THE FORTUNES OF NIGEL. BY THE AUTHOR OF "WAVERLEY, KENILWORTH," &c. Knifegrinder. Story? Lord bless you! I have none to tell, sir. POETRY OF THE ANTI-JACOBIN. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. EDINBURGH: PRINTED FOR ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE AND CO. EDINBURGH ; AND HURST, ROBINSON, AND CO., LONDON. 1822. INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. CAPTAIN CLUTTERBUCK, TO THE REV. DR DRYASDUST. DEAR SIR, I READILY accept of, and reply to the civilities with which you have been pleased to honour me in your obliging letter, and entirely agree with your quotation, of 66 Quam bonum et quam jucundum." We may indeed esteem ourselves as come of the same family, or, according to our country proverb, as being all one man's bairns; and there needed no apology on your part, reverend and dear sir, for demanding of me any information which I may be able to supply respecting the subject of your curiosity. The interview which you allude to took place in the course of last winter, and is so deeply imprinted on my recollection, that it requires no effort to collect all its most minute details. You are aware that the share which I had in introducing the Romance, called THE MONASTERY, to public notice, has given mea sort of character in the literature of our Scottish metropolis. I no longer stand in the outer shop of our bibliopolists, bargaining for the objects of my curiosity with an unrespective shop-lad, hustled among boys who come to buy Corderies and copy-books, and servantgirls cheapening a penny-worth of paper, but am cordially welcomed by the bibliopolist himself, with, "Pray, walk into the back-shop, Captain. Boy, get a chair for Captain Clutterbuck. There is the newspaper, Captain-to-day's paper-or here is the last new work there is a folder, make free with the leaves, or put it in your pocket and carry it home; or we will make a bookseller of you, sir, you shall have it at trade price." Or, perhaps, if it is the worthy trader's own publication, his liberality may even extend itself to "Never mind booking such a trifle to you, sir—it is an over-copy. Pray, mention the work to your literary friends.” I say nothing of the snug well-selected literary party arranged around a turbot, leg of five-year-old mutton, or some such gear, or of the circulation of a quiet bottle of Robert Cockburn's choicest black-or perhaps of his best blue, to quicken our talk about old books, or our plans for new ones. All these are comforts reserved to such as are freemen of the corporation of letters, and I have the advantage of enjoying them in perfection. |