University of Virginia Library

PREFACE.

I have written this tale, for the purpose of showing
how people talk, when they are not talking for display;
when they are telling a story of themselves, familiarly;
seated about their own fireside; with a plenty of apples
and cider; in the depth of winter—with all their family,
and one or two pleasant strangers, lolling about;
and the great house dog with his nose in the ashes; or
out under the green trees, on a fine summer night; with
all the faces, that they love, coming and going, like shadows,
under the beautiful dim trees; and the red sky
shining through them.

Reader—have you ever stood, with your hat in your
hand, to look at a little dreamy light made by the
moonshine, where it fell through the green leaves; and
“fermented” in the wet turf?—or the starlight and water
bubbles dancing together, under the willow trees?—If
you have, then you may form some notion of what I mean,
by my love of Nature. Men go by her blossoming
places, every hour, and never see them; her singing
places, while there is a wedding in the grass; and trample
upon them, without one thought of their beauty;
and just so with the delicate beauties of conversation.
They see nothing, hear nothing, until their attention
be called to it. But they go out, where it is the fashion
to be sentimental; and persuade themselves that their
artificial rapture is the natural offspring, of a warm
heart, and a pure taste. Pshaw!—people that do not
love fine conversation, and fine reading, beyond fine
speaking and fine singing, have neither understanding
nor taste.

I have attempted, in this novel, that kind of colloquial
manner, which is natural to the impassioned and adventurous;
fervid; varied; and abrupt. I mention this,
that however, you may condemn my judgment, you
shall not charge me with failing in my design. The

first I can bear—but the latter I cannot. Understand
my plan; and blame me for having adopted it, if you
please; but have the decency, I pray you, to admit that
I have done, what I have undertaken.

Another thing that I have attempted, (let others determine,
whether I have succeeded, or not,) was to continue
the interest of my story, after the catastrophe,
or, what is commonly called, the marriage of the heroine,
had taken place; and another, was to show that deformity
of person does not, of necessity, imply deformity
of heart; and that a Dwarf, in stature,
may be a giant in blood: and another (if the ladies and
angels will forgive me) was to represent the angels of
the earth, pretty much as they are, frail and accessible,
in general, like the “women of the sky.” How they
may like this, accustomed as they are, to being called
spiritualities, while they are treated as altogether sensual,
I am not prepared to say. The wise, who have
been in danger, and are able to judge of it, are always
indulgent to them, that distrust the miraculous purity
and strength, of the untried, and untempted.

Of the hero, I have little to say. That such a man
once lived; that I knew him, personally; and that he was,
in all the leading properties of his nature, what I have
described him to be, I have no disposition to deny;—nay,
that he lives yet; but that he cannot live long, I will
add, for the satisfaction of them, that love to trouble
themselves about what is none of their business. “There
is the picture of my life,” said he once, while we sat
together on a bleak December night, ruminating, over
the accumulated dust and ashes of a sea coal fire, upon
the changes, that, we and all the elements about us, were
continually undergoing. “There it is!” (pointing with
his cane as he proceeded, to different features of the
imaginary landscape, until I saw them as plainly as he.)

“This bleak and desolate place—with only this one,
barren, and leafless tree, within the whole circumference
of the horizon—its aged branches heavy with snow
and ice—standing alone, as it were in the place of
graves.”

I followed the blackened point of the cane, as it successively
touched along the larger pieces of burnt coal;
and disturbed the white ashes, that lay, here and there,
upon the larger cinders, like snow upon the rocks and
hedges of a wintry landscape.

“I can see the interminable blue ocean beyond;” he
continued, “and just there,” (drawing, a line from left
to right, across the whole hearth; and making a round
hole upon it—where you can perceive the sun setting—
one half already below the horizon—the upper part already
darkened by these heavy clouds (cutting a flourish
over the hole in the ashes, that I have already mentioned)—the
only light that is left, my dear friend, you
perceive, falls directly upon this poor, worn tree—but
alas, where does it touch?—Look!—the last sunshine
is upon its old heart, crumbling in the wind:—
and see!—here, a few faint rays have escaped; and are
just touching—look here, my friend, tell me if you can
make this out?”

I shook my head; for I could see only a handful of
trodden and crushed cinders.

“Well, well—it matters little. I will help you to
understand it. I am about to die. I feel it. I know
it—but I dare not think of it; if I do, it will drive me
raving mad. Very well—let us proceed. These are
tomb-stones, broken and lying about; that one, which is
leaning against the old tree, is my own. Behold—it
is mouldering and falling, with its own weight. There
is just light enough, you perceive, to read the inscription.
Can you read it? It is the name of your friend
—this grave here, is newly dug—those hills, that you
see—of ice and snow—away to your left—are the Glaciers—that
Ocean is eternity. The grave is my own.
Let this be the inscription upon it—