I HAVE formerly taken the liberty of holding some prefatory discourse with my readers, on the subject of those little histories which accident enabled me to lay before them. This is probably the last time I shall make use of their indulgence; and, even if this Introduction should be found superfluous, it may claim their pardon, as the parting address of one, who has endeavoured to contribute to their entertainment. I was favoured last summer with a visit from a gentleman, a native of France, with whose father I had been intimately acquainted when I was last in that country. I confess myself particularly delighted with an intercourse, which removes the barrier of national distinction, and gives to the inhabitants of the world the appearance of one common family. I received, therefore, this young Frenchman into that humble shed, which Providence has allowed my age to rest in, with peculiar satisfaction; and was rewarded for any little attention I had in my power to shew him, by acquiring the friendship of one, whom I found to inherit all that pater nal worth which had fixed my esteem, about a dozen years ago, at Paris. In truth, such attention always rewards itself; and, I believe, my own feelings, which I expressed to this amiable and accomplished Frenchman on his leaving England, are such as every one will own, whose mind is susceptible of feeling at all. He was profuse of thanks, to which my good offices had no title, but from the inclination that accompanied them-lci, Monsieur, (said I, for he had used a language more accommodated than ours to the lesser order of sentiments, and I answered him as well as long want of practice would allow me in the same tongue,)-Ici, Monsieur, obscur et inconnu, avec beaucoup de bienveillance, mais peu de pouvoir, je ne goûte pas d'un plaisir plus sincere, que de penser, qu'il ya, dans aucun coin du monde, un cœur honnête qui se souvient de moi avec reconnoissance.

But I am talking of myself, when I should be giving an account of the following papers. This gentleman, discoursing with me on the subject of those letters, the substance of which I had formerly published under the title of the Man of the World, observed, that if the desire of searching into the records of private life were

common, the discovery of such collections would cease to be wondered at. "We look," said he, "for the Histories of Men, among those of high rank; but memoirs of sentiment and suffering may be found in every condition.

My father," continued my young friend, "made, since you saw him, an acquisition of that nature, by a whimsical accident. Standing one day at the door of a grocery-shop, making inquiry as to the lodgings of some person of his acquaintance, a little boy passed him, with a bundle of papers in his hand, which he offered for sale to the master of the shop, for the ordinary uses of his trade; but they differed about the price, and the boy was ready to depart, when my father desired a sight of the papers, saying to the lad with a smile, that, perhaps, he might deal with him for his book; upon reading a sentence or two, he found a style much above that of the ordinary manuscripts of a grocery-shop, and gave the boy his price at a venture, for the whole. When he got home, and examined the parcel, he found it to consist of letters put up, for the most part, according to their dates, which he committed to me, as having, he said, better eyes, and a keener curiosity, than his. I found them to contain a story in detail, which, I believe, would interest one of your turn of thinking a good deal. If you chuse to undergo the trouble of the perusal, I shall take care to have them sent over to you by the first opportunity I can find, and if you will do the Public the favour to digest them, as you did those of Annesly and his children,-" My young Frenchman speaks the language of compliment; but I do not choose to translate any farther. It is enough to say, that I received his papers some time ago, and that they are those which I have translated, and now give to the world. I had, perhaps, treated them as I did the letters he mentioned; but I found it a difficult task to reduce them into narrative, because they are made up of sentiment, which narrative would destroy. The only power I have exercised over them, is that of omitting letters, and passages of letters, which seem to bear no relation to the story I mean to communicate. In doing this, however, I confess I have been cautious : I love myself (and am apt, therefore, from a common sort of weakness, to

imagine that other people love) to read nature in her smallest character, and am often more apprized of the state of the mind, from very trifling, than from very important circumstan

ces.

As, from age and situation, it is likely I shall address the public no more, I cannot avoid taking this opportunity of thanking it for the reception it has given to those humble pages which I formerly introduced to its notice. Unknown and unpatronized, I had little pretensions to its favour, and little expectation of it; writing, or arranging the writings of others, was to me only a favourite amusement, for which a man easily finds both time and apology. One advantage I drew from it, which the humane may hear with satisfaction; I often wandered from my own

woe, in tracing the tale of another's affliction; and, at this moment, every sentence I write, I am but escaping a little farther from the pressure of sorrow.

Of the merits or faults of the composition, in the volumes of which I have directed the publication, a small share only was mine; for their tendency I hold myself entirely accountable, because, had it been a bad one, I had the power of suppressing them; and from their tendency, I believe, more than any other quality belonging to them, has the indulgence of their readers arisen. For that indulgence I desire to return them grateful acknowledgments as an editor; I shall be proud, with better reason, if there is nothing to be found in my publications, that may forfeit their esteem as a man.