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Preface.

I CANNOT plead, according to the approved mock-modest formula of incipient authors, “the importunities of, perhaps, too partial friends,” as my excuse for rushing into authorship. I am urged by a far more genuine, and disagreeable motive.

My purse, like Falstaff's, has long suffered from atrophy. “I can get no remedy,” says the fat knight, “against this consumption of the purse: borrowing only lingers and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable.”

The malady, however, may be alleviated; and it is in the hope of escaping, for a time, from the pangs of this detestable impecuniosity that I publish my tiny volume.

It consists of prose and verse—often recast—that I have contributed to various English and colonial periodicals, supplemented with a little matter that I have not previously printed.

I now hand over my fasciculus nugarum to a public that has always been too indulgent to my scattered trifles; and gladly seize this opportunity of expressing my gratitude for that kindness.

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