope that the attention which leisure and curiosity may bestow upon me, will not be wholly lost; and cannot but think it reasonable, that where nothing is promised, a little should content.

If the reader should think himself defrauded of his right, and urge his claim to ampler information; let him remember, that confidence ought to be reciprocal, and that he knows already more of me, than I shall ever know of him. There is no reason why the series5 of my life and conversation should be entrusted to those who have given no promise of secrecy, and of whom I cannot guess whether they are gentle or severe, captious or candid, benevolent or malicious. A book is seldom taken up with very kind intentions: few wish to be pleased, and much fewer wish to be taught. The general design of readers is to exert the acuteness of remark, or to display the superiority of contempt. He that undertakes to furnish literary amusements, must expect no tenderness but from the ignorant and the young,6 who are not too proud to own a master, and having never yet aspired to the reputation of thinking for themselves, have neither been made vain by praise, nor sullen by censure.

A writer therefore does not engage his readers on equal terms: he presents himself to their notice, but they may neglect him without hazard. The most laboured performance of wit and learning is as easily thrown into the fire, as a taylor’s bill. The demonstrator may try to convince the reason, and the man of fancy to move the passions; but when each has done all that he can, no man is obliged to have his passions moved, or his reason convinced: all may refuse to read; or all may read without attention, and refuse to understand.

From such injurious treatment the poor author has no appeal, but to posterity; but posterity is too distant to help him, and however loudly he may call upon it, he is seldom in any real haste to be heard. It is much safer to lie concealed in nameless obscurity; and, instead of imploring posterity, to have this comfort in his disappointments, that none know them but himself.