I have often debated in my mind whether I
should give to the world, or for ever lock up within
the secrecy of my own breast, the history of the
adventures which it has been my lot in life to experience.
The importance of any single individual
in society, especially one so isolated as myself, is
so little, that it can scarcely be supposed that the
community at large can be affected by his fortunes,
either good or evil, or interested in any way in
his fate. Yet it sometimes happens that circumstances
conspire to elevate the humblest person
from obscurity, and to give the whole world an
interest in his affairs; and that man may safely
consider himself of some value in his generation,
whose history is of a character to instruct the ignorant
and inexperienced. Such a man I consider

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myself to be; and the more I reflect upon my past
life, the more I am convinced it contains a lesson
which may be studied with profit; while, at the
same time, if I am not greatly mistaken, the lesson
will be found neither dry nor repulsive, but here
and there, on the contrary, quite diverting. The
psychologist (I hate big words, but one cannot do
without them) and the metaphysician will discover
in my relation some new subjects for reflection;
and so perhaps will the doctor of medicine and
the physiologist: but while I leave these learned
gentlemen to discuss what may appear most wonderful
in my revealments, I am most anxious that
the common reader may weigh the value of what
is, at least in appearance, more natural, simple, and
comprehensible.

It will be perceived that many of the following
adventures are of a truly extraordinary character.
There are some men—and to such my story will
seem incredible enough—who pride themselves on
believing nothing that they do not know, and who
endeavour, very absurdly, to restrict the objects of
belief to those that admit of personal cognizance.
There are others again who boast the same maxim,
but have a more liberal understanding of the subjects
of knowledge, and permit themselves to believe
many things which are susceptible of satisfactory
proof, but not of direct cognition. Now
I must declare beforehand, in order to avoid all
trouble, that, from the very nature of the life I
have led, consisting of the strangest transitions and

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vicissitudes, it is impossible I should have laid up
proofs to satisfy any one of the truth of my relation
who is disposed to be incredulous. If any
one should say, “I doubt,” all the answer I could
make would be, “Doubt, and be hanged,”—not,
however, meaning any offence to anybody; though
it is natural one should be displeased at having his
veracity questioned. I write for the world at large,
which is neither philosophic nor skeptical; and the
world will believe me: otherwise it is a less sensible
world than I have all along supposed it to be.