_Ja n'est besoin (amy Lecteur!) t'escrire Par le menu le prouffit et plaisir Que recevras si ce livre veux lire, Et d'icelluy le sens prendre au desir; Veuille donc prendre à le lire loisir, Et que ce soit avecq intelligence. Si tu le fais, propos de grand plaisance Tu y verras, et moult prouffiteras; Et si tiendras en grand resjouissance Le tien esprit, et ton temps passeras._ JEAN FAVRE. “Gods me! how now! what present have we here?” “A Book that stood in peril of the press; But now it's past those pikes, and doth appear To keep the lookers on from heaviness.” “What stuff contains it?”—“Fustian, perfect spruce, Wit's gallimalfry, or wit fried in steaks.” “From whom came it, a God's name?”—“From his Muse, (Oh do not tell!) that still your favour seeks.” “And who is that?”—“Truth that is I.”—“What I? I per se I, great I, you would say.”—“No! Great I indeed _you_ well may say; but I Am little i, the least of all the row.” DAVIES OF HEREFORD. _Lector, esto libro te ofrezco, sin que me aya mandado Señor alguno que le escriva, ni menos me ayan importunado mis amigos que le estampe, sino solamente por mi gusto, por mi antojo y por mi voluntad._ MONTALVAN. The reader must not expect in this work merely the private uninteresting history of a single person. He may expect whatever curious particulars can with any propriety be connected with it. Nor must the general disquisitions and the incidental narratives of the present work be ever considered as actually digressionary in their natures, and as merely useful in their notices. They are all united with the rest, and form proper parts of the whole. They have some of them a necessary connexion with the history of the Doctor; they have many of them an intimate relation, they have all of them a natural affinity to it. And the Author has endeavoured, by a judicious distribution of them through the work, to prevent that disgusting uniformity, and to take off that uninteresting personality, which must necessarily result from the merely barren and private annals of an obscure individual. He has thus in some measure adopted the elegant principles of modern gardening. He has thrown down the close hedges and the high walls that have confined so many biographers in their views. He has called in the scenes of the neighbouring country to his aid, and has happily combined them into his own plan. He has drawn off the attention from the central point before it became languid and exhausted, by fetching in some objects from society at large, or by presenting some view of the philosophy of man. But he has been cautious of multiplying objects in the wantonness of refinement, and of distracting the attention with a confused variety. He has always considered the history of the Doctor, as the great fixed point, the enlivening centre, of all his excursions. Every opening is therefore