The 18th century was a wealth of knowledge, exploration and rapidly growing technology and expanding record-keeping made possible by advances in the printing press. In its determination to preserve the century of revolution, Gale initiated a revolution of its own: digitization of epic proportions to preserve these invaluable works in the largest archive of its kind. Now for the first time these high-quality digital copies of original 18th century manuscripts are available in print, making them highly accessible to libraries, undergraduate students, and independent scholars. Western literary study flows out of eighteenth-century works by Alexander Pope, Daniel Defoe, Henry Fielding, Frances Burney, Denis Diderot, Johann Gottfried Herder, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, and others. Experience the birth of the modern novel, or compare the development of language using dictionaries and grammar discourses. ++++ The below data was compiled from various identification fields in the bibliographic record of this title. This data is provided as an additional tool in helping to insure edition identification: ++++ British Library T058809 Anonymous. By James Hurdis. Dublin: printed by Zachariah Jackson, for Richard White., 1790. 108p.; 12°

This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can usually download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1810 edition. Excerpt: ...taste a thousand pains unfelt at home. We fondly think the land of happiness Is any where but here. And thus we quit The little bliss we own for less, and learn From painful circumstance, the more we stray, The more we want relief. The troubled heart Which harbours discontent, feeds a disease No change of place, no medicine, can cure. Happy the man who truly loves his home, And never wanders further from his door Than we have stray'd to-day; who feels his heart. Still drawing homeward, and delights, like us, Once more to rest his foot on his owa threshold. Alcanor, Julia, Isabel, Eliza, Here let us pause, and ere still night advance To shut the books of heav'n, look back and see What commendable act has sprung to-day. Ah! who can boast? The little good we do In all the years of life will scarce outweigh The follies of an hour. Adieu, ye fair We leave you to your task, nor give you aid As wont. Rear'd by your hands alone, the flow'r Shall have a ruddier blush, a sweeter fragrance. Alcanor, come, and let us once again Descend into the valley, and enjoy The sober peace of the still summer's eve. We have no blush to lose; our freckled cheek The sun not blisters, nor the night-dew blasts.. Such is the time the musing poet loves. Now vigorous imagination teems, And, warm with meditation, brings to birth Her admirable thought. I love to hear The silent rook to the high wood make way With rustling wing; to mark the wanton mouse, And see him gambol round the primrose head, Till the still owl comes smoothly sailing forth, And with a shrill tu-whit breaks oft his dance, And sends him scouring home; to hear the cur Of the night-loving partridge, or the swell Of the deep curfew from afar. And now It pleases me to mark the hooting owl Perch'd on the...