When I throw open my
jingling casement, I smell the odour of mignonette, and hear the hum
of the bees from the flowers against the sunny wall, with the varied
song of the throstle, and the cheerful notes of the tuneful little
wren.
While sojourning in this strong-hold of old fashions, it is my
intention to make occasional sketches of the scenes and characters
before me. I would have it understood, however, that I am not writing
a novel, and have nothing of intricate plot, or marvellous adventure,
to promise the reader. The Hall of which I treat, has, for aught I
know, neither trap-door, nor sliding-panel, nor donjon-keep; and
indeed appears to have no mystery about it. The family is a worthy,
well-meaning family, that, in all probability, will eat and drink, and
go to bed, and get up regularly, from one end of my work to the other;
and the Squire is so kind-hearted an old gentleman, that I see no
likelihood of his throwing any kind of distress in the way of the
approaching nuptials. In a word, I cannot foresee a single
extraordinary event that is likely to occur in the whole term of my
sojourn at the Hall.
I tell this honestly to the reader, lest, when he finds me dallying
along, through every-day English scenes, he may hurry ahead, in hopes
of meeting with some marvellous adventure further on.
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