itals, clouding the facts which they
intend to illustrate, and losing themselves and their auditors in wilds
and mazes, in digression and confusion. When we have congratulated
ourselves upon a new opportunity of inquiry, and new means of
information, it often happens, that without designing either deceit or
concealment, without ignorance of the fact, or unwillingness to disclose
it, the relator fills the ear with empty sounds, harasses the attention
with fruitless impatience, and disturbs the imagination by a tumult of
events, without order of time, or train of consequence.

It is natural to believe, upon the same principle, that no writer has a
more easy task than the historian. The philosopher has the works of
omniscience to examine; and is therefore engaged in disquisitions, to
which finite intellects are utterly unequal. The poet trusts to his
invention, and is not only in danger of those inconsistencies, to which
every one is exposed by departure from truth; but may be censured as
well for deficiencies of matter, as for irregularity of disposition, or
impropriety of ornament. But the happy historian has no other labour
than of gathering what tradition pours down before him, or records
treasure for his use. He has only the actions and designs of men like
himself to conceive and to relate; he is not to form, but copy
characters, and therefore is not blamed for the inconsistency of
statesmen, the injustice of tyrants, or the cowardice of commanders. The
difficulty of making variety consistent, or uniting probability with
surprise, needs not to disturb him; the manners and actions of his
personages are already fixed; his materials are provided and put into
his hands, and he is at leisure to employ all his powers in arranging
and displaying them.

Yet, even with these advantages, very few in any age have been able to
raise themselves to reputation by writing histories; and among the
innumerable authors, who fill every nation with accounts of their
ancestors, or undertake to transmit to futurity the events of their own
time, the greater part, when fashion and novelty have ceased to
recommend them, are of no other use than chronological memorials, which
necessity may sometimes require to be consulted, but which fright away
curiosity, and disgust delicacy.

It is observed, that our nation, which has produced so many authors
eminent for almost every other species of literary excellence, has been
hitherto remarkably barre