Let the reader of the present work accept this explanation, as an apology for the abrupt and rapid manner in which we shall now accelerate our narrative. Since the last lecture, our history has advanced nearly three weeks, during which interval the major had made every arrangement for the approaching marriage. It was finally agreed that the ceremony should be performed at Overton church; and as the “happy couple” expressed a wish to pass their “honey moon” in a retired part of Yorkshire, the major consented to postpone his fête until after their return; nor was he displeased at such an arrangement, as it afforded time for getting up his entertainment on a more liberal scale than could otherwise have been accomplished. We shall now avail ourselves of that peculiar Lethean property which has been often ascribed to the pen of the author, and commit the reader to the arms of Morpheus, where it is our intention that he shall remain until the morning of the nuptials.
Reader, awake! the sun has risen, and Nature is robing herself in her most gorgeous apparel for the approaching ceremony; the family of the lodge have been already roused from their slumbers by the attendance of minstrels, whom the vicar had directed to salute the bridal party at break of day.----But hark! while we are thus trifling, the village of Overton is in a bustle; the marriage ceremony is over; the bells of the church are ringing right merrily their festive peals; many a handkerchief is waving from the cottage windows, while the doors are decorated with garlands; the vicarage is ornamented with fragments of Venetian tapestry; the peasants, dressed in their holiday garments, are carrying nosegays in their hands, to present to the bride as an offering of their respect, or to strew in her path, as an emblematic expression of their wishes.
The party having reached Osterley Park, we were proceeding to describe the banquet which had been prepared, and the various devices and emblems with which it had been decorated, under the classical direction of the vicar, when alas! our publishers, like the harpies of old, unexpectedly pounced upon us, and warned us from the feast--“diripiuntque dapes,” as Virgil has it.
“You have already exceeded the prescribed limits--you must close the scene--remember that you have engaged to condense the work into one volume,” said they. We remonstrate, but in vain. We request but a few pages, in order that we may give our characters a dramatic exit; but they reply to us in the words of Sneer, in the Critic, “O never mind! so as you get them off the stage, I’ll answer for it the reader won’t care how.”
You see then, gentle reader, how vain it would be to struggle against such arbitrary and tasteless masters; we shall, therefore, without any farther apology, ring the manager’s bell, and drop the curtain.
[63]. The Cartesians maintained that the senses were the great sources of deception; that everything with which they present us ought to be suspected as false, or at least dubious, until our reason has confirmed the report.
[64]. Ferdinand, Duke of Tuscany, was once struck with the picture of a child crying; the artist (Peter of Cortona), who was at work upon the head, wishing to give a proof of his skill, by a few judicious touches converted the crying into a laughing face. The Duke was in astonishment; the painter, to show himself master of the human countenance, restored his first touches, and the Duke again saw the child weeping.