1830. j [ 35 ] 



TALES OF THE DEAD. 



THE HALF-HANGED ITALIAN; THE IMPALED TURK j THE HALF-DROWNED 



ENGLISHMAN. 



" To be, or not to be !" But hold, my masters. Before we go any 

 further, you would probably like to know something of the unlucky 

 scribbler who thus unbidden intrudes upon your literary moments. Be- 

 fore you consent to jog onwards through a tiresome half hour or so, 

 under the guidance of an impertinent moralist, an it please you so to call 

 him, who would fain unharness you from the lumbering vehicle of po- 

 litics, Russian victories, and Irish riots, ti> saddle you instead with the 

 baggage of his own light ware, you will no doubt deem it advisable to 

 take a scrupulous inventory of the who, the what, the when, the where, 

 the why, and other indispensable et ceteras. Know, then, most gentle 

 reader, that I am in truth a philosophical vagabond, a strange compound 

 of Democritus and Heraclitus, with one eye for smiles and another for 

 tears ; being thus gifted with a most convenient cast of countenance, 

 either side of which I can turn as modern statesmen do their coats, accord- 

 ing to the exigencies of the moment. I laugh with the laughers; I weep 

 occasionally with them that weep ; I contrive to squeeze myself into the 

 midst of every crowd ; pick up a little scandal and small-talk at coffee- 

 houses ; and hardly ever fall asleep in a church. I have seen many a 

 droll sight ; I have listened to many an odd tale, at the telling of which 

 sorrow might ope her flood-gates, with some that would afford food for 

 "laughter holding both his sides;" and could I but find some good-na- 

 tured publisher to usher me into the world genteelly bound, and some 

 soft-hearted reviewer (quaere, ' ' can such things be ?") to bestow on my 

 calf-skin a little of the unction of puffing, why then I might enroll my- 

 self as a modest supernumerary in that very ancient, valorous, and re- 

 spectable, but not overfed corps, 



' ' In foolscap uniform turned up with ink/' 



heroes that quietly give point with the pen, instead of bloodthirstily 

 cutting, and slashing, and hewing, and hacking with the sword, 

 cautious crusaders that march to the temple of fame, not through fields 

 of slaughter, but through a second ay, mayhap, a third or fourth 

 edition, revised and corrected. All this, reader, is entre nous: and now 

 that I have, with my usual precision, and quite in my own off-handed un- 

 ceremonious way, indulged your curiosity with a full, true, and satisfac- 

 tory account of myself, my propensities, and my customary mode of life, 

 together with a hint of my ulterior and desperate purpose, I shall, with 

 your courteous assent, resume the thread of this most profound and in- 

 structive lucubration. 



All good is counterbalanced by evil ; and my rambling habits have 

 been productive of some sad results, which, in the singleness of my bio- 

 graphical veracity, I must unreservedly avow. In the first place, I enter- 

 tain an insuperable aversion to the society of methodical, sober, sage 

 people, whom I may presume to call the steady but slowly-revolving 

 lights of the age. The natural consequence of this my antipathy to 

 gravity and regularity is a decided predilection for the company of 

 entertaining and clever vagabonds, whom I may compare to the will-of- 

 the-wisp meteors which, in my boyish days, led me many a merry dance, 

 though I must own that in the end they generally left me in a quagmire. 



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