If this kind of composition, of which the two years' product is now laid
before the public, fail in art, as it constantly does and must, it at
least has the advantage of a certain truth and honesty, which a work more
elaborate might lose. In his constant communication with the reader, the
writer is forced into frankness of expression, and to speak out his own
mind and feelings as they urge him. Many a slip of the pen and the
printer, many a word spoken in haste, he sees and would recall as he
looks over his volume. It is a sort of confidential talk between writer
and reader, which must often be dull, must often flag. In the course of
his volubility, the perpetual speaker must of necessity lay bare his own
weaknesses, vanities, peculiarities. And as we judge of a man's
character, after long frequenting his society, not by one speech, or by
one mood or opinion, or by one day's talk, but by the tenor of his
general bearing and conversation; so of a writer, who delivers himself up
to you perforce unreservedly, you say, Is he honest? Does he tell the
truth in the main? Does he seem actuated by a desire to find out and
speak it? Is he a quack, who shams sentiment, or mouths for effect? Does
he seek popularity by claptraps or other arts? I can no more ignore good
fortune than any other chance which has befallen me. I have found many
thousands more readers than I ever looked for. I have no right to say to
these, You shall not find fault with my art, or fall asleep over my
pages; but I ask you to believe that this person writing strives to tell
the truth. If there is not that, there is nothing.

Perhaps the lovers of 'excitement' may care to know, that this book began
with a very precise plan, which was entirely put aside. Ladies and
gentlemen, you were to have been treated, and the writer's and the
publisher's pocket benefited, by the recital of the most active horrors.
What more exciting than a ruffian (with many admirable virtues) in St.
Giles's, visited constantly by a young lady from Belgravia? What more