I sat down to write gravely and sadly, for (since the appearance of
some of my adventures in a monthly magazine) unprincipled men have
endeavoured to rob me of the only good I possess, to question the
statements that I make, and, themselves without a spark of honour
or good feeling, to steal from me that which is my sole wealth--my
character as a teller of THE TRUTH.

The reader will understand that it is to the illiberal strictures
of a profligate press I now allude; among the London journalists,
none (luckily for themselves) have dared to question the veracity
of my statements: they know me, and they know that I am IN LONDON.
If I can use the pen, I can also wield a more manly and terrible
weapon, and would answer their contradictions with my sword! No
gold or gems adorn the hilt of that war-worn scimitar; but there is
blood upon the blade--the blood of the enemies of my country, and
the maligners of my honest fame. There are others, however--the
disgrace of a disgraceful trade--who, borrowing from distance a
despicable courage, have ventured to assail me. The infamous
editors of the Kelso Champion, the Bungay Beacon, the Tipperary
Argus, and the Stoke Pogis Sentinel, and other dastardly organs of
the provincial press, have, although differing in politics, agreed
upon this one point, and, with a scoundrelly unanimity, vented a
flood of abuse upon the revelations made by me.

They say that I have assailed private characters, and wilfully
perverted history to blacken the reputation of public men. I ask,
was any one of these men in Bengal in the year 1803? Was any