xii 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF 



The first volume of Essays had not been 

 much more than a year on the " world's wide 

 stage/' when I began to sigh for the comforts 

 of a warmer sun ; and I should have left these 

 realms of " Boreas, blustering railer," to those 

 who are fonder of his sway than I am, and 

 have gone to the South, had not a letter from 

 my friend Mr. Ord, the accomplished biogra- 

 pher of poor Wilson, informed me that he was 

 on his way from Philadelphia, to pass the 

 summer with us. 



Upon the receipt of it, I gave up all thoughts 

 of Italy and her lovely sky; and set about 

 putting a finishing hand to my out-buildings, 

 the repairs of which had been begun in 1834, 

 and carried on at intervals. 



They are an immense pile, composing an 

 oblong square of forty-five yards in length, and 

 thirty-six in breadth, independent of the dog- 

 kennel, fowl-house, sheds, and potato-vaults. 

 They had been erected by my forefathers at 

 different periods, when taxation was compara- 

 tively in its infancy, and good old English 

 hospitality better understood than it is at the 

 present day. These buildings were gradually 

 going to ruin, through length of time and inat- 



