I have made it my observation, before I had the least thoughts of becoming an Author, that there are two sorts of Readers who particularly distinguish themselves from all the rest, yet, though direct opposites in humour, concur in one point, – that of being eager to see every new book that comes out, and impatient till they get to the conclusion of it; – the one of these affects to be above being pleas'd with any thing he meets with, especially if it exceeds the bulk of a twelve-penny pamphlet, condemning all beyond as tedious, tiresome, and insipid; – the other with alacrity pursues through every page the catastrophe of the longest work, delighting himself with the expectation of finding something to entertain him.

Methinks I hear, on the publication of these volumes, some one of the former class, with brow contracted and malignant sneer, like Milton's fallen Angel, mutter between his teeth, – ‘What does the fellow mean by encumbering us with all this trash? – Who does he think will be at the pains to trudge through such a heap of rubbish?’ – While those of the other cheerfully cry out at the beginning of every chapter, – ‘I wonder what mr. Invisible has now to present us with!’

But as I had no design or inclination to offend the one, by spinning out these lucubrations by any superfluous interlocutions; so I will not so far dissemble, as to compliment the other with saying, that merely to oblige them I extended the work to the length it is; – much less will I go about to defend myself by the example of a certain modern writer, who has found out the method of wiredrawing whatever matter he takes in hand to such an enormous length, that the eye of remembrance loses all sight of the beginning before it has half reach'd the end.