in the world:  “if a man does not make new acquaintance as he advances through life, he will soon find himself left alone.”  There is, moreover, something agreeable in writing a preface:  it yields a second crop of pleasurable associations:  and the brief retrospect of six months breaks up the tedium which may at some time or other be attached to literary pursuits.  We collect the six-and-twenty sheets into a volume, and turn over their leaves until they almost become new acquaintance:  some of their columns point to current events, and thus by a little aid of memory, make an outline chronology of the half-year; and, above all, if we have pleased the reader, we, at the same time, enjoy the self-satisfaction of having been employed to so gratifying an end.  We like too the spirit of acquaintanceship which these prefacings, meetings, and greetings tend to keep up, although there may be persons who impatiently turn over a preface as the majority of an audience at the theatre rise to leave as soon as the last scene of a pantomime is shown.

* * * * *

The contributions of Correspondents abound in this volume.  Their subjects belong to that class of inquiry which is useful and entertaining, and their research is amusing without dry-as-dust antiquarianism:  this is a serviceable feature, inasmuch as it is conversational; and we know “what is said upon a subject is to be gathered from a hundred people.”  So it is with not a few of these communications:  separately, their value may be small; but, collectively, they remind us of Dr. Johnson’s quaint illustration of the many ingredients of human felicity:  “Pound St. Paul’s Church, into atoms, and consider any single atom; it is, to be sure, good for nothing:  but put all these together, and you have St. Paul’s Church.”  A single article may occasionally appear trifling; but, take the sheet, and its bearing is obvious; and in the volume still more so.  Our Correspondents only enjoy the reward of seeing their papers in print:  esto perpetua is the only charm we use; and our poetical friends would gladly accept the perpetua for the

  Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles

of the heroines of their verse.

Seventeen is a promising time in life:  it is redolent of youth, and hope, and joy; may not the context hold good in art and literature.  Strictly speaking, we are but in our ninth year, although our volumes number seventeen.  If we continue to partake as largely of the gale of public favour as hitherto, we shall not despair of an evergreen old age.  We know the value of this favour, and shall strive to maintain it accordingly.  It is to us like the Queen of Chess: 

  Lose not the Queen, for ten to one,
  If she be lost, the game is gone.

Sterne, who delighted in large type and blanks, would probably call this, as he did all life, “a mingled yarn;” and so we have done.