d in a bow of beauty, of peace
and promise to the ark of truth! No personal bitterness shall find place
among us, no immoral lessons sully our record. There may be often want
of pruning, but even the undue luxuriance shall tell of the rich soil
of genius, ever germing and budding into prolific growth.

Meantime let our patrons continue to trust us, and have patience with
our shortcomings. All that is human is liable to error, and the very
width and breadth of our base increases the difficulty of the temple we
would rear.

Lend us your sympathies and moral aid, courteous reader, for many and
complicated are the difficulties with which an editor has to contend.
For example: 'Your review is quite too serious for success,' says the
first; 'its subjects are too heavy and grave; our people read for
amusement; you should give us more stories and light reading.'

'Your review is too light,' says the second; 'the times are pregnant
with great events, humanity is on its onward march, and a magazine such
as yours ought to be, should have no space to throw away upon
sentimental tales and modern poetry. Your articles should lead our
statesmen on to the deeper appreciation of political truths, expose
vital fallacies, and not strive to amuse silly women and effeminate
men.'

'You do not deal sufficiently with metaphysics,' says a third; 'you
should reproduce in popular and intelligible form the vast thoughts of
Kant, Fichte, Hegel, Schelling, Oken, Ronski, and Trentowski.'

'Why do you give us so much metaphysics?' cries the fourth; 'modern
philosophy is essentially infidel; you should not introduce its
poisonous elements among our people.'

'Such a review as you conduct,' remarks a fifth, 'should be the vehicle
of the thinkers and progressives; they alone are the men to benefit and
attract the attention of the community.'

'Take great care to have nothing to do with the men calling themselves
progressive thinkers,' remarks a sixth; 'they are full of vital errors,
spiritualists, socialists, disorganizers. They have in reality nothing
new to offer; they are the old-clothes men of thought, harlequins
juggling in old Hindoo raiment, striding along in old German May-fair
rags, long since discarded--motley's their only wear--stalking
Cagliostros and Kings of Humbug.'

'You are growing old fogy in your views,' says the seventh; 'we can bear
sermons enough in church of Sundays; we do not buy magazines to read
them there.'

'Your