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PREFACE.

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The manner in which the author became
possessed of the private incidents,
the characters, and the descriptions, contained
in these tales, will, most probably,
ever remain a secret between himself
and his publisher. That the leading
events are true, he presumes it is unnecessary
to assert; for should inherent
testimony, to prove that important point,
be wanting, he is conscious that no anonymous
declaration can establish its credibility.

But while he shrinks from directly
yielding his authorities, the author has no
hesitation in furnishing all the negative
testimony in his power.

In the first place, then, he solemnly
declares, that no unknown man, nor
woman, has ever died in his vicinity, of
whose effects he has become the possessor,
by either fair means or foul. No dark-looking
stranger, of a morbid temperament,
and of inflexible silence, has ever
transmitted to him a single page of illegible
manuscript. Nor has any landlord furnished
him with materials to be worked

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up into a book, in order that the profits
might go to discharge the arrearages of a
certain consumptive lodger, who made
his exit so unceremoniously as to leave
the last item in his account, his funeral
charges.

He is indebted to no garrulous tale-teller
for beguiling the long winter evenings;
in ghosts he has no faith; he never
had a vision in his life; and he sleeps
too soundly to dream.

He is constrained to add, that in no
“puff,” “squib,” “notice,” “article,”
nor “review,” whether, in daily, weekly,
monthly, or quarterly publication, has
he been able to find a single hint that
his humble powers could improve. No
one regrets this fatality more than himself;
for these writers generally bring
such a weight of imagination to their
several tasks, that, properly improved,
might secure the immortality of any book,
by rendering it unintelligible.

He boldly asserts that he has derived
no information from any of the learned
societies—and without fear of contradiction;
for why should one so obscure
be the exclusive object of their favours!

Notwithstanding he occasionally is

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seen in that erudite and abstemious
association, the “Bread-and-Cheese
Lunch,” where he is elbowed by lawyers,
doctors, jurists, poets, painters,
editors, congressmen, and authors of
every shade and qualification, whether
metaphysical, scientific, or imaginative,
he avers, that he esteems the lore which
is there culled, as far too sacred to be
used in any work less dignified than actual
history.

Of the colleges it is necessary to
speak with reverence; though truth possesses
claims even superior to gratitude.
He shall dispose of them by simply
saying, that they are entirely innocent of
all his blunders; the little they bestowed
having long since been forgotten.

He has stolen no images from the deep,
natural poetry of Bryant; no pungency
from the wit of Halleck; no felicity of
expression from the richness of Percival;
no satire from the caustic pen of Paulding;
no periods, nor humour from Irving;
nor any high finish from the attainments
exhibited by Verplanck.

At the “soirées” and “coteries des
bas bleus” he did think he had obtained
a prize, in the dandies of literature,

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who haunt them. But experiment and
analysis detected his error; as they proved
these worthies unfit for any better purpose
than that which their own instinct
had already dictated.

He has made no impious attempt to
rob Joe Miller of his jokes; the sentimentalists
of their pathos; nor the newspaper
Homers of their lofty inspirations.

His presumption has not even imagined
the vivacity of the eastern states; he
has not analyzed the homogeneous character
of the middle; and he has left the
south in the undisturbed possession of
all their saturnine wit.

In short—he has pilfered from no
black-letter book, nor any six-penny
pamphlet; his grandmother unnaturally
refused her assistance to his labors; and,
to speak affirmatively, for once, he wishes
to live in peace, and hopes to die in the
fear of God.

PREFACE TO LIONEL LINCOLN.

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In this tale there are one or two slight
anachronisms; which, if unnoticed, might,
with literal readers, draw some unpleasant
imputations on its veracity.—They relate
rather to persons than to things. As they
are believed to be quite in character, connected
with circumstances much more
probable than facts, and to possess all
the harmony of poetic colouring, the
author is utterly unable to discover the
reason why they are not true.

He leaves the knotty point to the instinctive
sagacity of the crities.

The matter of this “Legend” may be
pretty equally divided into that which is
publicly, and that which is privately certain.
For the authorities of the latter,
the author refers to the foregoing preface;
but he cannot dispose of the sources
whence he has derived the former, with
so little ceremony.

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The good people of Boston are aware
of the creditable appearance they make
in the early annals of the confederation,
and they neglect no commendable means
to perpetuate the glories of their ancestors.
In consequence, the inquiry after
historical facts, is answered, there, by
an exhibition of local publications, that
no other town in the union can equal. Of
these means the author has endeavoured
to avail himself; collating with care,
and selecting, as he trusts, with some of
that knowledge of men and things which
is necessary to present a faithful picture.

Wherever he may have failed, he has
done it honestly.

He will not take leave of the `cradle of
liberty,' without expressing his thanks
for the facilities which have been so freely
accorded to his undertaking. If he has
not been visited by ærial beings, and
those fair visions that poets best love to
create, he is certain he will not be misconceived
when he says, that he has been
honoured by the notice of some resembling
those, who first inspired their fancies.