It is a little remarkable, that—though disinclined to talk overmuch ofmyself and my affairs at the fireside, and to my personal friends—anautobiographical 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 Ifavoured the reader—inexcusably, and for no earthly reason that eitherthe indulgent reader or the intrusive author could imagine—with adescription of my way of life in the deep quietude of an Old Manse. Andnow—because, beyond my deserts, I was happy enough to find a listener ortwo on the former occasion—I again seize the public by the button, andtalk of my three years’ experience in a Custom-House. The example of thefamous “P. P., Clerk of this Parish,” was never more faithfullyfollowed. The truth seems to be, however, that when he casts his leaves forthupon the wind, the author addresses, not the many who will fling aside hisvolume, or never take it up, but the few who will understand him better thanmost of his schoolmates or lifemates. Some authors, indeed, do far more thanthis, and indulge themselve