IN the republic of letters, there is no member of such inferior rank,
or who is so much disdained by his brethren of the quill, as the
humble Novelist; nor is his fate less hard in the world at large,
since, among the whole class of writers, perhaps not one can be named
of which the votaries are more numerous but less respectable.
Yet, while in the annals of those few of our predecessors, to whom
this species of writing is indebted for being saved from contempt,
and rescued from depravity, we can trace such names as Rousseau,
Johnson,(1)Marivaux, Fielding, Richardson, and Smollett, no man need
blush at starting from the same post, though many, nay, most men,
may sigh at finding themselves distanced.
The following letters are presented to the Public-for such, by novel
writers, novel readers will be called,-with a very singular mixture of
timidity and confidence, resulting from the peculiar situation of the
editor; who, though trembling for their success from a consciousness
of their imperfections, yet fears not being involved in their disgrace,
while happily wrapped up in a mantle of impenetrable obscurity.
To draw characters from nature, though not from life, and to mark
the manners of the times, is the attempted plan of the following
letters. For this purpose, a young female, educated in the most
secluded retirement, makes, at the age of seventeen, her first
appearance upon the great and busy stage of life; with a virtuous
mind, a cultivated understanding, and a feeling heart, her ignorance
of the forms, and inexperience in the manners of the world, occasion
all the little incidents which these volumes record, and which form
the natural progression of the life of a young woman of obscure birth,
but conspicuous beauty, for the first six months after her Entrance
into the world.
Perhaps, were it possible to effect the total extirpation of novels,
our young ladies in general, and boarding-school damsels in particular,
might profit from their annihilation; but since the distemper they
have spread seems incurable, since their contagion bids defiance
to the medicine of advice or reprehension, and since they are found
to baffle all the mental art of physic, save what is prescribed by
the slow regimen of Time, and bitter diet of Experience; surely all
attempts to contribute to the number of those which may be read,
if not with advantage, at least without injury, ought rather to be
encouraged than contemned.
Let me, therefore, prepare for disappointment those who, in the perusal
of these sheets, entertain the gentle expectation of being transported
to the fantastic regions of Romance, where Fiction is coloured by all
the gay tints of luxurious Imagination, where Reason is an outcast,
and where the sublimity of the Marvellous rejects all aid from
sober Probability. The heroine of these memoirs, young, artless,
and inexperienced, is
No faultless Monster that the world ne'er saw;
but the offspring of Nature, and of Nature in her simplest attire.
In all the Arts, the value of copies can only be proportioned to the
scarcity of originals: among sculptors and painters, a fine statue,
or a beautiful picture, of some great master, may deservedly employ
the imitative talents of young and inferior artists, that their
appropriation to one spot may not wholly prevent the more general
expansion of their excellence; but, among authors, the reverse is the
case, since the noblest productions of literature are almost equally
attainable with the meanest. In books, therefore, imitation cannot
be shunned too sedulously; for the very perfection of a model which
is frequently seen, serves but more forcibly to mark the inferiority
of a copy.
To avoid what is common, without adopting what is unnatural, must
limit the ambition of the vulgar herd of authors: however zealous,
therefore, my veneration of the great writers I have mentioned,
however I may feel myself enlightened by the knowledge of Johnson,
charmed with the eloquence of Rousseau, softened by the pathetic
powers of Richardson, and exhiliarated by the wit of Fielding and
humour of Smollett, I yet presume not to attempt pursuing the same
ground which they have tracked; whence, though they may have cleared
the weeds, they have also culled the flowers; and, though they have
rendered the path plain, they have left it barren.
The candour of my readers I have not the impertinence to doubt, and
to their indulgence I am sensible I have no claim; I have, therefore,
only to intreat, that my own words may not pronounce my condemnation;
and that what I have here ventured to say in regard to imitation, may
be understood as it is meant, in a general sense, and not be imputed
to an opinion of my own originality, which I have not the vanity,
the folly, or the blindness, to entertain.
Whatever may be the fate of these letters, the editor is satisfied
they will meet with justice; and commits them to the press, though
hopeless of fame, yet not regardless of censure.
1)However superior the capacities in which these great writers deserve
to be considered, they must pardon me that, for the dignity of my
subject, I here rank the authors of Rasselas and Eloise as Novelists.