g pages, they do not find themselves
immortalized by my notice, although they are certainly unworthy of so
great a distinction. I enjoy the friendship of men of letters, and am
therefore not to be put down by the opposition of a parcel of senseless
blockheads, without brain, or heart, or soul.

I shall doubtless find it necessary to make allusions to local places,
persons, incidents, &c. Those will add greatly to the interest of the
narrative. Many portraits will be readily recognized, especially those
whose originals reside in Boston, where the greater portion of my
literary career has been passed.

_The life of an author_, must necessarily be one of peculiar and
absorbing interest, for he dwells in a world of his own creation, and
his tastes, habits, and feelings are different from those of other
people. How little is he understood--how imperfectly is he appreciated,
by a cold, unsympathising world! his eccentricities are ridiculed--his
excesses are condemned by unthinking persons, who cannot comprehend the
fact that a writer, whose mind is weary, naturally longs for physical
excitement of some kind of other, and too often seeks for a temporary
mental oblivion in the intoxicating bowl. Under any and every
circumstance, the author is certainly deserving of some degree of
charitable consideration, because he labors hard for the public
entertainment, and draws heavily on the treasures of his imagination, in
order to supply the continual demands of the reading community. When the
author has led a life of stirring adventure, his history becomes one of
extraordinary and thrilling interest. I flatter myself that this
narrative will be found worthy of the reader's perusal.

And now a few words concerning my personal identity. Many have insanely
supposed me to be George Thompson, the celebrated English abolitionist
and member of the British Parliament, but such cannot be the case, that
individual having returned to his own country. Again--others have taken
me for George Thompson, the pugilist; but by far the greater part of the
performers in this interesting "Comedy of Errors" have imagined me to be
no less a personage than the celebrated "_One-eyed Thompson_," and they
long continued in this belief, even after that talented but most
unfortunate man had committed suicide in New York, and in spite of the
fact that his name was William H., and not George. Two circumstances,
however, seemed to justify the belief before the man'