In the hurry of the sale, by some accident or other, this Common-place-book was disregarded, which may in some degree be accounted for from the following circumstance:—Our friend wrote a miserable hand; the rapidity to which he accustomed himself, made his manuscript almost illegible. On this subject he would often tell many facetious stories of himself and his printer. On one occasion he was grievously tormented by a _devil_, at the moment of his being helped to a second slice of venison, (for he loved good eating) who came with two large sheets of copy to beg that he would put dots to his i’s. At another time, he was seriously remonstrated with by his printer, a very worthy and primitive sort of man, for being the cause of more profane swearing in the printing-office, than is usually heard at Billingsgate.—“Sir,” exclaimed the honest printer, “the moment copy from you is divided among the compositors, volley succeeds volley, as rapidly and as loudly as in one of Lord Nelson’s victories.” Our friend shook his head, but he was incorrigible. To return to the auction. Several of the company took this said Common-place-book into their hands, but as instantly laid it down again in despair. One person indeed rather maliciously asked if it was Arabic. At length it was put up; nobody bade a sixpence, till a sly old man from one corner of the room who having known the author, recognized his hand writing exclaimed, “I will give a dollar for the chance of making out something.” It is superfluous to say, that there was no competition. The old gentleman carried off his bargain without molestation or envy. It was a long time before he could make an iota of his purchase, nor would he perhaps at all, if accident had not thrown him in the way of our friend the printer. This good man recollected, with no small delight, the _Shibboleth_ (if such a term may be used to an autograph) of his old but tormenting acquaintance. They accordingly put their heads together, and the Reader is here presented with the result of their joint but continued labour. Labour indeed it might be called, for Porson would sooner have unravelled an Ethiopic inscription, than they were by much exertion, able to decypher a sheet of this abominable manuscript. They succeeded at length. It is by no means intended on their parts to vouch for the entire authenticity of every fact, and anecdote, and circumstance, which these pages unfold. They however profess, and the printer more particularly, such a general confidence in the veracity of their old acquaintance, as to believe that there is no intentional misrepresentation, nor any thing set down in malice. Above all, the most remote idea of inflicting a wound on any person, who may survive to see some slight designation of themselves, is earnestly and emphatically disclaimed. Exultat levitate puer. CHAPTER II.