been, to keep within the healthy compass of unpretending manuscript, this "mad material of the mind?" To all such inquiry, albeit most judiciously and forcibly put, I merely reply, "What should I get by that!"
Again, if better writers than myself are deterred by prudential, or other and worthier motives, from publishing "their brilliant corruscations," must it not be clearly in favour of myself and "such small deer," who have had the bad taste to trouble a publisher! Why, I say Yes to that.
Well, well, a wilful man must have his way, says the old adage; and were it not so, this, the Third Edition of "Ned Farmer's Scrap Book" had never met the enraptured gaze of an admiring world! (Rather fine writing that, I flatter myself) For it is simply wonderful what an amount of trouble some of my quondam friends and acquaintances have been at in endeavouring to dissuade me from what they, in the exuberance of their zeal, have kindly designated "making a fool of myself." Well, nous verrons.
Others there are, who, as a deterrent, have narrated for my special behoof, a list of glorious names, among whom were enumerated such giants of the pen as Robert Bums. Tom Moore, and—though last, not least in our dear love,—"Tom Hood;" and, putting it to me in tones of mingled contempt and derision, if I really had the astounding impudence to dare—aye, marry, dare was the word—to publish the lame and limping offspring of my muse, in the same country, and in the same language. To all of which I give for answer, one loud, emphatic Yes!
Why, what on earth have I, poor poetaster as I am, to do with those proud names, or the myriads of mental diamonds
