University of Virginia Library

In taking leave to use your name in connection with the present publication,
I presume still farther to address myself, through this medium,
to other readers than yourself. You, I trust, will indulge me in this freedom,
as, from your declared sympathy with the man of letters, and your
own well-known and much admired achievements in the same field—
achievements which you have but too prematurely forborne to follow up—
you will easily understand how much of the encouragement of the author
depends upon the reader's sympathy, and how much the just decision
upon his labors result from a correct knowledge of the circumstances under
which he has toiled, and what have been his aims in the scheme of
his performance.

The work which follows has a history of its own apart from the very
romantic history from which its materials have been drawn. This history
concerns me rather than my book, and concerns the reader, who limits
his curiosity to the simple detail of the story which he reads, still less
than either. To all those, however, who would follow in the progress of
an author's mind, through the successive steps and periods in his career—
who are curious to note the stages by which he has advanced from one
labor to another—there may be found, in this brief letter of explanation,
something of equal interest and use.

The conquest of Spain, by the Moors, was an event which, at a very
early period, seized upon and influenced my imagination; and, at the immature
age of seventeen, I had planned the rude draught of a tragedy upon
the subject. When reading law at nineteen, this performance was elaborated
to completion, and its scenes and subjects shared my thoughts in a
disproportionately large degree with Chitty and Blackstone. That, in an
early, and, perhaps, an evil hour, I left the latter for more congenial

authorities in art, need not be wondered at after this statement, as the
simple fact need not now be more particularly insisted upon.

The drama, thus written, was submitted to the manager of a theatre—
was accepted, announced and put in rehersal. But theatrical management
in modern times is something of an absurdity. The secondary position
which the author holds to the actor—reversing the order of things, as
they were when the drama was successful—of which my first associations
behind the scenes soon gave me sufficient evidence, was quite too
offensive to my self-esteem to be endured patiently. My tragedy was
withdrawn and quietly consigned to the closet. With a passionate fondness
for the drama—with a pressing conviction, not yet surrendered, that,
as a literary man, in this department of fiction lay my forte—I was yet
thoroughly satisfied that the day had gone by, or had not yet come, when
it would be becoming in the man of pride and character—of sensibility
at least—to present himself at the door of a manager, soliciting to be
heard through this medium. I felt that nothing but necessity—the defeat
of theatricals on every hand—the utter desuetude of the drama—would ever
open the eyes of the actors to the suicidal course which substitutes their
art for that of the poet in whose labors only do they find exercise and employment.
I took for granted then—and subsequent experience confirms
all my conjectures—that the day must come, when, in the utter neglect
of the stage by the great body of the public, the manager would discern
the secret of its renovation to lie in the novelty of the fiction itself, and
not in the variety of styles in which different actors would present to the
multitude, the same old story with which they had become a thousand times
familiar. For that day, however reluctantly, I was prepared to wait,
sooner than forfeit any of my self-respect by unmanly concessions to a
system falsely recognised as a legitimate medium of communication with
the public.

But I was not to wait idly. There were other fields of exercise, and I
availed myself of them to make my acquaintance with the public—in what
manner, and with what degree of success, is known to no one better than
yourself. My books were favorably entertained, and, after having repeatedly
illustrated the histories and peculiarities of my own people, in works
of fiction, I began to turn my eyes to those of other lands with the view
to obtaining novelty in my materials. I am not sure that I was right in
this. An author, to whom the locale of his action is so very important (as
it is with me) to the spirit of his narrative, is perhaps always more happy
in his achievements when he looks at home.

In this search I was reminded of my almost forgotten tragedy. I relieved
it from its lock-up, reviewed it, and proceeded to convert the story

into prose. The work grew beneath my hands. The material was copious.
A certain duplexity in the action suggested its division into two
parts, and the first of these parts took a definite form, before the public
eye, in the shape of a “Story of the Goth,” in two volumes, entitled
“Pelayo.” This work was written in the beginning of 1836. In the
close of that year I wrote the greater part of the sequel—which is now
for the first time presented to the reader, in the romance which I have honored
with the inscription of your name—“Count Julian, or the Last
Days of the Goth.” Not worthy of you, my dear sir, it is yet frankly
laid before you as one of the best testimonies of my own abilities and of
my respect for yours.

There is a further history peculiar to this story. The five first books,
constituting six in seven parts of the volume, were sent to the publishers
early in 1837. They miscarried. My agent for their transmission,
with culpable remissness, had neglected to take any memorandum by
which he might recal the name of the person by whom they were sent;
and months elapsed—and finally two years—before they were recovered.
Meanwhile, a terrible revulsion had taken place in the monetary affairs
of the country. Trade was stricken down—enterprise palsied—and literature,
as one of the luxuries, less essential than bread, and beef, and
beer and brandy, was among the first, in her various departments of art
and education, to succumb to the paralyzing catastrophe. “Count Julian”
lay upon the shelves. The sixth book was only in part written,
and I had no motive to finish it. The loss of the manuscript for so long
a time, of the first five books, and the doubts which I naturally felt that
they might never be recovered, made me resolve to expend no more time
on the composition. I turned to other labors, and, in the study of new
histories, and in the preparation of other fictions, I ceased to bestow
any thought upon that which had been already productive of so much
annoyance.

At length, the work was inquired after by the publishers. The sequel
of “Pelayo” had been promised. It was demanded. Offers from more
than one publishing house prompted me once more to take up the abandoned
papers, and prepare for their completion. In this attempt, I was
led to discover that my mind had experienced a vast transition, in many respects,
since the work was originally undertaken in 1836. My standards
had undergone a change, as I fancy, for the better. I had acquired a
better knowledge of my own strength—I had learned more justly to estimate
my own defects and deficiencies. I had learned, in brief, to write with
a greater degree of reference to the inimitable and unperishing principles
of art, rather than with heed only to the capricious and frequently

diseased appetites of the multitude. I need not say that, in the
perusal of what had been already written, I saw how much there was
that I could change for the better. But such an attempt would involve
an entire remodelling of the structure—a change of plan and purpose—
of elements and attributes—of scenes, places and characters—and, in the
somewhat mournful language of Scott, in similar self-review, I resolved
to “let the tree lie where it had fallen.” That tree, my dear sir, is at
your feet. I am not without my hope that you will find some fruits upon
its branches, which, if not of the richest flavor, or the noblest size, will at
least possess a not ungrateful relish for your lips, and for those of our
very gracious public, to whom, as to a brother in the art, I commend
your literary fortunes quite as frankly and sincerely as my own.