Our path is single and distinct. In the first place, we have nothing to do with politics. We are so far Conservatives as to wish that all things which are good and honourable for our native country should be preserved with jealous hand. We are so far Reformers as to desire that every weed which defaces our conservatory should be unsparingly plucked up and cast away. But is it a matter of absolute necessity that people's political opinions should be perpetually obtruded upon public notice? Is there not something more in the world to be talked about than Whig and Tory? We do not quarrel with those who find or make it their vocation to show us annually, or quarterly, or hebdomadally, or diurnally, how we are incontestably saved or ruined; they have chosen their line of walk, and a pleasant one no doubt it is; but, for our softer feet may it not be permitted to pick out a smoother and a greener promenade,--a path of springy turf and odorous sward, in which no rough pebble will lacerate the ancle, no briery thorn penetrate the wandering sole? Truce, however, to prefacing. We well know that speechmaking never yet won an election, because something more tangible than speechifying is requisite. So it is with books; and, indeed, so is it with every thing else in the world. We must be judged by our works. We have only one petition to make, which is put in with all due humility,--it is this--that we are not to be pre-judged by this our first attempt. Nothing is more probable than that many of our readers, and they fair-going people too, will think this number a matter not at all to be commended; and we, with perfect modesty, suggest, on the other side, the propriety of their suspending their opinion as to our demerits until they see the next. And then----And then! Well!--what then? Why, we do not know: and, as it is generally ruled, that, when a man cannot speak, he is bound to sing, we knock ourselves down for a song. Our Opening Chaunt. I. Come round and hear, my public dear, Come hear, and judge it gently,-- The prose so terse, and flowing verse, Of us, the wits of Bentley. II. We offer not intricate plot To muse upon intently; No tragic word, no bloody sword, Shall stain the page of Bentley. III. The tender song which all day long Resounds so sentimént'ly, Through wood and grove all full of love, Will find no place in Bentley. IV. Nor yet the speech which fain would teach All nations eloquéntly;-- 'Tis quite too grand for us the bland And modest men of Bentley. V. For science deep no line we keep, We speak it reveréntly;-- From sign to sign the sun may shine, Untelescoped by Bentley.