PREFACE.
I have long entertained a suspicion, all that has been said by the novel-writers and dramatists and poets of our age to the contrary notwithstanding, that personal beauty and intellectual beauty, or personal beauty and moral beauty, are not inseparably connected with, nor apportioned to each other. InErrata, a work of whichasa work, I am heartily ashamed now, I labored long and earnestly to prove this. I mademydwarf a creature of great moral beauty and strength.
Godwin, the powerful energetic and philosophizing Godwin, saw a shadow of this truth; but he saw nothing more—the substance escaped him. He taught, and he has been followed by others, among whom are Brown, Scott and Byron, (I observe the chronological order) that a towering intellect may inhabit a miserable body; that heroes are not of necessity six feet high, nor of a godlike shape, and that we may be deceived, if we venture to judge of the inward by the outward man. But they stopped here. They did not perceive, or perceiving, would not acknowledge the whole truth; for if we consider a moment, we find that all theirgreatmen are scoundrels. Without one exception I believe, their heroes are hypocrites or misanthropes, banditti or worse; while their good men are altogether subordinate and pitiable destitute of energy and wholly without character.
Now believing as I do, in spite of such overwhelming authority, that a man may have a club-foot, or a hump-back, or even red hair and yet be a good man—peradventure a great man; that a dwarf with a distorted shape may be a giant in goodness of heart and greatness of temper; and that moral beautymayexist where it appears not to have been suspected by the chief critics of our age, and of past ages—namely, in a deformed body (like that of Æsop,) I have written this book.
Let me add however that although such was my principal, it was not my only object. I would call the attention of our novel-writers and our novel-readers to what is undoubtedly native and peculiar, in the early history of our Fathers; I would urge them to believe that though there is much to lament in that history, there is nothing to conceal; that if they went astray, as they most assuredly did in their judgments, they went astray conscientiously, with what they understood to be the law of God in their right hands. The “Salem Tragedie” is in proof—that is the ground-work of my story; and I pray the reader to have patience with the author, if he should find this tale rather more serious in parts, and rather more argumentative in parts, than stories, novels and romances generally are.
I do not pretend to say that the book I now offer to my countrymen, is altogether such a book as I would write now, if I had more leisure, nor altogether such a book as I hope to write before I die; but as I cannot afford to throw it entirely away, and as I believe it to be much better, because more evidently prepared for a healthy good purpose, than any other I have written, I have concluded to publish it—hoping it may be regarded by the wise and virtuous of our country as some sort of atonement for the folly and extravagance of my earlier writing.
The skeleton of this tale was originally prepared for Blackwood, as the first of a series of North-American Stories: He accepted it, paid for it, printed it, and sent me the proofs. A misunderstanding however occurred between us, about other matters, and I withdrew the story and repaid him for it. It was never published therefore; but was put aside by me, as the frame-work for a novel—which novel is now before the reader.
JOHN NEAL.
Portland, October 1, 1828.
P.S. After some consideration, I have concluded to publish a preface, originally intended for theNorth American Storiesalluded to above. It was never published, nor has it ever been read by any body but myself. Among those who are interested for the encouragement of our native literature, there may be some who will not be sorry to see what my ideaswereon the subject of novel-writing, as well as what theyare. Changes have been foretold in my views—and I owe it to our people to acknowledge, that in a good degree, the prediction has been accomplished I do not feel now as I did, when I wrote Seventy-Six, Randolph, and the rest of the works published in America; nor even as I did, when I wrote those that were published over seas. The mere novel-reader had better skip the following pages and go directly to the story. The introductory chapter in all human probability will be too much for him.
J. N.