are approved of, I proceed farther; if not, there are other paths in literature which I can still pursue. I am one of those doomed to "grind at the mill;" and although compelled to a certain extent to pander to the public taste, yet much inclined to feed them with wholesome food if they refuse to swallow it, I must work on their own grist. My table is spread with the humblest fare; my viands served up in beechen bowl and pewter platter. Those, therefore, who can only dine from off vessels of gold and silver, and whose stomachs cannot brook the homeliest food, need not lift up my lowly latch, nor bend their stately bodies to enter my humble door-way. Such guests may meet me another day, when I have thrown off my "russet gray," and come out to play my part in a circulating library. There, like Caleb Balderstone, will I rub my pewter platter until it shines like silver; and, if they bring it not too near the light, force them half through their meal before they have discovered the cheat. Here, however, I have not room to play these antics.

One paper, in particular, I must point out in this volume it contains remarks on the works of William Browne, a writer of the Elizabethan era, and a true poet. On this article I have bestowed more than usual pains, and done my very best to make his writings more known; for they are truly rural, and, therefore, cannot be considered much out of place in the present work. Humble although my object may be, I have ever written with a view to implant a deeper love of Nature in the bosoms of my readers; and if fame has hitherto

been my chief reward, the labour has, in most cases,

been one that I loved.

Elliott's Row, Southwark,

March 21, 1839.

THOMAS MILLER.