has always appeared to me no less the great secret of a poet than the art to blot; and whoever peruses this work will see that I could not have added another line without such an unravelling as would have greatly perplexed the conclusion. My chief care has been to unite the two great essentials of composition, ease and strength. I do not pretend to have paid any great attention to the passions, and yet I hope my work will not be found deficient either in warmth or softness, but these will be better felt than expressed. Now and then, partly from negligence and partly from temerity, I have broken the thread of my narration, but have pieced it so happily that none but the eye of a professor, which looks into the interior, will detect it; and the initiated are generally candid because they are in the secret. What little ornament there is I have bestowed, not injudiciously, I trow, on the slenderest part. You will find but one episode, and even that does not obstruct the progress of the main subject; and for parallels, I will be bold to say Plutarch does not furnish one so perfect. The rare felicity of this species of composition is the bold attempt to unite poetry with mechanics, for which see the clockwork in the third section. As all innovation is a proof of a false taste or a fantastic vanity, I was content to use the old machinery in working up the piece. I have taken care not to overlay the severe simplicity of the Ancients (my great precursors in this
