CHAPTER I.—­Introductory.

“Let the neighbors smell ve has something respectable for once.”

There is certainly no style of writing requiring so much modest assurance as autobiography; a position which, I am confident, neither Lord Cherbury, nor Vidocq, or any other mortal blessed with an equal developement of the organ of self-esteem, can or could deny.

Home, ("sweet home,")—­in his Douglas—­gives, perhaps, one of the most concise and concentrated specimens extant, of this species of composition.  With what an imposing air does his youthful hero blow his own trumpet in those well-known lines, commencing,

“My name is Norval.”

Although a mere cock-boat in comparison with these first-rates, I think I may safely follow in their wake.  Should the critics, however, condescend to carp at me for likening myself to a cock-boat, I have no objection, if by a twist of their ingenuity, they can prove me to be a little funny!

Economy was one of the most prominent characteristics of the family from which I sprang.  Now, some authors would weary their indulgent readers with a flatulent chapter upon the moral beauty of this virtue; but as my first wish is to win favor by my candor, I must honestly confess, that necessity was the parent of this lean attenuated offspring!—­For, alas!

My ‘angel mother,’ (as Anna Maria phrases it,) was a woman of ten thousand, for she dwelt in one of the most populous districts of London!  My sire, was of the most noble order of St. Crispin; and though he had many faults, was continually mending—­being the most eminent cobbler in the neighbourhood.

Even in the outset of their connubial partnership, they started under the most favorable auspices—­for, whereas other couples marry for love or money, they got married for ‘nothing’ taking advantage of the annual gratuitous splicings performed at Shoreditch Church on one sunshiny Easter Monday.

In less than three years my amiable mother presented her lord and master with as many interesting pledges of their affection—­I was the cobbler’s last—­and

‘Though last, not least, in their dear love.’

CHAPTER II.—­Our Lodging.

Our precarious means were too small to permit us to rent a house, we therefore rented one large room, which served us for—­

“Parlor and kitchen and all!”

in the uppermost story of a house, containing about a dozen families.

This ‘airy’ apartment was situated in a narrow alley of great thoroughfare, in the heart of the great metropolis.

The lower part of this domicile was occupied by one James, who did ‘porter’s work,’ while his wife superintended the trade of a miscellaneous store, called a green-grocer’s; although the stock comprised, besides a respectable skew of cabbages, carrots, lettuces, and other things in season, a barrel of small beer, a side of bacon, a few red herrings, a black looking can of ‘new milk,’ and those less perishable articles, Warren’s blacking, and Flanders’ bricks; while the window was graced with a few samples of common confectionary, celebrated under the sweet names of lollypops, Buonaparte’s ribs, and bulls’-eyes.