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Every man is, more or less, the sport
of accident; nor do I know that authors
are at all exempted from this humiliating
influence. This is the third of my novels,
and it depends on two very uncertain contingencies,
whether it will not be the last:—
the one being the public opinion, and the
other mine own humour. The first book
was written, because I was told that I could
not write a grave tale; so, to prove that
the world did not know me, I wrote one
that was so grave nobody would read it;
wherein I think that I had much the best
of the argument. The second was written

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to see if I could not overcome this neglect
of the reading world. How far I have succeeded,
Mr. Charles Wiley, must ever
remain a secret between ourselves. The
third has been written, exclusively, to
please myself: so it would be no wonder
if it displeased every body else; for what
two ever thought alike, on a subject of the
imagination?

I should think criticism to be the perfection
of human acquirements, did there
not exist this discrepancy in taste. Just
as I have made up my mind to adopt the
very sagacious hints of one learned Reviewer,
a pamphlet is put into my hands,
containing the remarks of another, who
condemns all that his rival praises, and
praises all that his rival condemns. There
I am, left like an ass between two locks
of hay; so that I have determined to relinquish
my animate nature, and remain
stationary, like a lock of hay between two
asses.

It is now a long time, say the wise ones,
since the world has been told all that is
new and novel. But the Reviewers (the
cunning wights!) have adopted an ingenious
expedient, to give a freshness to

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the most trite idea. They clothe it in a
language so obscure and metaphysical,
that the reader is not about to comprehend
their pages without some labour.
This is called a great “range of thought;”
and not improperly, as I can testify; for,
in my own case, I have frequently ranged
the universe of ideas, and come back
again in as perfect ignorance of their
meaning as when I set out. It is delightful,
to see the literati of a circulating library
get hold of one of these difficult periods!
Their praise of the performance
is exactly commensurate with its obscurity.
Every body knows, that to seem wise is the
first requisite in a great man.

A common word in the mouths of all Reviewers,
readers of magazines, and young
ladies, when speaking of novels, is “keeping;”
and yet there are but few who attach
the same meaning to it. I belong,
myself, to the old school, in this particular,
and think that it applies more to the
subject in hand, than to any use of terms,
or of cant expressions. As a man might
just as well be out of the world as out of
“keeping,” I have endeavoured to confine
myself, in this tale, strictly to its

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observance. This is a formidable curb to
the imagination, as, doubtless, the reader
will very soon discover; but under its influence
I have come to the conclusion,
that the writer of a tale, who takes the
earth for the scene of his story, is in some
degree bound to respect human nature.
Therefore I would advise any one, who
may take up this book, with the expectation
of meeting gods and goddesses,
spooks or witches, or of feeling that strong
excitement that is produced by battles
and murders, to throw it aside at once, for
no such interest will be found in any of its
pages.

I have already said, that it was mine
own humour that suggested this tale; but
it is a humour that is deeply connected
with feeling. Happier periods, more interesting
events, and, possibly, more beauteous
scenes, might have been selected,
to exemplify my subject; but none of either
that would be so dear to me. I wish,
therefore, to be judged more by what I
have done, than by my sins of omission.
I have introduced one battle, but it is not
of the most Homeric kind. As for murders,
the population of a new country

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will not admit of such a waste of human
life. There might possibly have been
one or two hangings, to the manifest advantage
of the “settlement;” but then it
would have been out of “keeping” with
the humane laws of this compassionate
country.

The “Pioneers” is now before the world,
Mr. Wiley, and I shall look to you for the
only true account of its reception. The
critics may write as obscurely as they
please, and look much wiser than they are;
the papers may puff or abuse, as their
changeful humours dictate; but if you
meet me with a smiling face, I shall at once
know that all is essentially well.

If you should ever have occasion for a
preface, I beg you will let me hear from
you in reply.