intellect in the man who is singularly deficient in discrimination. We see no remarkable evidence of good taste in him, who, while justly admiring the boundless varieties in God's inanimate creation, cannot even tolerate those varieties in mental constitution which, though comprehending what is odd and unique, contain no sin. But let us not be crusty with the few who do not fancy us, while we are surrounded by the many who show us every demonstration of sincere and friendly regard. We are not so silly as to expect to please everybody; nor are we so uncharitable as to account every man who censures us an enemy. Eccentricities in authorship, as in conversation, whether real or imaginary, will always be subject to animadversion. "I must freely tell you, Sir," said Peter Prudent, of Prudery Lane," that one of your publications is not much liked in this neighbourhood." "Very good, Sir," was the reply," the people of this neighbourhood have a right to express their opinions of books, whether they give good reasons for their opinions or not. But the book is liked in some neighbourhoods, being handsomely commended by religious editors, and the writer of it urged by the Christian literati of London to keep on, by all means, writing books of a similar description.' The dialogue

ended. Censure, however, if rightly used, may be extremely beneficial to an author. Let him take it meekly, and not resent it. Let him be humble and teachable, and it will prompt him to revise and improve. This hint will shew that stereotyping, with all its pecuniary advantages and readiness for new

editions*, has one great and essential defect; which is, that it gives a man no chance of revision, correction and enlargement.

When an author, however, is so satisfied with his performance and so sure of its popularity as to think it will need no improvement, let him stereotype. But whichever way we take, of this we may be certain, that no improvements will make a book a universal favourite. To give pretty general satisfaction is the utmost we can hope for. All the books in the world are censured by somebody. Books, like men, have their opponents, and must expect some attacks and denouncements to qualify and limit the most extensive celebrity. We would, however, respectfully venture one piece of advice to those persons who, while unable to show that a book in the main is not a good one, censure it altogether; and not content with doing this, rashly venture to involve their neighbours in the work of repudiation. We would say to any one of these persons, When you dislike a book, say so; but say, "I dislike it," and not "we" or this town or neighbourhood;" because there may be very many in that town or neighbourhood who have never seen the book, and those that have, for aught you know, may like it very much. And when you are far from home, don't say," We, in our parts," or "they, down yonder, don't like the book;" for you

* Or rather new "thousands" for that is the phrase in stereotyping.

Hence the world-renowned "Uncle Tom's Cabin" is severely censured by some of its readers.

should recollect there are other "wes" and "they s" beside those of your own party. Therefore, do not injure the sale of a book, by making yourself spokesman for whole towns and neighbourhoods. In this sad way it is, that many excellent books, like many excellent men, get injured in their reputation.

It is not likely that this volume will be allowed to take its stand beside the popular religious novels of our time. But whatever superiority these may maintain, the writer must humbly claim one advantage over the best of them; and that is, he writes no fictions. All here is simple truth. A few fictitious names will, indeed, occasionally be found to designate particular characters; but this is allowable on every hand, and infinitely preferable (for the avoidance of unkind reflections,) to the giving of real names. Should any pleasure be enjoyed by the reader in the perusal of these pages, that pleasure will not be diminished (as in books of fiction,) by the unsavoury reflection that he has been spending his time in reading of wonderful people and wonderful things that never existed save in the imagination or fancy of the writer. We do not intend this remark as a sweeping censure on all fictitious productions, as, with regard to some of them at least, according to the Spectator's Roger de Coverley, " much may be said on both sides." But we think it will be allowed that however rich the entertainment we may have in perusing such works, there is considerable uneasiness in the mind of a religious reader arising from the reflection,

"all this, or a great part of it, which I have spent so much time about, never happened."

It may be necessary to apprize the reader that in the following pages he will meet with numerous digressions. These are introduced naturally; and though rambling and discursive, will, it is hoped, be kindly tolerated, and on the whole be found agreeable. It will be in the recollection of readers who have acquainted themselves with the writings of the ancient philosophers, that Plato (one of the pupils of Socrates, who died in the 81st year of his age, about 348 years before the Christian era,) was very remarkable for numerous and elaborate digressions in his writings. But these digressions were valuable, and never carried him entirely from his subject. When a man is writing, he does not like to be fettered and cramped by a too rigid adherence to his main design. We see no reason whatever why a useful thought should be omitted because it diverges somewhat from the main point.

The literature of the present day is free and easy— too much so, doubtless, for readers of the old school, long accustomed to mechanical stiffness in composition, but very relishing and savoury to the "million,”—and hence we hope to be tolerated if found rambling, not only from place to place, but from one subject to another. We cannot say what estimate will be formed of our digressions, any more than what opinions will be formed of the book at large; but this we know, that we have written nothing under the influence of any other temper than that which Christianity and a desire to do

good have dictated. Even the pungent passages are written with as much kindness in the heart as the surgeon feels when he probes a wound, or the dentist when he extracts a troublesome tooth. Pungency has, indeed, already excited dislike to us in one or two quarters where pride of intellect, with a propensity to treat honest writers with derision, is the besetting sin.

But this very thing which would, if it could, silence us for ever, convinces us most strongly that our humble services in authorship are still much needed. We sincerely respect and venerate profound learning and accurate scholarship, and no man has more loudly and energetically spoken in praise of these high qualifications than ourselves; but where these good things are associated in the same characters with hypercriticism, dogged censoriousness and deep ignorance of human nature, we feel that our respect is diminished, and that we can well afford to be complained of. We go on then trying to do good in our own way, and while cordially greeted by a host of friends, shall not heed the peevish animadversions of our enemies.