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Pause one moment, gentle Reader—only one little moment will I detain you, while I reply to the question which I have supposed you to ask in the title-page. Blame not me, I beseech you, if you are compelled to make the usual accusation against authors, that there is nothing new in the pages which I diffidently present to you: I am sorry for it, but I cannot help it. Solomon asserted that all things under the sun were aged in his time; and if the wisest of old gentlemen could find nothing new in that early stage of his empire, what can be expected from a poor scribbler like me, near three thousand years after him? Consider too, dear Reader, that this is the first time I have appeared before you in the character of a story-teller; and that I am a timid, nervous subject, and very easily discouraged. Accept me then upon the score of wishing to amuse you, and permit me to say something for my Tales, after having said so much for myself.

Of the stories, “Der Freischütz,” as every body knows, is from the German. “The Fortunes of De la Pole” is original; so is “The Prediction,” and “The Yellow Dwarf,” if I may be allowed that claim for such a “thing of shreds and patches;” it is an olla podrida of odds and ends, a snip of the garment of every fairy tale written since the days of King Arthur. The story of “The Lord of the Maelstrom” is also original, though, as in that of “The Yellow Dwarf,” I have raised my structure upon an old nursery foundation; but it appeared to me an excellent vehicle for the beautiful mythology of the North, and the introduction of Odin and his exploits,—whose history, by the way, I believe, has been extracted from the Talmud, or from the rabbinical traditions of the events previous to the creation, and the deeds of Moses and others. I, moreover, designed to have given thee a little poetry for thy money, gentle Reader, but the booksellers shook their heads when I mentioned my design, and told me it was out of fashion; so I returned my treasures in that way to my desk, there to remain, among many other excellent things, I assure thee, until it should again be the taste in England; and, with two other short stories, in the meantime offer these Tales of diablerie for your amusement. Entreat me kindly, gentle Reader, I beseech you, for two reasons;—first, because it will entirely depend upon your reception of this, whether I shall ever write a second volume—and secondly, because there has been a sad sweep lately among those who used to cater for your diversion: many who were most deserving have been snatched from your admiration and regard. “Shelley is not—Lord Byron is not—and Maturin have they taken away.” For myself, I am not a long-lived man, and therefore advise you to make much of me while I am with you; and as an example, look upon these “coglionerie” with a milder eye than their merits may seem to deserve from your judgment.

I am, dear Reader, truly yours,

THE AUTHOR.