SOME ACCOUNT 



OF 



THE WRITER OF THE FOLLOWING ESSAYS, 



BY HIBISELF. 



I THINK 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 



