University of Virginia Library

PREFACE OF THE EDITOR.

On the fifth day of August, 1824, a rather genteel
looking stranger arrived at the Mansion Hotel
in the city of Washington, where he inquired
for a retired room, and expressed his intention of
staying some time. He was dressed in a blue frock,
striped vest, and gray pantaloons; was about five
feet ten, as is supposed, and had a nose like a potato.
The evening of the following day there arrived
in the stage from Baltimore, a little mahogany-faced
foreigner, a Frenchman as it would seem,
with gold rings in his ears, and a pair of dimity
breeches. The little man in dimity breeches expressed
great pleasure at meeting the stranger, with
whom he seemed to be well acquainted; but the
stranger appeared much agitated at the rencontre,
and displayed nothing like satisfaction on the occasion.
With the evident intention of avoiding the
little dark complexioned man, he, in a few minutes,

desired the waiter to show him into his room, to
which he retired without bidding the other good
night.

It appears from the testimony of the waiter, that
on going into his chamber, and observing a portmanteau,
which had been placed there in his absence,
the stranger inquired to whom it belonged.
The waiter replied: “to the French gentleman.
As you seemed to be old acquaintance, I thought
you would like to be together, sir.” This information
seemed to cause great agitation in the mind
of the stranger, who exclaimed, as if unconscious
of the presence of the waiter, “I am a lost man!”
which the waiter thought rather particular. The
stranger, after a few moments apparent perplexity,
ordered the waiter to bring him pen, ink, paper,
and sealing-wax, and then desired to be left alone.
It is recollected that the dark-complexioned foreigner
retired about ten, requesting to be called
up at four o'clock, as he was going on in the stage
to the south. This is the last that was seen, either
of the stranger, or the dark-complexioned foreigner.
On knocking at the door precisely at four
o'clock the next morning, and no answer being
given, the waiter made bold to enter the room,
which to his surprise he found entirely empty.
Neither trunks nor stranger, nor dark complexioned
foreigner, were to be found. Had the stranger
and his friend previously run up a long score
at the Mansion Hotel, their disappearance would
not have excited any extraordinary degree of surprise.

But the stranger was indebted but for two
days board and lodging, and the dark complexioned
foreigner had paid his bill over night. A person
who slept in the next room, recollected hearing
a stir in that of the stranger, as he thinks, about
three o'clock, but supposing it to be some one going
off in the mail, it excited no particular observation.

This is all that could be gathered in relation to
the mysterious disappearance of these two travellers.
But on searching about the room a packet
was found carefully sealed, and directed “To the
Editor of the—;” the rest was wanting, and the
omission was probably occasioned by some circumstance
occurring at the instant, which led to the
singular affair above detailed. Some days having
elapsed without any thing occurring to throw light
on the transaction, it was thought proper to open
the packet, the direction of which afforded no clue
by which to transmit it to the persons intended, in
the hope that something might be learned from it,
that would lead to a discovery of the names, or the
friends of these mysterious persons. On inspection
it proved to be a manuscript of travels in the
United States, of which the following is a faithful
transcript. Though, as the reader will perceive,
it explains very satisfactorily the principal portion
of the preceding details, there was nothing in it
which could lead directly to a discovery of the
name and residence of the unfortunate gentleman,
whose fate, although still enveloped in doubt, is

but too easily anticipated. All that appears certain
from the manuscript, is that the stranger was
an Englishman, travelling to New-Orleans on business,
and that he probably was in some way mysteriously
made away with by the little dark complexioned
foreigner, of whom a description has
been given, and for whom a reward has been offered
in the public papers without effect. His
name, as given by himself, in the examination before
the magistrate in New-York is probably fictitious.

After mature reflection, it was decided to publish
the manuscript, as the best and cheapest mode
of extending the inquiry concerning the identity
of this unfortunate stranger to all parts of the reading
world, and thereby acquiring further information.
In addition to this motive it was thought
that a work of such extraordinary merit as to style,
sentiment, and accuracy of detail, deserved to be
made known. Much discussion took place in respect
to the selection of a title for the work, which
had been omitted in the manuscript. To announce
it simply as a book of travels in America, would
have been to place it on a footing with the various
romances which have been published under that
title within the last thirty years. Of these we
have lately had such a profusion that the public is
rather tired, as we are informed by the booksellers.
Some familiar and striking title-page, no matter
whether applicable or not to the character of the
work, was therefore necessary to excite public attention,

and it was finally decided to adopt that
which appears, and which we will now proceed
to explain.

The character of these travels being that of severe
and inflexible truth, a title was chosen in direct
antithesis, partly in a sportive imitation of the
facetious philosopher Lucian, who gave the name
of “a true story” to one of the most improbable
fictions of antiquity; and partly in allusion to Dr.
Jonathan Swift, who in like manner disguised one
of the gravest of satires, under the mask of “A
Tale of a Tub,” than which nothing can be more
opposite to its real character. Thus, in like manner,
have we availed ourselves of the catachresis
on this occasion, not only for the purpose of agreeably
surprising the reader into the perusal of a
work of incomparable veracity, under the garb of
a work of fiction, but also to administer to the public
taste, which, owing to the witcheries of that
mischievous person called the “Great Unknown,”
hath an unseemly propensity towards romances
and the like.

In this we are justified, not only by the foregoing
high authorities, but in an especial manner by
the example of certain great critics, who place at
the head of their articles, by way of title-page,
the name of a book about which they say not one
word in the whole course of their lucubrations.
So, in like manner, may we see certain well-meaning
and orthodox writers, publishing what they
call “candid examinations,” and “cool considerations,”

of and concerning certain disputed points,
which, to say the truth, are neither candid nor
cool, but marvellously the contrary. We mention
not these things in a spirit of hostility, but to
justify our adoption of the figure of the catachresis
by their examples. The reader will therefore
err most egregiously if he supposes for a moment
that the following work, whatever be its title, bears
the most remote resemblance, or is in any wise
tainted with the egregious fictions of the genuine
Munchausen.

Touching the real author of this work, whom
we may safely pronounce a second and still greater
“Great Unknown,” we have our suspicions on
the subject, suspicions almost amounting to a certainty,
which we shall proceed to lay before the
reader. At first, for divers good reasons, we were
inclined to suppose the author was no less a person
than the “Great Unknown” himself, who as is
asserted, resided in America some time. But
however rich, redundant, and inexhaustible may
be the invention of this extraordinary Incognito,
no one we think will deny to our author, notwithstanding
his general character of severe veracity, a
vigour of fancy and a vein of inventive sportiveness,
vastly superior even to the “Great Unknown.”
We must therefore discard this suggestion and proceed
to put the reader in possession of our settled
conviction on this matter, which as will be seen
amounts to next to a certainty.

To come to the point without further circum

locution, we have the best reasons as well as the
highest circumstantial testimony to warrant us in
the assertion, that the author of this work, was, and
if living, is still, one of the principal writers of the
Quarterly Review—the very person who wrote
the masterly review of Faux's Travels in the fifty-eighth
number.[1] To arrive at this conclusion it
is only necessary to compare the two works, in
the articles of style, temper, and feeling, every
thing in short which goes to the indication of a personal
identity. The style of this work displays
the closest resemblance to that of the article on
Mr. Faux's Travels, and indeed all the articles relating
to the United States, in the Quarterly Review.
The same classical severity and mildness
of rebuke, where rebuke is necessary—the same
happy aptitude in the selection of choice flowers
of rhetoric—the same amiable zeal for religion—
the same charity to all men—the same principles
of universal benevolence—the same gentlemanly
observance of the slightest minutiæ of high-wrought
and refined good breeding, runs through each and
all of these productions. Nay, the same expressions
and peculiar phrases which characterize the
reviewer, occur almost in every page of our author.
We have the “turbulent spirit of democracy”—the
“wanton violations of the Sabbath”—
the “total disregard of religion”—the “spitting,
gouging, drinking, duelling, dirking, swearing,
strutting republicans”—the “white-robed, levee
going, cow-hiding fine lady”—the “hog-stealing
judges”—“the illusions of transatlantic speculation”—“the
flippant farragoes of impiety, malevolence,
folly, and radical trash”—together with an
infinite variety of the favourite phrases of the
Quarterly repeated over and over again, with a
facility, which we think can only be accounted for
on the supposition that the author and reviewer
are one and same person.

Again, a perfect similarity of temper as well as
style reigns throughout both productions. The
same display of candour, good nature, urbanity,
morality, piety, orthodoxy, and loyalty—the
same inflexible impartiality and love of truth—
the same chivalrous gallantry to the ladies—the
same high-toned courtesy to the gentlemen of this
republic—and the same intense horror of the turbulent
spirit of democracy, lives, breathes, and moves
in each. It were too great a stretch of credulity,
to suppose that one kingdom, one quarter of the
world, or even the whole universe, could possibly
at one and the same time, contain two persons so
highly and so equally gifted with such extraordinary
qualifications. It would be too much for one
age. We read indeed of a young Mede, who assured
Cyrus that he had two souls; but the idea of
two separate persons having one and the same soul,

is altogether preposterous. The author of this
work, and the superintendent of American affairs
in the Quarterly Review, are therefore manifestly
one and the same. This decision acquires
additional support from the continual reference
to, and quotations from, the latter work, interspersed
throughout the whole of the former. It
is scarcely possible to believe that any person but
the reviewer himself, could so accurately remember
and refer to the most admired passages. Our
author, indeed, seems never to have had the Quarterly
out of mind, and this circumstance, together
with the fact of his always carrying it about with
him, and reading it on all occasions, is another
decisive proof; since we have occasion to know
from our own experience, that an author ever
prefers his own works to all others, as certainly as
a parent does his own children.

Other symptoms of identity occur in almost
every page. Both these productions are equally
remarkable, for that friendly disposition to the
people, the government, and institutions of the
United States, which has caused the Quarterly to
be so extensively circulated in this country, and
patronized by its most distinguished citizens. It
would be absurd to suppose that two persons, and
those persons foreigners, should at one and the
same time be animated by such disinterested feelings
of good will towards the people of this, or
any other country. We notice, likewise, several
other striking similarities; especially an equally

accurate knowledge of the geography and history
of the United States. The amiable credulity
of our author, in occasionally suffering himself
to be imposed upon by the relations of
others, is also a characteristic of the reviewer,
who it must be confessed sometimes stretches
his belief into the regions of the marvellous.—
This credulity is joined with a certain engaging
simplicity which appears, in occasionally exhibiting
himself in a ridiculous light, without appearing
to be aware of it, and relating things
which a more artful and wary person would pass
over without notice. This we look upon as the
strongest proof of his veracity, and a guaranty
for the truth of every thing he advances upon his
own authority. In regard to what is told him by
others, we would advise the reader to receive it
with some grains of allowance.

Having thus, as we presume to imagine, pretty
clearly established our position, that the author of
the following pages, and the writer of American
criticisms in the Quarterly, is one and the same
person, we shall proceed to indulge in a few speculations
as to the precise individual to whom the
people of the United States have so frequently been
indebted for such friendly notices.

It cannot be the laureat, Mr. Southey, because
we are assured he has lately taken rather a dislike
to republicans, on account of their blamable indifference
to his epic poems. Having in one of these
taken the trouble to confer upon them a respectable

degree of dignity and antiquity, by peopling the
country with a colony of Welsh, commanded by a
real prince, with an enormous long pedigree, it
is another proof of the ingratitude of republics, that
the Americans should be so indifferent on the occasion.
The Laureat's dislike is, therefore, however
much it may be lamented, not to be wondered
at. But besides this, we have occasion to know
that the Laureat finds it such a difficult matter to
do justice to the glories of his present gracious
sovereign, that he has been high and dry aground
upon a birthday ode for the last nine months, and
there is not telling when he will be delivered. It
is whispered in the literary circles, that he has
called for another butt of sack, to float him off.
Others say, that in addition to this, he is engaged
upon a second “Vision of Judgment,” in which his
old antagonist, the late Lord Byron, is condemned
to a most unheard of punishment, to wit, that of
reading over all the Laureat's epics, sapphics, &c.
not forgetting Wat Tyler, twice a year, till he becomes
orthodox, and believes in the divine right
of kings.

Neither do we think it can possibly be Mr.
D'Israeli, it being pretty generally understood
that he is entirely devoted to the ladies, and that
his specified duty is to keep an eye upon Lady
Morgan, to whose “flippant impieties,” &c. his
acknowledged orthodoxy is held to be a most sovereign
antidote. We remember to have read in the
London Morning Chronicle, (a most mischievous

gossipping paper,) if we mistake not, that Mr.
D— was the author of a certain Review in the
Quarterly, in which like one of Tasso's or Ariosto's
gallant knights, he tilted mortally at our Lady
Errant, not with lance but pen, and demonstrated
to the satisfaction of the world that the good old
Jewish rite had not in the least impaired his manhood.

We had at one time settled it in our minds, that
these productions came from the pen of the good
natured creature who has so long presided over
the Quarterly, whereby it hath become so renowned
throughout all Christendom, for that refined
and high-wrought courtesy, which is only to be
acquired in the cabin of a Newcastle collier.—
These suspicions were strengthened by our being
credibly informed of a little good-tempered old
gentleman, who was in this country some time
last Spring, and was so delighted with every thing
he saw that he fell seriously ill of an ecstatic transport,
from which he was finally recovered by
smelling a bottle of the pure essence of democracy.
These facts staggered us a little; but positive information
has since been received that the good
man was at that time confined to his house, No.
68 Grub-street, with a dyspepsy, accompanied by
lowness of spirits, occasioned, as is conjectured,
by the late act of Parliament abolishing lotteries,
whereby his office of comptroller of lottery-offices
naturally falls to the ground. It is surmised that
the orthodox old gentleman hath it in serious

contemplation to abandon the Quarterly, become
very wicked, and devote himself to democracy and
impiety, unless they bolster up his principles with
another sinecure.[2]

The reader will doubtless give us due credit,
when we assure him we have reduced it to a probability,
approaching very near to certainty, that
the real author of the productions, which have
been the subject of this inquiry, is a gentleman of
great orthodoxy, generally known in England by
the appellation of “The Talking Potato.” We
have been at some pains to come at the origin of
this whimsical distinction, but upon the whole
have not succeeded exactly to our wishes. By
some, it is said, it arose from his talking as if he
had a hot potato in his mouth; by others, that it
came from his having a nose wonderfully resembling
the Solanum Tuberosum, or red potato.
But the most general opinion is, that it originated
in his once having had the misfortune to require
trepanning, when Sir Astley Cooper, the great
surgeon, was astonished to find the entire cavity of
the brain occupied by a thumping Irish potato.
This fact was communicated to the college of
physicians, but without mentioning the name, and

may be found in one of the volumes of their transactions.

This gentleman, besides his holding “something
in the nature of a sinecure,” is a member
of parliament, and, as we are informed, one of the
genteellest writers of the Quarterly. Besides
all this, he is considered the best joker in the
House, with the exception of Mr. Canning. He
has not the wit of Mr. Canning, but then, as the
country members are wont to say in a debate on
the causes of agricultural distress, while they are
splitting their sides with laughter, “he talks so
like a potato.” It is a state secret with which we
have chanced to become possessed, that the “talking
potato,” did actually come over here sometime
in the late recess of Parliament, for the sole
purpose of ascertaining the real causes of various
naval phenomena which occurred during the late
war between England and the United States, a
subject which had excited great curiosity among
my lords of the admiralty. We understand he
ascertained pretty clearly, that the whole secret
lay in the trifling circumstances, of a superiority of
ships, officers, seamen, and gunnery. This discovery
put him in such good humour, that he was
wrought upon to compliment the people and country
in the polite manner exemplified in the following
pages. It is surmised that the result of his mission,
in relation to naval matters, will appear in the
next edition of Mr. Robert James's Apology for the
English Navy. With respect to his object in going

to New-Orleans, we have some suspicion that
it might have been a part of his mission to account
for the wonderful disparity of loss in the great
battle between the British and the stout hero of
New-Orleans.

The foregoing contains all the particulars we
have been able to obtain in elucidation of the following
work. We cannot, however, refrain from expressing
our earnest hopes, that the doubts of his
friends, and the fears of his country in regard to
the fate of this unfortunate gentleman, may be
speedily removed by his reappearing and claiming
this work, to the credit and profits of which he is
entirely welcome. Should the contrary be the case,
we beg permission to offer our sincere condolements
to my lords of the admiralty, to the country
members, on the loss of their favourite jester; to
the Quarterly Review on the loss of its most classical
writer; and to the nation at large on the loss of
so useful a person as “The Talking Potato.”