Ir is a little remarkable, that-though disinclined to talk overmuch of myself and my affairs at the fireside, and to my personal friends-an autobiographical impulse should twice in my life have taken possession of me, in addressing the public. The first time was three or four years since, when I favored the reader-inexcusably, and for no earthly reason, that either the indulgent reader or the intrusive author could imagine-with a description of my way of life in the deep quietude of an Old Manse. And now-because, beyond my deserts, I was happy enough to find a listener or two on the former occasion-I again seize the public by the button, and talk of my three years' experience in a Custom-House. The example of the famous "P. P., Clerk of this Parish," was never more faithfully followed. The truth seems to be, however, that, when he casts his leaves forth upon the wind, the author addresses, not the many who will fling aside his volume, or never take it up, but |