ual rambles without design or
destination. I detest a premeditated route--I always grow tired at the
first mile; but with a free course, either in town or country, I can
saunter about for hours, and feel no other fatigue but what a tumbler of
toddy and a pipe can remove. It was this disposition that made me
acquainted with the fraternity of the "Puffs." I would premise, gentle
reader, that as in my peregrinations I turn down any green lane or dark
alley that may excite my admiration or my curiosity--hurry through
glittering saloons or crowded streets--pause at the cottage door or shop
window, as it best suits my humour, so, in my intercourse with you, I
shall digress, speculate, compress, and dilate, as my fancy or my
convenience wills it. This is a blunt acknowledgment of my intentions; but
as travellers are never sociable till they have cast aside the formalities
of compliment, I wished to start with you at the first stage as an old
acquaintance. The course is not usual, and, therefore, I adopt it; and it
was by thus stepping out of a common street into a common hostel that I
became possessed of the _materiel_ of those papers, which I trust will
hereafter tend to cheat many into a momentary forgetfulness of some care.
I have no other ambition; there are philosophers enough to mystify or
enlighten the world without my "nose of Turk and Tartar's lips" being
thrust into the cauldron, whose

--"Charms of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth, boil and bubble."

I had buttoned myself snugly in my Petersham (may the tailor who invented
_that_ garment "sleep well" whenever he "wears the churchyard livery,
grass-green turned up with brown!") The snow--the beautiful snow--fell
pure and noiselessly on the dirty pavement. Ragged, blue-faced urchins
were scrambling the pearly particles together, and, with all the joyous
recklessness of healthier childhood, carrying on a war less fatal but more
glorious than many that have made countless widows and orphans, and,
_perhaps, one_ hero. Little round doll-like things, in lace and ribbons,
were thumping second-door windows with their tiny hands, and crowing with
ecstasy at the sight of the flaky shower. "Baked-tater" cans and
"roasted-apple" saucepan lids were sputtering and frizzing in impotent
rage as they waged puny war with the congealed element. Hackney
charioteers sat on their boxes warped and whitened; whilst those strange
amalgams of past and _never-to-come_ fashions--the c