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Preface
WHEN a writer calls his work a romance, it need hardly be observed that he wishes to claim a certain latitude, both as to its fashion and material, which he would not have felt himself entitled to assume, had he professed to be writing a novel. The latter form of composition is presumed to aim at a very minute fidelity, not merely to the possible, but to the probable and ordinary course of man's experience. The former — while, as a work of art, it must rigidly subject itself to laws, and while it sins unpardonably so far as it may swerve aside from the truth of the human heart — has fairly a right to present that truth under circumstances, to a great extent, of the writer's own choosing or creation. If he think fit, also, he may so manage his atmospherical medium as to bring out or mellow the lights, and deepen and enrich the shadows, of the picture. He will be wise, no doubt, to make a very moderate use of the privileges here stated, and, especially, to mingle the marvellous rather as a slight, delicate, and evanescent flavor, than as any portion of the actual substance of the dish offered to the public. He can hardly be said, however, to commit a literary crime, even if he disregard this caution.
In the present work the author has proposed to himself — but with what success, fortunately, it is not for him to judge — to keep undeviatingly within his immunities. The point of view in which this tale comes under the romantic definition lies in the attempt to connect a by-gone time with the very present that is flitting away from us. It is a legend, prolonging itself, from an epoch now gray in the distance, down into our own broad day-light, and bringing along with it some of its legendary mist, which the reader, according to his pleasure, may either disregard, or allow it to float almost imperceptibly about the characters and events for the sake of a picturesque effect. The narrative, it may be, is woven of so humble a texture as to require this advantage, and, at the same time, to render it the more difficult of attainment.
Many writers lay very great stress upon some definite moral purpose, at which they profess to aim their works. Not to be deficient in this particular, the author has provided himself with a moral; — the truth, namely, that the wrong-doing of one generation lives into the successive ones, and, divesting itself of every temporary advantage, becomes a pure and uncontrollable mischief; — and he would feel it a singular gratification, if this romance might effectually convince mankind — or, indeed, any one
The reader may perhaps choose to assign an actual locality to
the imaginary events of this narrative. If permitted by the historical
connection, — which, though slight, was essential to his
plan, — the author would very willingly have avoided anything of
this nature. Not to speak of other objections, it exposes the romance
to an inflexible and exceedingly dangerous species of criticism,
by bringing his fancy-pictures almost into positive contact
with the realities of the moment. It has been no part of his object,
however, to describe local manners, nor in any way to meddle
with the characteristics of a community for whom he cherishes
a proper respect and a natural regard. He trusts not to be
considered as unpardonably offending, by laying out a street that
infringes upon nobody's private rights, and appropriating a lot
of land which had no visible owner, and building a house, of
materials long in use for constructing castles in the air. The personages
of the tale — though they give themselves out to be of
ancient stability and considerable prominence — are really of the
author's own making, or, at all events, of his own mixing; their
virtues can shed no lustre, nor their defects redound, in the remotest
degree, to the discredit of the venerable town of which
they profess to be inhabitants. He would be glad, therefore, if —
especially in the quarter to which he alludes — the book may be
read strictly as a romance, having a great deal more to do with
the clouds overhead than with any portion of the actual soil of
the County of Essex.
LENOX, January 27, 1851.
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