Every other enjoyment malice may destroy; every
other panegyrick envy may withhold; but no human
power can deprive the boaster of his own encomiums.
Infamy may hiss, or contempt may growl,
the hirelings of the great may follow fortune, and
the votaries of truth may attend on virtue; but
his pleasures still remain the same; he can always
listen with rapture to himself, and leave those who
dare not repose upon their own attestation, to
be elated or depressed by chance, and toil on in
the hopeless task of fixing caprice, and propitiating
malice.
This art of happiness has been long practised by
periodical writers, with little apparent violation of
decency. When we think our excellencies overlooked
by the world, or desire to recall the attention
of the publick to some particular performance,
we sit down with great composure and write a letter
to ourselves. The correspondent, whose character
we assume, always addresses us with the deference
due to a superior intelligence; proposes his doubts
with a proper sense of his own inability; offers an
objection with trembling diffidence; and at last has
no other pretensions to our notice than his profundity
of respect, and sincerity of admiration, his
submission to our dictates, and zeal for our success.
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