If it were not an Irish way of expressing myself, I should call prefaces
in general, the author’s supplement to his work; either explaining his
reasons for writing it, or giving some additional matter, which could not
be included, or else was forgotten in the book itself.
Now as I am not the author of the following story, I cannot give her
reasons for writing it, nor add to what she has already said; nor can I
even give my opinion of it, as by so doing I should have to reveal much
of the plot in order to justify praise, or explain criticism.
Such alterations as might be required to render certain expressions
clear to English readers the authoress has permitted me to make in the
body of the work; some foot-notes I have appended explanatory of what
were formerly to me mysterious customs and phrases; and, here and there,
I have been tempted to make additions, always with the kindly granted
permission of the authoress.
In conclusion, I may say a few words on the pleasant intercourse we
English are having with our American relations, in the interchange of
novels, which seems to be going on pretty constantly between the two
countries. Our cousinly connection with the Americans dates from common
ancestors, of whom we are both proud. To a certain period, every great
name which England boasts is a direct subject of pride to the American;
since the time when the race diverged into two different channels, we
catch a reflex lustre from each other’s great men. When we are stirred
to our inmost depths by some passage or other in _Uncle Tom_, we say
from all our hearts, “And I also am of the same race as this woman.”
When we hear of noble deeds—or generous actions; when Lady Franklin is
helped in her woeful, faithful search by sympathising Americans; when the
_Resolute_ is brought home to our shores by the gallant American sailors,
we hail the brave old Anglo-Saxon blood, and understand how they came
to do it, as we instinctively comprehend a brother’s motives for his
actions, though he should speak never a word.
It is Anglo-Saxon descent which makes us both so undemonstrative,
or perhaps I should rather say, so ready to express our little
dissatisfaction with each other, while the deeper feelings (such as
our love and confidence in each other) are unspoken. Though we do not
talk much about these feelings we value every tie between us that can
strengthen them; and not least amongst those come the links of a common
literature. I may be thought too like the tanner in the old fable, who
recommended leather as the best means of defence for a besieged city, but
I am inclined to rank the exchange of novels between England and America
as of more value, as conducive to a pleasant acquaintanceship with each
other, than the exchange of works of a far higher intrinsic value.
Through the means of works of fiction, we obtain glimpses into American
home-life; of their modes of thought, their traditional observances, and
their social temptations, quite beyond and apart from the observations of
a traveller, who after all, only sees the family in the street, or on the
festival days, not in the quiet domestic circle, into which the stranger
is rarely admitted.
These American novels unconsciously reveal all the little household
secrets; we see the meals as they are put upon the table, we learn the
dresses which those who sit down in them wear (and what a temptress
“Fashion” seems to be in certain cities to all manner of vulgar
extravagance!); we hear their kindly family discourse, we enter into
their home struggles, and we rejoice when they gain the victory. Now
all this knowledge of what the Americans really are is good for us, as
tending to strengthen our power of understanding them, and consequently
to increase our sympathy with them. Let us trust that they learn
something of the same truth from reading fiction written on this side
of the Atlantic; the truth that, however different may be national
manifestations of the fact, still, below accents, manners, dress, and
language, we have
“All of us one human heart.”