But suppose that a writer who has reached and passed the natural limit of serviceable years feels that he has some things which he would like to say, and which may have an interest for a limited class of readers,—­is he not right in trying his powers and calmly taking the risk of failure?  Does it not seem rather lazy and cowardly, because he cannot “beat his record,” or even come up to the level of what he has done in his prime, to shrink from exerting his talent, such as it is, now that he has outlived the period of his greatest vigor?  A singer who is no longer equal to the trials of opera on the stage may yet please at a chamber concert or in the drawing-room.  There is one gratification an old author can afford a certain class of critics:  that, namely, of comparing him as he is with what he was.  It is a pleasure to mediocrity to have its superiors brought within range, so to speak; and if the ablest of them will only live long enough, and keep on writing, there is no pop-gun that cannot reach him.  But I fear that this is an unamiable reflection, and I am at this time in a very amiable mood.

I confess that there is something agreeable to me in renewing my relations with the reading public.  Were it but a single appearance, it would give me a pleasant glimpse of the time when I was known as a frequent literary visitor.  Many of my readers—­if I can lure any from the pages of younger writers will prove to be the children, or the grandchildren, of those whose acquaintance I made something more than a whole generation ago.  I could depend on a kind welcome from my contemporaries,—­my coevals.  But where are those contemporaries?  Ay de mi! as Carlyle used to exclaim,—­Ah, dear me! as our old women say,—­I look round for them, and see only their vacant places.  The old vine cannot unwind its tendrils.  The branch falls with the decay of its support, and must cling to the new growths around it, if it would not lie helpless in the dust.  This paper is a new tendril, feeling its way, as it best may, to whatever it can wind around.  The thought of finding here and there an old friend, and making, it may be, once in a while a new one, is very grateful to me.  The chief drawback to the pleasure is the feeling that I am submitting to that inevitable exposure which is the penalty of authorship in every form.  A writer must make up his mind to the possible rough treatment of the critics, who swarm like bacteria whenever there is any literary material on which they can feed.  I have had as little to complain of as most writers, yet I think it is always with reluctance that one encounters the promiscuous handling which the products of the mind have to put up with, as much as the fruit and provisions in the market-stalls.  I had rather be criticised, however, than criticise; that is, express my opinions in the public prints of other writers’ work, if they are living, and can suffer, as I should often have to make them.  There are enough, thank Heaven,