self-defence,--the fewer the better,--punish those who
invade, leave unquestioned those who respect them. But fiction follows
truth into all the strongholds of convention; strikes through the
disguise, lifts the mask, bares the heart, and leaves a moral wherever
it brands a falsehood.

Out of this range of ideas the mind of the Author has, perhaps, emerged
into an atmosphere which he believes to be more congenial to Art. But he
can no more regret that he has passed through it than he can regret that
while he dwelt there his heart, like his years, was young. Sympathy with
the suffering that seems most actual, indignation at the frauds which
seem most received as virtues, are the natural emotions of youth,
if earnest. More sensible afterwards of the prerogatives, as of the
elements, of Art, the Author, at least, seeks to escape where the man
may not, and look on the practical world through the serener one of the
ideal.

With the completion of this work closed an era in the writer's
self-education. From "Pelham" to "Paul Clifford" (four fictions, all
written at a very early age), the Author rather observes than imagines;
rather deals with the ordinary surface of human life than attempts,
however humbly, to soar above it or to dive beneath. From depicting
in "Paul Clifford" the errors of society, it was almost the natural
progress of reflection to pass to those which swell to crime in the
solitary human heart,--from the bold and open evils that spring
from ignorance and example, to track those that lie coiled in the
entanglements of refining knowledge and speculative pride. Looking back
at this distance of years, I can see as clearly as if mapped before
me, the paths which led across the boundary of invention from "Paul
Clifford" to "Eugene Aram." And, that last work done, no less clearly
can I see where the first gleams from a fairer fancy broke upon my way,
and rested on those more ideal images which I sought with a feeble
hand to transfer to the "Pilgrims of the Rhine" and the "Last Days of
Pompeii." We authors, like the Children in the Fable, track our journey
through the maze by the pebbles which we strew along the path. From
others who wander after us, they may attract no notice, or, if noticed,
seem to them but scattered by the caprice of chance; but we, when
our memory would retrace our steps, review in the humble stones the
witnesses of our progress, the landmarks of our way.

Kenelworth, 1848.

PAUL CL