Again--art thou a bright and gentle one--full of the rich life and soul of poetry--taking every thing in its first aspect--and ready to launch thy little barque on the stream of life? Ah! it is for such as thee I write. And yet, I tremble for thee, thou Peri, slight in thy person, pale, yet beautiful, glossy hair, and eyes as bright as Love ever looked on, and shrinking in thy native timidity as at the shadow of thine own happiness! ’Tis painful to look at thee, so young, so beautiful--knowing that thou must one day cast thine all--thy dreams--thy high hopes--thine innocent feelings--thy depths of woman’s tenderness into the hands of another--to hang upon him--to look to him for hope, for council, for happiness! It pains me to think of what a world this is; to think of the hazard thou must ever run of losing thy bliss, and of being dashed on some of the hidden shoals that lurk beneath the current of human felicity; to think of detraction, and the thousand calumnies that may be aimed at the purity of that breast, which seems too innocent even to suspect harm! But--softly, softly--where the _deuce_ am I running? Finally--whatever be thy disposition, gentle reader, whether thou be critic or no critic, misanthrope or no misanthrope, fool or wise man--whether thou be sneering and cynical, or young and buoyant--whether thou be a phlegmatic old proser, and a doughty advocate of mustified knowledge, or one not altogether too wise, and one that can be delighted with the more delicate blossoms of literature;--I trust at least, thou art willing to be pleased; and that thou thinkest a hearty laugh at times, is no sacrilege. Now I give thee leave to laugh at me or about me, just as shall seem good to thee--only make thyself happy. I give thee leave to curse my work and all of my fraternity, from the days of--I know not who, down to those of old Kit North himself; and pour out thine honest indignation against our Eleusinian mysteries (for such they are, and thou wilt never understand them, especially if thou be blessed with a stock of modern dullness,) and to hold us all in the most righteous contempt;--this thou may’st do--only make thyself happy. I give thee leave to call me (thy humble servant,) conceited, because I dare to think--presumptuous, because I dare to print--impudent, because I present thee my speculations--only make thyself happy. In short, thou may’st do any thing, only pleasure thyself;--be thou thus employed, and I am content.