vii Some writers indeed-such as my distinguished friends, Dr. Dryasdust, Jedediah Cleishbotham, and Malachi Malagrowther, assume a mask in character; but I must be content to shrink from observation under the unambitious domino of—The Author. Perhaps I ought to apologize to you for my presumption in striking out of the high road of literature, into an unbeaten path (so far as I remember); and attempting to combine the real scenes and adventures of an actual tour, with a fictitious story and imaginary characters; for the incidents detailed in these pages are true, the tale alone is invention.-But I am unskilled in the farce of affected modesty-am unconscious that there is any thing in the design, though much in the execution of the book, to require apology;—and above all, I am quite certain that if it does not please you of itself, no apology that I can make for it will recommend it to your favour. viii If, however, any marks of haste or inattention should appear in these pages, let them not be imputed to disrespect or arrogance. They have sprung from no presumptuous confidence in my own powers-no contemptuous disregard to the opinion of the public; but from misfortunes which I could not foresee, and events which I could not controul. Little did I anticipate when writing these adventures, which formed the amusement of the last four happy months of my life, the scenes of long-continued domestic affliction which were destined to interfere with their intended careful revision, and even with the ordinary attention to the correction of the press. Certainly, this work has not exactly undergone the probation which Horace prescribes, before appearing in the world. But the alternative was-now, or never; for the truth is, that so utterly unintelligible to others, is that system of hieroglyphics which I denominate my hand-writing, that it was quite certain the book never could be printed ix after my death, and therefore I was extremely desirous to have it printed before I departed this life,—an event probably not distant. But other events, undreaded and unanticipated, were at hand, to destroy every plan and prospect of my life. Yet even in my days of happiness, I must own, that I had a little work in 18mo. up in the nursery, which at times somewhat distracted my attention from this weightier work in post 8vo. in the library. This may seem trifling, but it is true. The workings of the human heart never can be uninteresting. It is them we seek through books of biography and tales of fiction. I loved my child better than myself. To have saved him I would (O how joyfully !) have made oblations of all my works, past, present, and future— have buried my praise in dust-sacrificed all my hopes on earth," fame, wealth," and I fear honour." 66 X The rigid moralist may frown-and he is in the right, but He talks to me, that never had a son! My heart and soul were with my first, my only, angel child. And now, even now, Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form Was it then wonderful that grief alone, filled my soul? That when those nearest and dearest to me were successively laid upon the bed of danger and of death, all else was neglected and forgotten? With the private misfortunes of an Author, indeed, the public has no concern; but they are mentioned xi here, lest defects, occasioned by sickness and sorrow, should erroneously be attributed to that carelessness and presumption, which success too often engenders. To many, indeed, sorrow will plead no excuse for error; but there are some, who will judge more leniently; some, who will forbear to visit with severe denunciation, any inaccuracies they may discern; for they themselves have tasted of the bitterness of afflictionthey themselves have known what are the sensibilities of a woman, and the feelings of a wife, a daughter, and a mother;—and they can best understand the secret pangs of agony, which, since these trifling pages were written, have wrung the heart of THE AUTHOR. |