It is my intention constantly to address my readers from the
chimney-corner, and I would fain hope that such accounts as I shall give
them of our histories and proceedings, our quiet speculations or more
busy adventures, will never be unwelcome. Lest, however, I should grow
prolix in the outset by lingering too long upon our little association,
confounding the enthusiasm with which I regard this chief happiness of my
life with that minor degree of interest which those to whom I address
myself may be supposed to feel for it, I have deemed it expedient to
break off as they have seen.
But, still clinging to my old friend, and naturally desirous that all its
merits should be known, I am tempted to open (somewhat irregularly and
against our laws, I must admit) the clock-case. The first roll of paper
on which I lay my hand is in the writing of the deaf gentleman. I shall
have to speak of him in my next paper; and how can I better approach that
welcome task than by prefacing it with a production of his own pen,
consigned to the safe keeping of my honest Clock by his own hand?