he may incur the suspicion of vanity. For allowing his heart to be so frequently seen, he can only repeat the same apology: he wrote to a friend! to one who had shared his thoughts for many years; to one whose merits were, like his misfortunes, infinite; and whose youth has sunk blighted to the grave. Captain Henry Caulfield was this friend: and thus to mention him, is, alas! a poor tribute of respect which affection dictates, and sorrow renders sacred.
On looking over these pages, the writer found the domestic sentiments so interwoven with the general subjects, that he could not separate them without recomposing the whole. This he had not time to do: and as he has by the peculiarities of his fate, been already so brought before the eye of the public that his history is not only well known, but his feelings more than guessed at, he thought it best to submit himself at once to its indulgence, and let the letters go forth even in their original simplicity.
Hence, it is not the studied work of an author bringing forward deep researches, valuable discoveries, and consequential observations, that is now laid before the public, but the familiar correspondence of a friend, noticing the manners of the people with whom he associates, their fashions, their amusements, the sentiments of the day; and mingling with these a few occurrences happening to himself, and the reflections to which they give rise.
Such then is this work, merely Travelling Sketches: as sketches, he trusts a candid public will consider them; and not pretending to have done more, he hopes his readers will judge him by his pretensions, and not withhold the indulgence he requires.