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During the course of writing I have hit upon what appeared to me a novel expedient. After carrying on my narrative to a certain point, I have inserted detached chapters, treating of people and places which are calculated in my opinion to interest the general reader, and that without much reference to dates; indeed, as far as those terrible stumbling-blocks are concerned, I plead guilty in many cases to inaccuracy, offering as my excuse that I have never kept a continuous journal, but rather have written a few spasmodic pages at intervals. One more excuse, and I have done. In my blindness, I have been helped by more than one kind and patient secretary, but I have sadly missed the power of myself looking over the manuscript and detecting fault in style or frequent tautology. For all these shortcomings I humbly beg pardon, and earnestly desire to be forgiven.

“VANESSA.”

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The nineteenth century was still in its teens when I first saw the light. Let me pause, lest I make an inaccurate assertion, for I was born on the 12th November, the month of fogs, in Margaret Street, Cavendish Square, London, the home of fogs. It was under the sign Sagittarius, whose patronage, combined with the tastes inherited from two grandfathers, both masters of hounds, made me a “mighty huntress.” “Tuesday’s child,” says the old adage, “is full of grace,” hence my vocation for, and proficiency in, dancing. The motto of my natal month is “fidelity in friendship”; my patron plant, the ivy, which almost invariably clings to things nobler and loftier than itself. And truly in this respect I have been more than commonly blessed, for, through many adverse circumstances, the coffers of my heart have overflowed with the treasures of friendship, and good measure pressed down and running over has been cast into my bosom. It is usual, at the commencement of a story, to give the description of the heroine, but a few words will suffice in the present instance. In complexion and colouring I am very fair, and have often flippantly remarked—