CHAPTER I.

A DEATH-BED SCENE.


A cold evening in the month of January, a drizzling rain storm blowing
from the south-west, a cheerless sky, a dull, threatening atmosphere,
together with almost impassable roads,--these are the chilling and
uninviting circumstances with which, if we pay regard to truth, we must
introduce our narrative to our readers. It is usual, with writers of
fiction and romance, to preface their literary exhibitions with
high-wrought and dazzling descriptions of natural and artificial
objects--the sun, moon, and stars; the clouds, meteors, and other
fantastic creations of the atmosphere; the seas, rivers, and lakes; the
mountains, fields, and gardens; the birds, fishes, and the inhabitants
of the savage forests, as well as the forests, groves, and woods
themselves,--in a word, all nature seems as if conscious of the effects
likely to result to the morals, habits, and projects of men, while some
of your modern novelists are arranging their matter, sharpening their
scissors, preparing pen, ink, and paper, and taking indigestible suppers
to make way into the world for the offspring of their creative fancies.
Ours being a tale of truth,--yes, of bare, unvarnished truth, yet of
truth more interesting, if not "stranger, than fiction,"--it is not to
be wondered that, when we acknowledge the homely dame, and her alone, as
our guide, inspirer, and preceptor, we lack the advantage of romancers,
and cannot command "a special sunset," or a storm made to order, or
other enchanting scenery, to introduce us to our patrons.