The Mountain

anding of the discourse, book, or essay. A Preface, then, ought to be an epitome, a condensation, of the soul or substance of that which is to follow, a shadow cast before; at least a bird's-eye view of the field, or photograph under clearest light of the production itself. In the nature of things, is this possible ? Can a leaf preface a tree ? a tree preface a forest ? or a rock preface a mountain ? If the book, essay, or discourse told its own story, why a twice-told tale, in the shape of a preface, to give the " burden of its song," " main design," " introductory remarks," or whatever is necessary to tho understanding of the same ? To speak a word, to tell a fact, to articulate any secret of the universe, truly and forever, seems to be the great trouble with all books, essays, and discourses. " To speak and to create are one to the Infinite :" for light to be, it is only necessary to say, "Let there be light;" but for man, the finite, poor man!! when he speaks, there is mumbling and confusion; the idea and the symbol, the thought and its dress the word, can scarcely get together: his efforts to create light are generally followed by a painful visibility of his own darkness. The flirtations of the word and the spirit have always been calamitous : witness the reign of horrors and barbarisms in the history of the soul in the past, and even in the present hour, with everylantern and flambeau of the nineteenth century in full blaze of illumination. Here is ever the sad...