is probable indeed, that Mr. Petulengro would be able to supply me with further materials if I should apply to him, but I was in a hurry, and could not afford the time which it would be necessary to spend in passing to and from Mr. Petulengro, and consulting him.  Moreover, my pride revolted at the idea of being beholden to Mr. Petulengro for the materials of the history.  No, I would not write the history of Abershaw.  Whose then—­Harry Simms?  Alas, the life of Harry Simms had been already much better written by himself than I could hope to do it; and, after all, Harry Simms, like Jemmy Abershaw, was merely a robber.  Both, though bold and extraordinary men, were merely highwaymen.  I questioned whether I could compose a tale likely to excite any particular interest out of the exploits of a mere robber.  I want a character for my hero, thought I, something higher than a mere robber; some one like—­like Colonel B—–.  By the way, why should I not write the life and adventures of Colonel B—–­, of Londonderry in Ireland?

A truly singular man was this same Colonel B—–­, of Londonderry in Ireland; a personage of most strange and incredible feats and daring, who had been a partizan soldier, a bravo—­who, assisted by certain discontented troopers, nearly succeeded in stealing the crown and regalia from the Tower of London; who attempted to hang the Duke of Ormond at Tyburn; and whose strange, eventful career did not terminate even with his life, his dead body, on the circulation of an unfounded report that he did not come to his death by fair means, having been exhumed by the mob of his native place, where he had retired to die, and carried in the coffin through the streets.

Of his life I had inserted an account in the Newgate Lives and Trials; it was bare and meagre, and written in the stiff, awkward style of the seventeenth century; it had, however, strongly captivated my imagination, and I now thought that out of it something better could be made; that, if I added to the adventures, and purified the style, I might fashion out of it a very decent tale or novel.  On a sudden, however, the proverb of mending old garments with new cloth occurred to me.  ‘I am afraid,’ said I, ’any new adventures which I can invent will not fadge well with the old tale; one will but spoil the other.’  I had better have nothing to do with Colonel B—–­, thought I, but boldly and independently sit down and write the life of Joseph Sell.

This Joseph Sell, dear reader, was a fictitious personage who had just come into my head.  I had never even heard of the name, but just at that moment it happened to come into my head; I would write an entirely fictitious narrative, called the Life and Adventures of Joseph Sell, the great traveller.

I had better begin at once, thought I; and removing the bread and the jug, which latter was now empty, I seized pen and paper, and forthwith essayed to write the life of Joseph Sell, but soon discovered that it is much easier to resolve upon a thing than to achieve it, or even to commence it; for the life of me I did not know how to begin, and, after trying in vain to write a line, I thought it would be as well to go to bed, and defer my projected undertaking till the morrow.