At the behest of my Janet, who is indeed the only creature—dear witch that she is—with the power to bend me to her will (under which gentle pressure I do happily quiesce) I have submitted to the task of committing something of my history to paper. She has documented her own histories at my request, and so now, to hers, I must comply. Previous to reading this drivel, I trust the reader has availed himself—or herself (my wife corrects me)—of the story of Jane Eyre; or if he has not, I advise that he do so now, without an instant’s delay, for a man is not wholly a man—a human…