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It is now seven or eight years (so many, at
all events, that I cannot precisely remember the
epoch) since the author of this romance last appeared
before the Public. It had grown to be a
custom with him to introduce each of his humble
publications with a familiar kind of preface, addressed
nominally to the Public at large, but
really to a character with whom he felt entitled
to use far greater freedom. He meant it for that
one congenial friend, — more comprehensive of his
purposes, more appreciative of his success, more
indulgent of his short-comings, and, in all respects,
closer and kinder than a brother, — that all-sympathizing
critic, in short, whom an author never
actually meets, but to whom he implicitly makes
his appeal whenever he is conscious of having
done his best.

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The antique fashion of Prefaces recognized this
genial personage as the “Kind Reader,” the
“Gentle Reader,” the “Beloved,” the “Indulgent,”
or, at coldest, the “Honored Reader,” to
whom the prim old author was wont to make his
preliminary explanations and apologies, with the
certainty that they would be favorably received.
I never personally encountered, nor corresponded
through the post with this representative essence
of all delightful and desirable qualities which a
reader can possess. But, fortunately for myself,
I never therefore concluded him to be merely a
mythic character. I had always a sturdy faith
in his actual existence, and wrote for him year
after year, during which the great eye of the
Public (as well it might) almost utterly over-looked
my small productions.

Unquestionably, this gentle, kind, benevolent,
indulgent, and most beloved and honored Reader
did once exist for me, and (in spite of the infinite
chances against a letter's reaching its destination
without a definite address) duly received
the scrolls which I flung upon whatever wind
was blowing, in the faith that they would find
him out. But, is he extant now? In these
many years, since he last heard from me, may

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he not have deemed his earthly task accomplished,
and have withdrawn to the paradise of gentle
readers, wherever it may be, to the enjoyments
of which his kindly charity on my behalf must
surely have entitled him? I have a sad foreboding
that this may be the truth. The “Gentle
Reader,” in the case of any individual author,
is apt to be extremely short-lived; he seldom
outlasts a literary fashion, and, except in very
rare instances, closes his weary eyes before the
writer has half done with him. If I find him at
all, it will probably be under some mossy gravestone,
inscribed with a half-obliterated name which
I shall never recognize.

Therefore, I have little heart or confidence
(especially, writing as I do, in a foreign land,
and after a long, long absence from my own) to
presume upon the existence of that friend of
friends, that unseen brother of the soul, whose
apprehensive sympathy has so often encouraged
me to be egotistical in my prefaces, careless though
unkindly eyes should skim over what was never
meant for them. I stand upon ceremony, now;
and, after stating a few particulars about the work
which is here offered to the Public, must make my
most reverential bow, and retire behind the curtain.

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This Romance was sketched out during a residence
of considerable length in Italy, and has
been re-written and prepared for the press in
England. The author proposed to himself merely
to write a fanciful story, evolving a thoughtful
moral, and did not purpose attempting a portraiture
of Italian manners and character. He has
lived too long abroad not to be aware that a
foreigner seldom acquires that knowledge of a
country at once flexible and profound, which may
justify him in endeavoring to idealize its traits.

Italy, as the site of his Romance, was chiefly
valuable to him as affording a sort of poetic or
fairy precinct, where actualities would not be so
terribly insisted upon as they are, and must needs
be, in America. No author, without a trial, can
conceive of the difficulty of writing a romance
about a country where there is no shadow, no
antiquity, no mystery, no picturesque and gloomy
wrong, nor anything but a commonplace prosperity,
in broad and simple daylight, as is happily
the case with my dear native land. It will
be very long, I trust, before romance-writers may
find congenial and easily handled themes, either in
the annals of our stalwart republic, or in any
characteristic and probable events of our

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individual lives. Romance and poetry, ivy, lichens, and
wall-flowers need ruin to make them grow.

In re-writing these volumes, the author was
somewhat surprised to see the extent to which he
had introduced descriptions of various Italian objects,
antique, pictorial, and statuesque. Yet these
things fill the mind everywhere in Italy, and
especially in Rome, and cannot easily be kept
from flowing out upon the page when one writes
freely, and with self-enjoyment. And, again, while
reproducing the book, on the broad and dreary
sands of Redcar, with the gray German Ocean
tumbling in upon me, and the northern blast
always howling in my ears, the complete change
of scene made these Italian reminiscences shine
out so vividly that I could not find it in my
heart to cancel them.

An act of justice remains to be performed
towards two men of genius with whose productions
the author has allowed himself to use a
quite unwarrantable freedom. Having imagined
a sculptor in this Romance, it was necessary to
provide him with such works in marble as should
be in keeping with the artistic ability which he
was supposed to possess. With this view, the
author laid felonious hands upon a certain bust

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of Milton, and a statue of a pearl-diver, which
he found in the studio of Mr. Paul Akers, and
secretly conveyed them to the premises of his
imaginary friend, in the Via Frezza. Not content
even with these spoils, he committed a further
robbery upon a magnificent statue of Cleopatra,
the production of Mr. William W. Story, an
artist whom his country and the world will not
long fail to appreciate. He had thoughts of appropriating,
likewise, a certain door of bronze by
Mr. Randolph Rogers, representing the history
of Columbus in a series of admirable bas-reliefs,
but was deterred by an unwillingness to meddle
with public property. Were he capable of stealing
from a lady, he would certainly have made
free with Miss Hosmer's admirable statue of
Zenobia.

He now wishes to restore the above-mentioned
beautiful pieces of sculpture to their proper owners,
with many thanks, and the avowal of his
sincere admiration. What he has said of them
in the Romance, does not partake of the fiction
in which they are imbedded, but expresses his
genuine opinion, which he has little doubt, will
be found in accordance with that of the Public.
It is, perhaps, unnecessary to say, that, while

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stealing their designs, the Author has not taken
a similar liberty with the personal characters of
either of these gifted sculptors; his own man of
marble being entirely imaginary.