SOME ACCOUNT 
OF 
THE WRITER OF THE FOLLOWING ESSAYS, 
BY HIMSELF. 
I rui1nxK I have seen in a book, but I forget which 
just now, that, when we read a work, we generally 
have a wish to see the author’s portrait, or, at least, 
to know something of him. 
Under this impression, I conceive that a short 
account of myself will not be wholly uninteresting 
to the reader; who, it is to be hoped, will acquit 
me of egotism, as I declare, in all truth, that I write 
these Memoirs with no other object in view, than 
that of amusing him. 
I was born at Walton Hall, near Wakefield, in 
the county of York, some five and fifty years ago: 
this tells me that I am no chicken; but, were I 
asked how I feel with regard to the approaches of 
old age, I should quote Dryden’s translation of the 
description which the Roman poet has given us of 
Charon :— . 
‘¢ He seem’d in years, yet in his years were seen 
A vernal vigour and autumnal green.” 
In fact, I feel as though I were not more than 
thirty years old. I am quite free from all rheu- 
matic pains; and am so supple in the joints, that I 
can climb a tree with the utmost facility. I stand 
