As I have some idea that I am writing too well
to be understood, I humble myself to ordinary language,
and aver, with becoming modesty, that I do
think myself capable of sustaining a publication of
a miscellaneous nature, as like to the Spectator, or
the Guardian, the Mirror, or the Lounger, as my
poor abilities may be able to accomplish. Not that
I have any purpose of imitating Johnson, whose
general learning and power of expression I do not
deny, but many of whose Ramblers are little better
than a sort of pageant, where trite and obvious
maxims are made to swagger in lofty and mystic
language, and get some credit only because they
are not easily understood. There are some of the
great moralist's papers which I cannot peruse without
thinking on a second-rate masquerade, where
the best-known and least-esteemed characters in
town march in as heroes, and sultans, and so forth,
and, by dint of tawdry dresses, get some consideration
until they are found out.---It is not, however,
prudent to commence with throwing stones, just
when I am striking out windows of my own.
I think even the local situation of Little Croftangry
may be considered as favourable to my undertaking.
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