hen I was
very young, and lived and was educated there till I was twelve or
thirteen, I suppose; that I was then put to a school near London, where
(as at other places) I distinguished myself like a brick; that I was
put in the office of a solicitor, a friend of my father's, and didn't
much like it; and after a couple of years (as well as I can remember)
applied myself with a celestial or diabolical energy to the study of
such things as would qualify me to be a first-rate parliamentary
reporter--at that time a calling pursued by many clever men who were
young at the Bar; that I made my debut in the gallery (at about
eighteen, I suppose), engaged on a voluminous publication no longer in
existence, called _The Mirror of Parliament_; that when _The Morning
Chronicle_ was purchased by Sir John Easthope and acquired a large
circulation, I was engaged there, and that I remained there until I had
begun to publish "Pickwick," when I found myself in a condition to
relinquish that part of my labours; that I left the reputation behind me
of being the best and most rapid reporter ever known, and that I could
do anything in that way under any sort of circumstances, and often did.
(I daresay I am at this present writing the best shorthand writer in the
world.)

That I began, without any interest or introduction of any kind, to write
fugitive pieces for the old "Monthly Magazine," when I was in the
gallery for _The Mirror of Parliament_; that my faculty for descriptive
writing was seized upon the moment I joined _The Morning Chronicle_, and
that I was liberally paid there and handsomely acknowledged, and wrote
the greater part of the short descriptive "Sketches by BOZ" in that
paper; that I had been a writer when I was a mere baby, and always an
actor from the same age; that I married the daughter of a writer to the
signet in Edinburgh, who was the great friend and assistant of Scott,
and who first made Lockhart known to him.

And that here I am.

Finally, if you want any dates of publication of books, tell Wills and
he'll get them for you.

This is the first time I ever set down even these particulars, and,
glancing them over, I feel like a wild beast in a caravan describing
himself in the keeper's absence.

Ever faithfully.

P.S.--I made a speech last night at the London Tavern, at the end of
which all the company sat holding their napkins to their eyes with one
hand, and