ABSTRACT
Reader, thou art haply one of those persons who feel themselves bound in honour to earn (in their own estimation) whatever title it may please others to bestow upon them. If so, reading thyself every day addressed as ‘reader,’ (not to reckon the flattering additaments of ‘gentle,’ ‘generous,’ ‘tasteful,’ ‘learned,’ ‘critical,’ and so forth,) thou hast doubtless felt thyself constrained in conscience to prove the validity of thy title, by perusing every Work (so we puny moderns are minded to denominate our poor, pigmy productions) that comes before thee in a questionable shape: meaning thereby, every one that thou art in the least likely to be questioned about, as to whether it has been perused by thee, or not. In this case, thou hast perchance whiled away an odd half hour now and then, in turning over and tasting the leaves of / certain lucubrations, 1 erewhile distilled by driblets from the adust 2 brain of one Elia.
