A MEDLEY.
BY GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT.
Under this cloud I walk, Gentlemen; pardon my rude assault. I am a
traveller who, having surveyed most of the terrestrial angles of
this globe, am hither arrived, to peruse this little spot.
--CHRISTMAS ORDINARY.
THE AUTHOR.
WORTHY READER!
On again taking pen in hand, I would fain make a few observations at
the outset, by way of bespeaking a right understanding. The volumes
which I have already published have met with a reception far beyond my
most sanguine expectations. I would willingly attribute this to their
intrinsic merits; but, in spite of the vanity of authorship, I cannot
but be sensible that their success has, in a great measure, been owing
to a less flattering cause. It has been a matter of marvel, to my
European readers, that a man from the wilds of America should express
himself in tolerable English. I was looked upon as something new and
strange in literature; a kind of demi-savage, with a feather in his
hand, instead of on his head; and there was a curiosity to hear what
such a being had to say about civilized society.
This novelty is now at an end, and of course the feeling of indulgence
which it produced. I must now expect to bear the scrutiny of sterner
criticism, and to be measured by the same standard with contemporary
writers; and the very favor which has been shown to my previous
writings, will cause these to be treated with the greater rigour; as
there is nothing for which the world is apt to punish a man more
severely, than for having been over-praised.
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