don't choose to give it freely-inflict upon you a short chapter; choosing, with that native modesty for which my countrymen are so justly distinguished, myself as the subject.

I am-alas! that I should write it-an Old Bachelor. The admission may ruin me-it may cause young ladies to denounce me-it may bring imprecations upon my head; but I can't help it: Truth has come up from her well, to sit at my elbow while I pen these pages, and remorselessly compels me to acknowledge the melancholy fact.

Of course, when I admit that I am a member of that much-traduced and shamefully-slandered brotherhood, the impression will at once follow that I am a cranky old curmudgeon, with drab shorts, and a wig of the same colour; but I take the liberty of informing you that whosoever comes to any such conclusion, will be guilty of falling into a gross and grievous error. I do not patronize drab shorts, and, albeit (like Old Father William) "the few locks that are left me are grey," I still wear them in their natural sim

plicity, and have never suffered the innovation of wig, scalp, or peruque, of any shade or colour whatsoever. And what's more, I never shall; unless, indeed, I should ever be tempted to pay a visit to the Hymeneal altar; after which I might, perhaps, find some such covering necessary to conceal the development of certain unbecoming ramifications, peculiar to the heads of married bipeds, and occasionally, not to say frequently, adorning the foreheads of Benedicks as well as Buffaloes.

I make no apology for being a bachelor. No; on the contrary, I think it rather a subject for congratulation: but, at the same time, lest any of my fair readers should conceive a prejudice against me on that account, I take leave to qualify the announcement, by admitting that I am still open to the attacks of Cupid, and that, should an eligible opportunity present itself, (in the shape of a seraph, with thirty thousand pounds, or upwards) I might even yet be induced to sacrifice myself-which, you must all allow, is extremely

disinterested, and astonishingly condescending on

my part.

I am called an oddity by my friends (friends are excessively impertinent at times): some say I am a queer fellow-some that I am a pleasant fellow enough when I like-others that I am a d-d bore (which is very complimentary)—a few consider me a "worthy man"-and a lady, (with a remarkably pleasing squint) whom I once escorted home from an evening party, (being at the time under the influence of something stronger than politeness) has since taken frequent opportunities of promulgating her opinion that I am "a most gentlemanly creature, and such a sweetly expressive mouth!"

From amongst these contradictory notions of myself and my character, you may select which you please, or none at all; but the fact is, that I am a queer sort of fellow. I confess it with the most winning candour.

Therefore, if you expect to find this book at all similar to others, I can only say there is every

probability of your being mistaken; for, in writing it, I am just as much influenced by the wish to convey to its pages some of my own rambling peculiarities (in order that I may see how they look on paper) as by any other motive.

Some one has shrewdly observed, that "it is almost essential for an author to have some knowledge of his subject!"

With the Solomon who gave birth to that remarkable opinion, I have the honour to perfectly agree; although I must confess that it is not now the fashion. I shall, therefore, endeavour to confine my lucubrations to such matters as come within the bounds of my comprehension, let the same be never so limited; of course reserving to myself the right of arraying a diminutive body of truth in a goodly garment of fiction.

I am fully aware that, should I confine myself strictly to the truth, not only would my story lose a considerable portion of its interest, (supposing it to have any) but I should also incur the risk of being supposed to have invented characters and

events utterly beyond the range of probabilityso true it is that the romance of real life exceeds that of the imagination.

There is still another privilege which I must claim, namely, that of telling my story in my own way, without following any example or precedent whatsoever, but solely according to the dictates of a fancy which, I must confess, is occasionally somewhat wayward. Just, then, as the humour takes me, I will write-at this moment in one mood, at the next in another, and very likely never a second time in the same. A bit of fun here a bit of sentiment there—and, turn over a new leaf, neither one nor the other.

Having premised this much, perhaps you will permit me to say a few words respecting my object in thus appearing before you. Imprimis, then you have all, no doubt, heard of "what the Connaught-man shot at ?" Very good, No better definition of that celebrated target could be found than the contents of my pocket; and as it behoves me to follow the advice of Iago, and "put money