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PREFATORY DEDICATION.

Ir cannot be of the slightest interest to any who may cast their eyes over these pages, to learn the mental process, by which about the usual proportion of vanity, under the self-deceptive guise of good intentions, gradually wrought upon me, till order to pass the Rubicon was given by and to myself, and "faith, I'll prent it" passed my lips in soliloquy.

I had calculated on having to prepare many letters of four closely written pages, and, as some were to cross the line,-with

B.

their lines crossed too (a blinding process, twice cursed by him that writes and him that reads, thanks to the penny postage, now only worth the trouble of application to foreign correspondence); but so many recollections came importunately pressing for insertion, and claiming place in my budget, that I began to think of a few others whom I should like to make acquainted with my seeings and doings.

My excellent friend and travelling companion, Edward Penrhyn, in the years 1817 and 1818, has a right to know all the particulars; besides I long to be abused by Lady Charlotte for committing a pun in the course of my narrative. Our kind friend and excellent neighbour, Miss Trotter, is entitled to hear anything I may have to

say of the well-doing of our Protestant churches, to which she has been so constant a benefactress; and there is a reverend Master of his calling in Lancashire, whom I will not leave out, and others among my friends and neighbours must have copies privately printed for them; but then neighbours expect neighbours' fare.

In that dilemma the transition to publication was abrupt and certain, the disgust of a forced fishing circulation, obliging civil replies and partial judgments from my victims, being too great to endure. Publication, once resolved upon, I felt my best hope of pleasing would be by holding on to the robe of some, who had given more time and brought more ability to their task; and with this view I have taken pains to insert in the

form of notes some interesting matter. I have endeavoured to illustrate the subject-matter with anecdotes conveying a moral, and content with preserving continuity in the narrative, have been tempted away to great distances from the scene of my ramble.

Among the scraps gathered at the feasts of reason to which one has been bidden, or to which from time to time one has intruded oneself uninvited, are sure to be some morsels worth preserving. And if the desire of parading them is here and there transparent, I trust they may still be considered not to have been inappropriately woven into these pages; and that a recurrence of feeling may excuse an occasional repetition of sentiment. Whatever opinion may

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