PREFACE.
WHEN a writer calls his work a Romance, it need hardly be observed thathe wishes to claim a certain latitude, both as to its fashion andmaterial, which he would not have felt himself entitled to assume hadhe professed to be writing a Novel. The latter form of composition ispresumed to aim at a very minute fidelity, not merely to the possible,but to the probable and ordinary course of man's experience. Theformer--while, as a work of art, it must rigidly subject itself tolaws, and while it sins unpardonably so far as it may swerve aside fromthe truth of the human heart--has fairly a right to present that truthunder circumstances, to a great extent, of the writer's own choosing orcreation. If he think fit, also, he may so manage his atmosphericalmedium as to bring out or mellow the lights and deepen and enrich theshadows of the picture. He will be wise, no doubt, to make a verymoderate use of the privileges here stated, and, especially, to minglethe Marvelous rather as a slight, delicate, and evanescent flavor, thanas any portion of the actual substance of the dish offered to thepublic. He can hardly be said, however, to commit a literary crimeeven if he disregard this caution.
In the present work, the author has proposed to himself--but with whatsuccess, fortunately, it is not for him to judge--to keep undeviatinglywithin his immunities. The point of view in which this tale comesunder the Romantic definition lies in the attempt to connect a bygonetime with the very present that is flitting away from us. It is alegend prolonging itself, from an epoch now gray in the distance, downinto our own broad daylight, and bringing along with it some of itslegendary mist, which the reader, according to his pleasure, may eitherdisregard, or allow it to float almost imperceptibly about thecharacters and events for the sake of a picturesque effect. Thenarrative, it may be, is woven of so humble a texture as to requirethis advantage, and, at the same time, to render it the more difficultof attainment.
Many writers lay very great stress upon some definite moral purpose, atwhich they profess to aim their works. Not to be deficient in thisparticular, the author has provided himself with a moral,--the truth,namely, that the wrong-doing of one generation lives into thesuccessive ones, and, divesting itself of every temporary advantage,becomes a pure and uncontrollable mischief; and he would feel it asingular gratification if this romance might effectually convincemankind--or, indeed, any one man--of the folly of tumbling down anavalanche of ill-gotten gold, or real estate, on the heads of anunfortunate posterity, thereby to maim and crush them, until theaccumulated mass shall be scattered abroad in its original atoms. Ingood faith, however, he is not sufficiently imaginative to flatterhimself with the slightest hope of this kind. When romances do reallyteach anything, or produce any effective operation, it is usuallythrough a far more subtile process than the ostensible one. The authorhas considered it hardly worth his while, therefore, relentlessly toimpale the story with its moral as with an iron rod,--or, rather, as bysticking a pin through a butterfly,--thus at once depriving it of life,and causing it to stiffen in an ungainly and unnatural attitude. Ahigh truth, indeed, fairly, finely, and skilfully wrought out,brightening at every step, and crowning the final development of a workof fiction, may add an artistic glory, but is never any truer, andseldom any more evident, at the last page than at the first.
The reader may perhaps choose to assign an actual locality to theimaginary events of this narrative. If permitted by the historicalconnection,--which, though slight, was essential to his plan,--theauthor would very willingly have avoided anything of this nature. Notto speak of other objections, it exposes the romance to an inflexibleand exceedingly dangerous species of criticism, by bringing hisfancy-pictures almost into positive contact with the realities of themoment. It has been no part of his object, however, to describe localmanners, nor in any way to meddle with the characteristics of acommunity for whom he cherishes a proper respect and a natural regard.He trusts not to be considered as unpardonably offending by laying outa street that infringes upon nobody's private rights, and appropriatinga lot of land which had no visible owner, and building a house ofmaterials long in use for constructing castles in the air. Thepersonages of the tale--though they give themselves out to be ofancient stability and considerable prominence--are really of theauthor's own making, or at all events, of his own mixing; their virtuescan shed no lustre, nor their defects redound, in the remotest degree,to the discredit of the venerable town of which they profess to beinhabitants. He would be glad, therefore, if-especially in the quarterto which he alludes-the book may be read strictly as a Romance, havinga great deal more to do with the clouds overhead than with any portionof the actual soil of the County of Essex.
LENOX, January 27, 1851.
THE HOUSE OF SEVEN GABLES
by
Nathaniel Hawthorne