University of Virginia Library

INTRODUCTION.

—“BUT are you confident your
work will meet with success?” inquired
my friend. He was truly my friend; not
in empty professions, but had proved
himself so on trying occasions. He called
in to pass a social hour; we had filled
our glasses, lit our segars, and taken up
our subject. He sat leaning his elbow
upon the table, his cheek resting upon his
hand. I thought his countenance expressed
doubt and solicitude, when fixing his
eyes upon mine, he asked, “Are you
confident your work will meet with success?”

“Not confident,” I replied. “I think,
however, it will, or I would never incur
the expense of publication.”

“I hope it may; but should it not,
your paper-maker, your printer, and your
binder will engross the whole profits.”

It was a discouraging remark—I was
silent.

“And then what do you not hazard in
becoming an author!” he continued.

“The loss or gain of time and money.”

“Nothing beside? Writers generally
aspire to fame, or, at least, hope for applause.”

“True; but I have an advantage—
there are no Critical Reviewers to bribe, in
this country.”

My friend smiled—“So much the
worse,” said he, “all your readers will
be reviewers.”

“So much the better; they must read
before they can review.”

“But a few of your first readers may
be incompetent judges, and unjustly condemn
the work.”

“Such characters are as likely to decide
on the right side as the wrong; to
extol as to decry. There again, you perceive
I have a chance. But it is by people
of sentiment and taste that I expect to
be tried.”

“Then, I trust you have judiciously
constructed your plot, and have not lost
sight of unity of design, in your plan.”

“A fig for your plots and unities of
design,” I peevishly answered; “mere
formalities; fetters to pathos and sublimity;
a sort of puzzling cards to perplex
the reader, raising expectations which are
never realized. Animated narrative,
striking incident, glowing description,
and an interesting denouement, are the
true costume of novel.—Though, on

reflection, I think you will find I have
done pretty well in what you style plot,
and unity of design.”

“There are very few American productions
of this kind entitled to merit.”

“And that is one of my reasons for
publishing. You will consider this as a
mark of vanity. Perhaps it is so.”

“But why,” resumed my friend after
a long pause, “why have you chosen novel
for your subject? or why, indeed,
have you entered upon the profession of
an author at all?”

“As to your first question,” I replied,
“why did Cervantes, Fielding, Richardson,
Dr. Smollet, Le Sage, Voltaire, Rosseau,
Goldsmith, Sterne, Dr. Johnson,
Swift, St. Pierre, Marmontel, Fenelon,
Dr. Moore, Walpole, Gesner, Gothie,
Lewis, Miss Smith— Seward— West

—Burney—Williams—Owenson—Porter--Mrs.
Radcliffe, and hundreds of others,
select novel for their subject? Why did
Homer write poetry, Euclid the elements of
mathematics, Franklin on electricity, Vattel
on the law of nations? Why have other
authors written the histories of Johny Gilpin,
Tommy Thumb, Jack-a-Dandy,
and Whittington's Cat? Is not a writer
the best judge of his own abilities, and
most capable of choosing his subject?

“To your second inquiry, various answers
might apply. Suppose I should
say amusement was the stimulus; to relieve
the mind from melancholy depression;
the acquisition of property, of literary
fame, or merely a penchant for writing,
or all these, would you believe me?
You know that by the fate of battle[1] I
have lost a station, which, if not lucrative,
yet admitted free employment for the pen,
and probably you conjecture I am unwilling

to relinquish it. Or would you rather
impute the cause to necessity? If so, I
can appeal to high precedent, as the lawyer
would say. I have, somewhere, read
the following story:

“The famous Goldsmith, after writing
and publishing several valuable works, was
reduced to actual penury. From comfortable
and fashionable lodgings, he suddenly
retired to a miserable hovel, in a by-lane,
and took a sorry garret therein, the furniture
of which consisted only of a flock-bed,
two stools and a table. One window,
whose broken panes were `eked with tatters
gay,' afforded him light. As he, one
day, sat `poring over the black volume
of his fate,' the illustrious Dr. Johnson
appeared abruptly before him. Alternate
surprise ensued. Goldsmith had made
none of his friends acquainted with his
circumstances, but, in withdrawing himself,
had, as he supposed, taken his measures
so secretly as to prevent discovery.

Johnson was then compiling his Dictionary,
and, in pecuniary matters, was, in
reality, no better off than Goldsmith,
whom he had found by mere accident, after
the strictest search and inquiry, the object
of which was to borrow a few guineas
to aid him in the execution of his work.
Goldsmith informed Johnson that a single
guinea was all the earthly property he possessed,
and that, besides, he was deeply
in debt. Mutual explanation and consultation
succeeded. They called in a bottle
of wine and a cold cut, over which they
discussed future prospects and proceedings.
Johnson advised Goldsmith to write
a novel, to which, after some hesitation,
he consented. The guinea was then
changed to pay for the entertainment, and
the remainder divided between them.
Johnson departed; Goldsmith immediately
commenced his labour, and in due
time produced that excellent monument
of his genius, The Vicar of Wakefield,
the profits of which not only saved him
from wretchedness and a prison, but enabled
him to assist his friend Johnson in
completing his stupendous fabric of scientific
crudition, and rich treasure of instruction.

“You will probably think I have not
yet answered your queries—Of course
I must refer you to my preface.”

My friend sighed as he took his hat to
depart. It was the sigh of affection. He
felt for my situation. He feared lest disappointment
should wither my hopes, and
blast my expectations.