ten--we 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 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 nine-day 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 ask any of you to "throw us a line," do, 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 you do not, then will we straightway sit down, if 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, " as we believe the vein is good," "as 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 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 citò 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." CHAPTER II. "What, ho! a stranger comes! this bodes us well, The Village Inn. It 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 through the village, he pursued his way up a gentle acclivity in the road, until he came opposite to a private mansion at the western end of the road itself, as well as of the village, known by the name of the White Cottage. From the looks of the well dressed young gentleman on horseback, his air and figure, an intelligent spectator would have set him down for twenty-four or five years of age. The age of his horse, under the circumstances, it would not have been so easy to guess at. Speculation was for some time busy, among the observers of the actions and events above described, whether the traveller's course was directed to the White Cottage for the purpose of alighting there, or whether he merely intended to pass by the gate. But their suspense was not of long duration; for after a gentle trot of eight or ten minutes the personage in question was seen to dismount at the gate of the long, shaded avenue which led to the Cottage; and then, without the aid of warder, porter or portress, he himself, with his own hand, undid the ponderous latch, and having taken the precaution of fastening it again, remounted and rode on to the habitation that stood before him, which, by the way, had not as yet given any signs of being inhabited. As he came nearer, however, three dogs of as many sizes, whom, for the sake of distinction, we will call Tray, Blanche and Sweetheart, until we have leisure to ascertain their real names, sprang out from under the piazza and saluted him with a melody which soon roused the human beings within, and a reconnoitering party appeared to challenge the intruder. At the same moment issued forth a tawny wench from the kitchen, and an elderly lady from the hall, to inquire the cause of the alarm; and as they perceived the individual whose arrival had been announced by their sentinels, they respectively raised their hands and exclaimed, the one "Dear me! it's our nephew come at last;" and the other, with equal vehemence and apparent affection, "Oh! dear! it is Master Hugh." The wench ran, with an alacrity that deserves honourable mention, to take the bridle, as the cavalier dismounted, and the aunt, for such in fact she was, hurried forward with an agility beyond her years, to bestow her salutations the instant he touched the ground. The village barber, the apothecary, and three or four of their neighbours, whose particular occupations we have not learned, were fishing just above the bridge we have mentioned, and occupied such a position that they not only saw the stranger pass the river, but witnessed his bold entry on the domains of the White Cottage. They now, for the first time in many months, came to an unanimous conclusion, and it was carried without debate, that a strange gentleman had arrived in the village, whose name and business were to them unknown. Everything about his person, and his horse,-his queer riding-dress, and his horse's switch-tail, conspired to set them wild with curiosity. Their conjectures, of course, differed widely as to who it could be: and as it was taken for granted by all of them, that it was a question on which it behoved them all to be well informed, they did not separate without mutual injunctions to probe those secrets as quickly and deeply as possible; and it was tacitly understood that, at their usual rendezvous at the hotel in the evening, the subject in all its bearings, should undergo the customary investigation. Fortunate reader! who have not the trouble to wait the progress of those developements, but to whom it is at once revealed, that the stranger just arrived within the gates of the White Cottage, is Hugh Hughes, Esquire, only nephew to the three Misses Hughes, who for the last quarter of a century, have inhabited that one story white stone building which covers so much ground, and who intend |