"It is to thee, my dear Peter, that I dedicate this my untimely offspring, as I know thy good-nature will dispose thee to cherish the gift, and to pardon in thy friend the imbecility of a first attempt.—With regard to the success of the little adventurer, I can have no doubt: it will be most hospitably entertained by every liberal mind, which, as thy friend Pope saith, shall stoop to read it with the same spirit as its author writ.—But more, Peter—thou knowest me to be somewhat skilled in Oneirology: So, last night, after my usual allowance of reested haddock, I retired to rest, when, as it waxed towards morning, , our great patron, with all his proper insignia and bearings, stood at my bed-side, and tapping me gently on the cheek, "Son," said he, "Go on! and whatever Homer and Hippocrates were in their day, be thou also in thine." And while the emanations of glory shed an irresistible effulgence over his celestial visage, he took from his divine lyre a wreath of bays, and, with a smile of the most benign complacency, bound it around my temples—when, lo, as I made an effort at prostration, in token of my unworthiness, my nose came into violent contact with the bed-post, and I suddenly awoke from this my celestial reverie..."