The record, with all its quaintness, produces a curious impression of stoicism—of a certain grim acceptance of the facts of life. It would have been a pleasure, certainly, but an alarming pleasure, to have known Mrs. Inchbald. In the early years of the century, she gradually withdrew from London, establishing herself in suburban boarding-houses, often among sisters of charity, and devoting her days to the practice of her religion. In her early and middle life she had been an indifferent Catholic: “Sunday. Rose late, dressed, and read in the Bible about David, &c.”—this is one of the very few references in her diary to anything approaching a religious observance during many years. But, in her old age, her views changed; her devotions increased with her retirement; and her retirement was at last complete. She died, in an obscure Kensington boarding-house, on August 1, 1821. She was buried in Kensington churchyard. But, if her ghost lingers anywhere, it is not in Kensington: it is in the heart of the London that she had always loved. Yet, even there, how much now would she find to recognize? Mrs. Inchbald’s world has passed away from us for ever; and, as we walk there to-day amid the press of the living, it is hard to believe that she too was familiar with Leicester Square. G. L. STRACHEY. [1] The following account is based upon the _Memoirs of Mrs. Inchbald, including her familiar correspondence with the most distinguished persons of her time_, edited by James Boaden, Esq.—a discursive, vague, and not unamusing book. A SIMPLE STORY, IN FOUR VOLUMES, BY MRS. INCHBALD. VOL. I. _THE FOURTH EDITION._ LONDON: Printed for G. G. and J. ROBINSON, Paternoster Row. 1799. PREFACE. It is said, _a book should be read with the same spirit with which it has been written_. In that case, fatal must be the reception of this—for the writer frankly avows, that during the time she has been writing it, she has suffered every quality and degree of weariness and lassitude, into which no other employment could have betrayed her.