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A WORD TO THE READER.

PREFIXED TO THE FIRST EDITION OF 1837.

Trou must not, my old and partial friend, look into this work for that species of interest which is drawn from stirring adventures and a perpetual variety of incident. To a Novel of the present day are necessarily forbidden the animation, the excitement, the bustle, the pomp, and the stage effect which History affords to Romance. Whatever merits, in thy gentle eyes, “Rienzi,” or “The Last Days of Pompeii,” may have possessed, this Tale, if it please thee at all, must owe that happy fortune to qualities widely different from those which won thy favor to pictures of the Past. Thou must sober down thine imagination, and prepare thyself for a story not dedicated to the narrative of extraordinary events-nor the elucidation of the characters of great men. Though there is scarcely a page in this work episodical to the main design, there may be much that may seem to thee wearisome and prolix, if thou wilt

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not lend thyself, in a kindly spirit, and with a generous trust, to the guidance of the Author. In the hero of this tale thou wilt find neither a majestic demigod, nor a fascinating demon. He is a man with the weaknesses derived from humanity, with the strength that we inherit from the soul; not often obstinate in error, more often irresolute in virtue; sometimes too aspiring, some. times too despondent: influenced by the circumstances to which he yet struggles to be superior, and changing in character with the changes of time and fate; but never wantonly rejecting those great principles by which alone we can work out the Science of Life-a desire for the Good, a passion for the Honest, a yearning after the True. From such principles, Experience, that severe Mentor, teaches us at length the safe and practical philosophy which consists of Fortitude to bear, Serenity to enjoy, and Faith to look beyond !

It would have led, perhaps, to more striking incidents, and have furnished an interest more intense, if I had cast Maltravers, the Man of Genius, amid those fierce but ennobling struggles with poverty and want to which genius is so often condemned. But wealth and lassitude have their temptations as well as penury and toil. And for the rest-I have taken much of my tale and many of my characters from real life, and would not unnecessarily seek other fountains when the Well of Truth was in my reach.

The Author has said his say, he retreats once more into silence and into shade; he leaves you alone with the creations he has called to life-the representatives of his emotions and his thoughts -the intermediators between the individual and the crowd :-Children not of the clay, but of the spirit, may they be faithful to their origin!—50 should they be monitors, not loud but deep, of the world into which they are cast, struggling against he obstacles that will beset them, for the heritage of their parent–the right to survive the grave!

LONDON, August 12, 1887,

PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1840.

HOWEVER numerous the works of fiction with which, my dear Reader, I have trespassed on your attention, I have published but three, of any account, in which the plot has been cast amid the events, and colored by the manner, of our own times. The first of these, “Pelham," composed when I was little more than a boy, has the faults, and perhaps the merits, natural to a very early age—when the novelty itself of life quickens the observation - when we see distinctly, and represent vividly, what lies upon the surface of the world—and when, half sympathizing with the follies we satirize, there is a gusto in our paintings which atones for their exaggeration. As we grow older, we observe less, we reflect more; and, like Frankenstein, we dissect in order to create.

The second novel of the present day,* which, after an interval of some years, I submitted to the world, was one I now, for the first time, acknowledge, and which (revised and corrected) will be included in this series,

* For "The Disowned” is cast in the time of our grandfathers, and “The Pilgrims of the Rhine" has nothing to do with actual life, and is not, therefore, to be called a novel.

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