THE reader must not expect to know where I live. At present, it is true, my abode may be aquestion of little or no import to anybody; but if I should carry my readers with me, as I hope to do, and there should spring up between them and me feelings of homely affection and regard attachingsomething of interest to matters ever so slightly connected with my fortunes or my speculations, even my place of residence might one day have a kind of charm for them. Bearing this possiblecontingency in mind, I wish them to understand, in the outset, that they must never expect to knowit.I am not a churlish old man. Friendless I can never be, for all mankind are my kindred, and I am onill terms with no one member of my great family. But for many years I have led a lonely, solitarylife;-what wound I sought to heal, what sorrow to forget, originally, matters not now; it issufficient that retirement has become a habit with me, and that I am unwilling to break the spellwhich for so long a time has shed its quiet influence upon my home and heart.I live in a venerable suburb of London, in an old house which in bygone days was a famous resortfor merry roysterers and peerless ladies, long since departed. It is a silent, shady place, with a pavedcourtyard so full of echoes, that sometimes I am tempted to believe that faint responses to thenoises of old times linger there yet, and that these ghosts of sound haunt my footsteps as I pace itup and down. I am the more confirmed in this belief, because, of late years, the echoes that attendmy walks have been less loud and marked than they were wont to be; and it is pleasanter to imaginein them the rustling of silk brocade, and the light step of some lovely girl, than to recognise in theiraltered note the failing tread of an old man.Those who like to read of brilliant rooms and gorgeous furniture would derive but little pleasurefrom a minute description of my simple dwelling. It is dear to me for the same reason that theywould hold it in slight regard. Its worm-eaten doors, and low ceilings crossed by clumsy beams; itswalls of wainscot, dark stairs, and gaping closets; its small chambers, communicating with each otherby winding passages or narrow steps; its many nooks, scarce larger than its corner-cupboards; itsvery dust and dulness, are all dear to m