In the Metropolitan Magazine, where this novel originally appeared (Sep. 1834-Jan. 1836), Marryat prepared his readers for its reception in the following words:—

"And having now completed 'Jacob Faithful,' we trust to the satisfaction of our readers, we will make a few remarks. We commenced writing on our own profession, and having completed four tales, novels, or whatever you may please to call them" (viz., Frank Mildmay, The King's Own, Newton Forster, Peter Simple), "in 'Jacob Faithful' we quitted the salt water for the fresh. From the wherry we shall now step on shore, and in our next number we shall introduce to our readers 'The Adventures of Japhet, in search of his Father.'"

The promise was faithfully kept, and Japhet, with all his varied experience, never went to sea. There were indeed few companies on land to which he did not penetrate. Reared in a foundling hospital, and apprenticed to a Smithfield apothecary, his good looks, impulsive self-confidence, and unbounded talent for lying, carried him with éclat through the professions of quack doctor, juggler, and mountebank, gentleman about town, tramp, and quaker: to emerge triumphantly at last as the only son of a wealthy Anglo-Indian general, or "Bengal tiger," as his friends preferred to call him.

Japhet's "adventures," of course, are shared by a faithful friend and ally, Timothy Oldmixon, the Sancho to his Quixote, originally an orphan pauper like himself, composed of two qualities—fun and affection. He encounters villains, lawyers, kind-hearted peers, "rooks" and "pigeons," gipsies, leaders of fashion, fair maidens—enough and to spare. In a word, Marryat here makes use of well-worn material, and uses it well. He has constructed a tale of private adventure on the old familiar lines, in which the local colour—acquired from other books—is admirably laid on, and the interest sustained to the end. The story is well told, enlivened by humour, and very respectably constructed.

The reader will find Japhet thoroughly exciting, and will have no difficulty in believing that, while it was running in the pages of the Metropolitan, "an American vessel meeting an English one in the broad Atlantic, instead of a demand for water or supplies, ran up the question to her mast-head, 'Has Japhet found his father yet?'"

Japhet, in search of a Father, is here re-printed, with a few corrections, from the first edition in 3 vols. Saunders & Otley, 1836. On page 360 a few words, enclosed in square brackets, have been inserted from the magazine version, as the abbreviated sentence, always hitherto reproduced from the first edition, is unintelligible.

R.B.J.

Chapter I

Table of Contents

Like most other children, who should be my godfather is decided by Mammon—So precocious as to make some noise in the world and be hung a few days after I was born—Cut down in time and produce a scene of bloodshed—My early propensities fully developed by the choice of my profession

Those who may be pleased to honour these pages with a perusal, will not be detained with a long introductory history of my birth, parentage, and education. The very title implies that, at this period of my memoirs, I was ignorant of the two first; and it will be necessary for the due development of my narrative, that I allow them to remain in the same state of bliss; for in the perusal of a tale, as well as in the pilgrimage of life, ignorance of the future may truly be considered as the greatest source of happiness. The little that was known of me at this time I will however narrate as concisely, and as correctly, as I am able. It was on the—I really forget the date, and must rise from my chair, look for a key, open a closet, and then open an iron safe to hunt over a pile of papers—it will detain you too long—it will be sufficient to say that it was on a night—but whether the night was dark or moonlit, or rainy or foggy, or cloudy or fine, or starlight, I really cannot tell; but it is of no very great consequence. Well, it was on a night about the hour—there again I'm puzzled, it might have been ten, or eleven, or twelve, or between any of these hours; nay it might have been past midnight, and far advancing to the morning, for what I know to the contrary. The reader must excuse an infant of—there again I am at a nonplus; but we will assume of some days old—if, when wrapped up in flannel and in a covered basket, and, moreover, fast asleep at the time, he does not exactly observe the state of the weather, and the time by the church clock. I never before was aware of the great importance of dates in telling a story; but it is now too late to recover these facts, which have been swept away into oblivion by the broad wing of Time. I must therefore just tell the little I do know, trusting to the reader's good nature, and to blanks. It is as follows:—that, at the hour—of the night—the state of the weather being also—I, an infant of a certain age—was suspended by somebody or somebodies—at the knocker of the Foundling Hospital. Having made me fast, the said somebody or somebodies rang a peal upon the bell which made the

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