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