To the last feature in my character, which is properly the result of situation, I believe I may with truth ascribe the greater part of my literary acquirements, and what is not quite so honourable to myself, my presumption in becoming an author. To it I shall certainly be indebted for opportunities to exert the attention necessary for the execution of my design. And should not my papers afford instruction or entertainment to others (a persuasion of which I am not vain enough to entertain) they will at least procure improvement to myself. Convinced of the latter, and with a wish to the former, I offer myself a candidate for an office in your literary dispensary.
That subjecting one’s-self to the odium of mankind is the infallible consequence of reprobating his vices and ridiculing his follies, though often asserted, is by no means the fact. In the moment of calmness, uninfluenced by passion, man acknowledges and condemns his errors; and they are not angels alone who weep for the apishness of humanity. It is in such a state of mind that we usually read; and the author need not fear for his censures or his laugh---strange that he should, when he has often occasion to expose those weaknesses in which he participates, and those crimes which disgrace himself. If, therefore, from reflection on my own conduct or observation of that of others in those hazardous moments when reason leaves the helm, I should at any time be induced to choose these themes, I shall have less reason to fear a frown for my intentions than contempt for my incompetency. And should I not pay a tribute to your fancy of one pathetic tale of hapless love, or of the wondrous adventures of one heroic knight, look not ye fair with disdain upon my labours. I love your sex, and deem their favour not the least of those few blessings that raise a wish for life: And, though now a hopeless thought, if in some happy hour I should conceive imagination equal to the task, I may attempt to gratify myself by pleasing you.
CANDIDUS,
New-York, Dec. 10, 1796.
MAN.
Man is the lord of all the sublunary creation; the howling savage, the winding serpent, with all the untameable and rebellious offspring of nature, are destroyed in the contest, or driven at a distance from his habitations. The extensive and tempestuous ocean, instead of limiting or dividing his power, only serves to assist his industry, and enlarge the sphere of his enjoyments. Its billows, and its monsters, instead of presenting a scene of terror, only call up the courage of this little intrepid being; and the greatest danger that man now fears on the deep, is from his fellow-creatures. Indeed, when I consider the human race as Nature has formed them, there is but very little of the habitable globe that seems made for them. But when I consider them as accumulating the experience of ages, in commanding the earth, there is nothing so great, or so terrible. What a poor contemptible being is the naked savage, standing on the beach of the ocean, and trembling at its tumults! How little capable is he of converting its terrors into benefits; or of saying, behold an element made wholly for my enjoyment! He considers it as an angry Deity, and pays it the homage of submission. But it is very different when he has exercised his mental powers; when he has learned to find his own superiority, and to make it subservient to his commands. It is then that his dignity begins to appear, and that the true Deity is justly praised for having been mindful of man; for having given him the earth for his habitation, and the sea for an inheritance.