falling in love, though we saw one lovely creature that might, under other circumstances, have inclined us to it, yet where was the use of it? while matrimony, upon the high authority of doctor Broussais, was proscribed as a predisposing cause of cholera (qu? choler).

In this extremity, we happened once more to think of the novel, for which the indulgent public had so long been kept waiting. Our conscience was smittenwe instantly resolved to repair our fault, and running over in our mind the strange incidents which had fallen under our notice in the "romance of real life," that might make the groundwork of our tale, we rested, after thirty minutes, upon those which are recorded in these pages, for the benefit of posterity, every material part of which the stubborn matter-of-fact reader may rest assured, is, as Byron says,

"As true-as Truth is now a-days."

In six weeks' time we had completed our task.

One

One word to the critics before the curtain rises. And first, to you, ye“ arbitri elegantiarum," who are so good as to inform us, the public, from time to time, through the newspapers and the other lesser "floating lights" of the periodical press, what we ought to like and dislike, as new works appear, we speak neither to court your smile, nor deprecate your frown. We do not ask you to read, as a particular favour, much less to understand, before you criticise. We know that you

are no less than the distributors of nineday immortality; we know, if we may borrow a metaphor, that you are the "cock-boats" of literature, and that if a literary commodore Anson had circumnavigated the literary globe, "yea, the great globe itself," and were at the mouth of the harbour, he might not be able to enter the haven of public favour for a long time, unless you would take him in tow. We therefore, gentlemen, without meaning to of you to "throw us a line," do, however,

ask any

B 6

however, say, that if you "give us your most sweet voices," we may be tempted, ere long, to write something a great deal better; but if you do not, then will we straightway sit down, write, compose, and publish another novel, just nine times worse, and come boldly forward and claim your suffrages. If this, our "little book," of which, as Southey says, 66 as we believe the vein is good," does not meet with your approbation, we shall know how to suit your taste hereafter, by "making the judicious grieve." We know how to do it, and will do it under a feigned name, and laugh at you all our lives.

And next, we approach, with a calm but respectful confidence, the awful tribunals of the Quarterlies! We are sure of their liberality, their learning, their taste, their impartiality; and of course we are "all but" sure of their decision in our favour. We know it is of no use to threaten them, but we must take leave to remind them that there is still a right of

appeal

66

appeal from the judgment of the North American, and the American Quarterly, to the tribunal of posterity; and if they pronounce against us, we stand ready to say, as Zeuxis or Appelles, we forget which, said to his critics on a similar occasion, " Pingo in posteritatem!" Yes, to posterity we will appeal, and if their decree is not in our favour, we shall gain the next best point-the cause will not be decided in our day. We beg also to remind those gentlemen, that, "bis dat qui cito dat," a speedy decision must be pronounced. An author's feelings are not to be kept in a painful suspense, and if they maintain too long a silence, we shall come out upon them with a brief but severe "Reponse au silence" of the North American and American Quarterly Reviews.

And now, having bound over the critics to keep the peace, we will our "round unvarnished tale deliver."

CHAP.

CHAP. II.

What, ho! a stranger comes! this bodes us well;
There will be news to hear and news to tell.

The Village Inn.

Ir was early in the summer of 1823, in the middle of one of those sultry days that are equally abhorred of men and steeds, that an equestrian traveller was seen slowly descending the Hill Road, so called, which constitutes the southern entrance into the flourishing village of Rockville. But when he had approached within a few hundred yards of that stately edifice, on the main street, which is dear to many travellers, under the name of the Rockville Hotel, and to which his course seemed bent, our stranger's horse, quietly submitting to be influenced by his rider, suddenly turned the corner of a cross street, and passing the bridge over the river which

flows