PREFACE.
There is one portion of a Work which, more than all others, marks the difference between the reader and the writer. It is the first read, and the last written; the one which the reader dismisses the most hastily, and the writer lingers upon longest. The Preface is the seal of separation between yourself and a Work that must have been the chief object of many days. The excitement of composition is over, and you begin to doubt and to despond. I cannot understand a writer growing indifferent from custom or success. Every new Work must be the record of much change in the mind which produces it, and there is always the anxiety to know how such change will be received. It is impossible, also, for the feeling of your own moral responsibility not to increase. At first you write eagerly, composition is rather a passion than a power; but, as you go on, you cannot but find that, to write a book, is a far more serious charge than it at first appeared. Faults have been pointed out, and you are desirous of avoiding their recurrence ; praise has been be-
