unfortunately some inaccuracies slip into a page, I shall cast the same aside and give it a reprint, that nothing may offend the nicety of thine observation. But I cannot flatter thee--therefore these things shall all remain in oblivion. * The reader will please suppose himself conversing with the Editors of this Magazine, ‘rolled into one.’ Modesty does not permit me to speak largely of _my_ deserts, gentle reader, (though we Editors--that means _me_--are excepted and a degree of favor, an egotistical licence, is sometimes extended to us,) else I should acquaint thee with some of my excellences. I should tell thee, how much I mourn the wicked independency which may characterize my speculations; and the silly _egoisms_ which may disfigure my otherwise beautiful compositions. I should tell thee, how much I mourn over the badness of my style, so contrary to etiquette, and sometimes so outrageously fantastical; and the vile spirit of satire, which now and then perhaps, may be found in them. I should tell thee, how much I mourn over (what you may think) my inaccuracies of taste, thought, and expression; and the vulgarisms, which, in spite of me, may creep into them; though, indeed, vulgarisms are less exceptionable of late, since the delicate (detestable--beg pardon!) Fanny Kemble _pottered_ in them. I should tell thee, how much I mourn over my infallibility, as now established on the Editorial throne--that, as Editor, I can never be in the wrong--that I can never do or say a silly thing--that I can never criticise, but with the sagacity of Wisdom’s self--that I can never be called into judgment by any one who honors himself by reading my papers--and that I shall _feel_ my independence, shall _act_ from it, and always disregard every thing that barks or brays, and meet meddlers with the cartel--_I am your servant, but I will not bear your dictation_. But, as I am very modest, these things shall all remain in oblivion. Would you believe it, gentle reader, I sometimes find me endeavoring to fashion to myself, who and what thou art? ’Tis a truth though--and pray tell me now, who art thou? Art thou one who is ever looking on the dark side of poor humanity--one ever neglecting the beautiful truth, that thy being is necessary to the happiness of the world--one unconscious of the fact, that thou art an item in the great economy of human action--and one ever searching for, and caviling at, the wants and weaknesses of thy fellow men? I think thou wilt find something congenial in the work I proffer thee.