Hume in our calculations of its feverish
pulsations; but our quill was moulted by the dove, not plucked from the
wing of the carrion raven.
And now, gentle reader, we come to a point of this history which we are
assured has been anxiously looked forward to by you--a point at which the
reader, already breathless with expectation, has fondly anticipated being
suffocated with excitement. We may, without vanity, lay claim to
originality, for we have introduced a new hero into the world of
fiction--a baby three months old--we have traced his happy parents from
the ball-room to St. George's church; from St. George's church to the
ball-room; thence to the doctor's; and from thence to
THE END.
Reproach us not, mamas?--Discard us not, ye blushing divinities who have,
with your sex's softness, dandled the heir of Applebite in your
imaginations!--Wait!--Wait till we have explained! We have a motive; but
as we are novices in this style of literature, we will avail ourselves, at
our leave-taking, of the valedictory address of one who is more "up to the
swindle."
_To the Readers of the Heir of Applebite._
DEAR FRIENDS,--Having finished the infanto-biography upon which we have
been engaged, it is our design to cut off our heir, and bring our tale to
a close. You may want to know why--or if you don't, we will tell you.
We should not regard the anxiety, the close confinement, or the constant
attention inseparable from a nursery, did we feel that the result was
agreeable to you.
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