TO THE READER.

I KNOW ther's a heap of truth in what some oid codger ses about "to the makin of many books ther aint no eend, and much readin is a wearin out of the brains," and I don't blame the publick for holdin alı writers to a countability for pesterin 'em with new books. But a rite good excuse amounts to a justification, in some cases, and that's what I'm drivin at

now.

In the fust place, this book of letters was rit jest to oblige a frend, and to give variety to a weekly newspaper. They was rit off and on, at odd times, whenever any thing turned up to write about, and I had time to put it in a letter-without any rangement, or any notion that they would ever be red out of Georgia. But ther was such a call for 'em, that the papers soon gave out, and the printer turned in and printed a edition in pamphlet form-but a thousand copies wasn't a primin-they was all gone in no time, and every body said I ought to have some more printed, with all my other letters in 'em. Well, I begun to think, shore enough, ther was "a tide in the affairs of men," and, sense I was afloat as an auther, I mought as well take advantage of the "flood" and see what it would "lead" to. So I jest set to work and gathered up the letters what I've rit sense the first pamphlet was printed, and git a Filladelfy

publisher to do 'em all up in fust rate style, with pic. ters to match.

Now that's the whole truth about my book, which I hope will be satisfactory to all. I know ther aint so much botherment of the brains involved, neither in the writin nor the readin of my book, as ther is in "Letters from under a Bridge," but if it will serve to draw a few nails out of your coffin, by makin you laugh, they will serve a equally benevolent purpose by puttin a few dollars in the pocket of

Your friend, til deth

JOSEPH JONES.

PREFACE.

SENSE my frend Mr. Thompson has made a book out of my letters, I spose I must put a preface to it; for that and the bindin and the title-page is the most important part of a book now-a-days-and one without a preface in frunt would be like a log cabin with no string hangin out at the dore. People can git along without the cider, if they can only git into the house-and so they can do without the sense in a book if they can only have some sort of a interduction to its contents.

Well, I do blieve if I was a author I would sooner rite a dozen books nor one preface; it's a great deal easier to rite a heap of nonsense than it is to put a good face on it after it's rit-and I don't know when I've had a job that's puzzled me so much how to begin it. I've looked over a whole heap of books to see how other riters done, but they all seem to be about the same thing. They all feel a monstrous desire to benefit the public one way or other-some is anxious to tell all they know about certain matters, jest for the good of the public-some wants to edify the public-some has been swaded by frends to give ther book to the public-and others has been induced to publish ther ritins jest for the benefit of futer generations-but not one of 'em ever had a idee to make a cent for themselves! Now, none of these excuses don't zactly meet my case. I don't spose the public

cept it is them as is courtin-will be much benefited by readin my letters-I'm sure Mr. Thompson wouldn't went to all the expense jest to please his frends, and for my part I'm perfectly willin to let posterity rite ther own books. So I don't see any other way than to jest come rite out with the naked truth-and that is, that my book was made jest a purpose to sell and make money. Ther aint a single lie in the book, and I'm termined ther shant be none in the preface.

When Mr. Thompson fust rit me word he was gwine to put my letters in a book, I felt sort o' skeered, for fear them bominable criticks mought take hold of it and tare it all to flinders-as they always nabs a' most every thing that's got a kiver on; but when I come to think, I remembered ther was two ways of gittin into a field-under, as well as over the fence. Well, the criticks is like a pretty considerable high fence round the public taste, and books gits into the world of letters jest as hogs does into a tater patch-some over and some under. Now and then one gits hung, and the way it gits peppered is distressin-but them that gits in under the fence is jest as safe as them that gits in over. Seein as I is perfectly satisfied with the under route, I dont think the criticks will tackle my book-if they does all I can say is, I give 'em joy with ther small potaters. JOSEPH JONES.

Pineville, (Ga.) April 10, 1843.