but, happily, the insects that prey on carrion are still more short-lived than the carcases were, from which they draw their nutriment.  Those momentary abortions live but a day, and are thrust aside by like embryos.  Literary characters, when not illustrious, are known only to a few literary men; and amidst the world of books, few readers can come to my share.  Printing, that secures existence (in libraries) to indifferent authors of any bulk, is like those cases of Egyptian mummies which in catacombs preserve bodies of one knows not Whom, and which are scribbled over with characters that nobody attempts to read, till nobody understands the language in which they were written.  I believe therefore it Will be most wise to swim for a moment on the passing current, secure that it will soon hurry me into the ocean where all things are forgotten.  To appoint a biographer is to bespeak a panegyric; and I doubt whether they who collect their books for the Public, and, like me, are conscious of no intrinsic worth, do but beg mankind to accept of talents (whatever they were) in lieu of virtues.  To anticipate spurious publications by a comprehensive and authentic one, is almost as great an evil:  it is giving a body to scattered atoms; and such an act in one’s old age is declaring a fondness for the indiscretions of Youth, or for the trifles of an age which, though more mature, is only the less excusable. it is most true, Sir, that, so far from being prejudiced in favour of my own writings I am persuaded that, had I thought early as I think now, I would never have appeared as an author.  Age, frequent illness and pain, have given me as many hours of reflection in the intervals of the two latter, as the two latter have disabled from reflection; and, besides their showing me the inutility of all our little views, they have suggested an observation that I love to encourage in myself from the rationality of it.  I have learnt and practised the humiliating task of comparing myself with great authors; and that comparison has annihilated all the flattery that self-love could suggest.  I know how trifling my own writings are, and how far below the standard that constitutes excellence:  as for the shades that distinguish the degrees of mediocrity, they are not worth discrimination; and he must be very modest, or easily satisfied, who can be content to glimmer for an instant a little more than his brethren glow-worms.  Mine, therefore, you find, Sir, is not humility, but pride.  When young, I wished for fame; not examining whether I was capable of attaining it, nor considering in what lights fame was desirable.  There are two sorts of fame; that attendant on the truly great, and that better sort that is due to the good.  I fear I did not aim at the latter, not-discovered, till too late, that I could not compass the former.  Having neglected the best road, and having, instead of the other, strolled into a narrow path that led to no good worth seeking, I see the idleness of my journey, and hold it more graceful to abandon my wanderings to chance or oblivion, than to mark solicitude for trifles, which I think so myself.