I expected to report grave conversations and light colloquial passages of
arms among the members of the circle. I expected to hear, perhaps to
read, a paper now and then. I expected to have, from time to time, a
poem from some one of The Teacups, for I felt sure there must be among
them one or more poets,--Teacups of the finer and rarer translucent kind
of porcelain, to speak metaphorically.

Out of these conversations and written contributions I thought I might
make up a readable series of papers; a not wholly unwelcome string of
recollections, anticipations, suggestions, too often perhaps repetitions,
that would be to the twilight what my earlier series had been to the
morning.

I hoped also that I should come into personal relations with my old
constituency, if I may call my nearer friends, and those more distant
ones who belong to my reading parish, by that name. It is time that I
should. I received this blessed morning--I am telling the literal
truth--a highly flattering obituary of myself in the shape of an extract
from "Le National" of the 10th of February last. This is a bi-weekly
newspaper, published in French, in the city of Plattsburg, Clinton
County, New York. I am occasionally reminded by my unknown friends that
I must hurry up their autograph, or make haste to copy that poem they
wish to have in the author's own handwriting, or it will be too late; but
I have never before been huddled out of the world in this way. I take
this rather premature obituary as a hint that, unless I come to some
arrangement with my well-meaning but insatiable correspondents, it would
be as well to leave it in type, for I cannot bear much longer the load
they lay upon me. I will explain myself on this point after I have told
my readers what has frightened me.