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"Squeeze out the whey," was the pithy and sharp advice of his crusty, acute, faithful, and ill-fated friend, William Taylor of Norwich, author of English Synonyms, to Southey, when that complacent and indefatigable poet and literary man of all work sent him the MSS. of his huge quartos. It would perhaps have been better for his fame had the author of Thalaba, Don Roderick, and The Curse of Kehama taken the gruff advice.

I am going to squeeze my two volumes into one, keeping it a profound secret as to what I regard as whey and what curd; only I believe the more professional papers, as Locke and Sydenham, Dr. Marshall, etc., are less readable—less likely to while away the idle hours of the gentle public, than those now given: they are squeezed out not without a grudge.

My energetic friend, J. T. Fields, of the well-known Boston firm, has done the same act of excision by the two volumes that I now do,—and has done it admirably. Only I could not but smile when I saw Horo Subsecivo exchanged for "Spare Hours,"—a good title, but not mine; and my smile broke into laughter when I found myself dedicated "affectionately" to an excellent man and poet, whom, to my sorrow, I do not know.

While thanking my American friends, and shaking hands with them across the great deep, I cannot deny myself the satisfaction of acknowledging the following portion of a letter received a day or two ago from an unknown friend—Charles D. Warner, of Hartford, Conn., U.S.:—

"I see you lay some stress upon the fact that your venerated father was very tenacious of purpose, and that that is a trait of the Browns. The branch of the family in this country also assert the same of themselves.

"In further reading how your father came, late in life, when it was too late, to know that he had neglected his body, I called to mind a remark of another Dr. Brown, which I thought you might like to hear, as confirmatory of your theory of the unity of the Browns.

"Dr. John Brown, D.D., was a native of Brooklyn, in this State. He was settled at one time in Cazenovia, New York, and finally died at the age of fifty, prematurely worn out, at Hadley, Mass. He was a man of great tenacity of purpose, strength of intellect, a clear thinker, and generally a powerful man. He was also much beloved, for his heart was large and warm.

"While he was waiting for death to overtake him, being undermined as I have said, I have heard my mother say that he once remarked, 'I have worn myself out in labour which God never required of me, and for which man never will thank me.'"

Those of my readers who think life in the main more serious than not, will forgive this grave and weighty passage. Those who do not think so, will not be the worse of asking themselves if they are safe in so doing.