was pleased to call the
German philosopher, and supposed he must be of the same descent with the
Highland clan of M'Intyre, which signifies Son of the Carpenter. "And a
fery honourable name too--Shanet's own mither was a M'Intyre."

In short, it was plain the latter part of my introduction was altogether
lost on poor Janet; and so, to have acted up to Moliere's system, I
should have cancelled the whole, and written it anew. But I do not
know how it is. I retained, I suppose, some tolerable opinion of my
own composition, though Janet did not comprehend it, and felt loath to
retrench those Delilahs of the imagination, as Dryden calls them, the
tropes and figures of which are caviar to the multitude. Besides, I hate
rewriting as much as Falstaff did paying back--it is a double labour.
So I determined with myself to consult Janet, in future, only on such
things as were within the limits of her comprehension, and hazard my
arguments and my rhetoric on the public without her imprimatur. I am
pretty sure she will "applaud it done." and in such narratives as come
within her range of thought and feeling I shall, as I first intended,
take the benefit of her unsophisticated judgment, and attend to it
deferentially--that is, when it happens not to be in peculiar opposition
to my own; for, after all, I say with Almanzor,--

"Know that I alone am king of me."

The reader has now my who and my whereabout, the purpose of the work,
and the circumstances under which it is undertaken. He has also a
specimen of the author's talents, and may judge for himself, and
proceed, or send back the volume to the bookseller, as his own taste
shall determine.

CHAPTER VI. MR. CROFTANGRY'S ACCOUNT OF MRS. BETHUNE BALIOL.

The moon, were she earthly, no nobler. CORIOLANUS.

When we set out on the jolly voyage of life, what a brave fleet there
is around us, as, stretching our finest canvas to the breeze, all
"shipshape and Bristol fashion," pennons flying, music playing, cheering
each other as we pass, we are rather amused than alarmed when some
awkward comrade goes right ashore for want of pilotage! Alas! when the
voyage is well spent, and we look about us, toil-worn mariners, how few
of our ancient consorts still remain in sight; and they, how torn and
wasted, and, like ourselves, struggling to keep as long as possible off
the fatal shore, against which we are all finally drifting!

I felt this very trite but melancholy truth in all i