So have we endeavored, from the enormous, amorphous¹ Plum-pudding, more like a Scottish Haggis, which Herr Teufelsdrockh had kneaded for his fellow-mortals, to pick out the choicest Plums, and present them separately on a cover of our own. A laborious², perhaps a thankless enterprise; in which, however, something of hope has occasionally cheered us, and of which we can now wash our hands not altogether without satisfaction. If hereby, though in barbaric wise, some morsel³ of spiritual nourishment⁴ have been added to the scanty⁵ ration⁷ of our beloved British world, what nobler recompense could the Editor desire? If it prove otherwise, why should he murmur⁸? Was not this a Task which Destiny, in any case, had appointed him; which having now done with, he sees his general Day’s-work so much the lighter⁹, so much the shorter?

Of Professor Teufelsdrockh, it seems impossible to take leave without a mingled¹⁰ feeling of astonishment¹¹, gratitude¹², and disapproval¹³. Who will not regret that talents, which might have profited in the higher walks of Philosophy, or in Art itself, have been so much devoted¹⁴ to a

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