But while I say this, in the hope of nicking off the wiry edge of my reader’s judgment, I shall yet stand up boldly for the general tone and character of the book. If there is bad feeling in it, or insincerity, or shallow sentiment, or any foolish depth of affection betrayed—I am responsible; and the critics may expose it to their hearts’ content. I have, moreover, a kindly feeling for these Reveries, from their very private character; they consist mainly of just such whimseys and reflections as a great many brother bachelors are apt to indulge in, but which they are too cautious, or too prudent to lay before the world. As I have in this matter shown a frankness and _naïveté_ which are unusual, I shall ask a corresponding frankness in my reader; and I can assure him safely that this is eminently one of those books which were “never intended for publication.” In the hope that this plain avowal may quicken the reader’s charity, and screen me from cruel judgment, I remain, with sincere good wishes, IK MARVEL. NEW YORK, November, 1850. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration] OVER A WOOD FIRE I HAVE got a quiet farmhouse in the country, a very humble place to be sure, tenanted by a worthy enough man, of the old New England stamp, where I sometimes go for a day or two in the winter, to look over the farm accounts, and to see how the stock is thriving on the winter’s keep. One side the door, as you enter from the porch, is a little parlor, scarce twelve feet by ten, with a cozy-looking fireplace—a heavy oak floor—a couple of armchairs and a brown table with carved lions’ feet. Out of this room opens a little cabinet, only big enough for a broad bachelor bedstead, where I sleep upon feathers, and wake in the morning, with my eye upon a saucy colored, lithographic print of some fancy “Bessy.” It happens to be the only house in the world, of which I am _bona fide_ owner; and I take a vast deal of comfort in treating it just as I choose. I manage to break some article of furniture almost every time I pay it a visit; and if I can not open the window readily of a morning, to breathe the fresh air, I knock out a pane or two of glass with my boot. I lean against the walls in a very old armchair there is on the premises, and scarce ever fail to worry such a hole in the plastering as would set me down for a round charge for damages in town, or make a prim housewife fret herself into a raging fever. I laugh out loud with myself, in my big armchair, when I think that I am neither afraid of one nor the other.