It has been very aptly remarked by a recent writer, that “to send forth a work without a preface, is like thrusting a friend into the society of a room full of strangers, without the benefit of an introduction;” a custom that no fashion can redeem from the charge of incivility. A book, however insignificant, grows beneath the author’s pen, to occupy a place in his regard, not unworthy the title of friendship; and as that sacred bond of social union is not dependent upon individual perfection, so the companion of many a solitary hour is not to be cast out upon the “wide, wide world,” without one word to secure it at least a gentle reception, be its faults as manifold and manifest as they may, even to the most partial eye. Whether the design has been carried out, in a way at all worthy of the hale old city of Norwich, that has served as “the text of the discourse,” remains to be proved; but the attempt to contribute to the light literature of the day a few simple gleanings of fact, as gathered by a stranger, during a ten years’ residence in a “strange land,” will, it is to be hoped, secure a lenient judgment for the inexperience that has attempted the task. For the kind assistance of the few individuals from whom information has been sought, many thanks are due; and it is but just to state, that all deficiences of matter or details, that may probably be felt by many, more familiar than the writer herself with the persons, places, and things, that make the sum and substance of her work, are referable alone to the difficulty she has experienced in selecting suitable materials to carry out her design, from the abundance placed at her disposal; a tithe of which might have converted her “rambles” into a heavy, weary “march,” along which few might have had patience to accompany her. To these few observations must be subjoined an The Authoress. Norwich, |