To get her poor dog a bone;
When she got there
The Cupboard wan bare.
And so the poor dog had none!

Now, Kind Reader, follow closely whilst I display the hidden beauties of
Canto First. You will notice that the author, who now sleeps with the
unnumbered dead--a presumption on my part--has no dedication, no
introduction, no preface. He scorned a dedication, that misnomer for
gratuitous advertising. He wanted no patron, no Lord or Count somebody
or other, who might, perhaps, insure the sale of one more copy. No. He
determined to paddle his own canoe. And he did, you bet.--He wrote no
preface. What was it to the public how many ancient authors he had
ransacked to obtain ideas for his poem? What was it to the public how
many noble minds he had associated with him to help him in his laborious
work? What would the public care about his intentions to have his book
in such a form, to appear at such a date, or to be sold for such a
price? What would be the use of apologizing to the public for his many
weak points, when he thought that he knew more than they? On the
contrary, he very naturally determined that if his Poem, wasn't
readable, it would not be read, and a Preface of ignorance would make
the matter no better.--He kept clear of the folly of an Introduction-a
something which a writer gets up just to keep his hand in, perhaps, or
to tell the reader that _he_ knows all about it!--The empty dishes on
the banquet-board: no one cares for them.

Our felicitous Author, throwing aside all these traditional
idiosyncrasies, launches boldly into the billowy sea of his
idea-scattered brain[A], and in his very first line gives a full,
concise description of the heroine, Mrs. HUBBARD; and having finished