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FORTY-FIVE FIRST YEARS
WRITTEN BY HIMSELF,
IN FORTY-SEVEN LETTERS TO A FRIEND.
FROM THE LATEST EDITION
WHITTAKER, TREACHER, AND ARNOT,
Careto our coffin adds a nail no doubt,
I own I like to laugh, and hate to sigh,
And that we came not into life to cry;
PETER P NDAR.
ALTHOUGH the rambling Memoirs of this fortunate bookseller belong to a class which principally exhibit the importance of the writers to themselves, it is not without interest -as a record of the progress of natural sagacity, industry, and frugality, to riches and independence. Neither is the vanity of the author offensive or unamusing, exposing as it does the manner in which a naturally acute but uncultivated mind extends its stock of ideas, and deals with the new lights, both clear and will-o'-the-whispish, which it may be put into a situation to acquire. Some pleasant anecdotes also occasionally relieve the good-humoured egotism of the cheapest bookseller in the world; and his portraiture of methodism, so singularly qualified and retracted in his subsequent“Confessions,” is at least very curious. Of the latter work, so får as it supplies biographical matter, a due use is made in the Sequel, and as the whole will be contained