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. I invite him, on
the contrary, to ramble gently on with me, as he would saunter out
into the fields, stopping occasionally to gather a flower, or listen
to a bird, or admire a prospect, without any anxiety to arrive at the
end of his career. Should I, however, in the course of my loiterings
about this old mansion, see or hear anything curious, that might serve
to vary the monotony of this every-day life, I shall not fail to
report it for the reader's entertainment:

For freshest wits I know will soon be wearie
Of any book, how grave so e'er it be,
Except it have odd matter, strange and merrie,
Well sauc'd with lies and glared all with glee.[1]

[Footnote 1: _Mirror for Magistrates_.]




THE BUSY MAN.