Evelina | Page 3

rob terror
of contempt, and pusillanimity of reproach.
Here let me rest- and snatch myself, while I yet am able, from the
fascination of EGOTISM:-a monster who has more votaries than ever
did homage to the most popular deity of antiquity; and whose singular
quality is, that while he excites a blind and involuntary adoration in
almost every individual, his influence is universally disallowed, his
power universally contemned, and his worship, even by his followers,

never mentioned but with abhorence.
In addressing you jointly, I mean but to mark the generous sentiments
by which liberal criticism, to the utter annihilation of envy, jealousy,
and all selfish views, ought to be distinguished.
I have the honour to be, GENTLEMEN, Your most obedient Humble
Servant, *** ****
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ORIGINAL PREFACE.
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