The House of Seven Gables: Full Text

When a writer calls his work a Romance, it need hardly be observed that hewishes to claim a certain latitude, both as to its fashion and material, whichhe would not have felt himself entitled to assume had he professed to bewriting a Novel. The latter form of composition is presumed to aim at a veryminute fidelity, not merely to the possible, but to the probable and ordinarycourse of man’s experience. The former—while, as a work of art, itmust rigidly subject itself to laws, and while it sins unpardonably so far asit may swerve aside from the truth of the human heart—has fairly a rightto present that truth under circumstances, to a great extent, of thewriter’s own choosing or creation. If he think fit, also, he may somanage his atmospherical medium as to bring out or mellow the lights and deepenand enrich the shadows of the picture. He will be wise, no doubt, to make avery moderate use of the privileges here stated, and, especially, to mingle theMarvelous rather as a slight, delicate, and evanescent flavor, than as anyportion of the actual substance of the dish offered to the public. He canhardly be said, however, to commit a literary crime even if he disregard thiscaution.

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 comes under theRomantic definition lies in the attempt to connect a bygone time with the verypresent that is flitting away from us. It is a legend prolonging itself, froman epoch now gray in the distance, down into our own broad daylight, andbringing along with it some of its legendary mist, which the reader, accordingto his pleasure, may either disregard, or allow it to float almostimperceptibly about the characters and events for the sake of a picturesqueeffect. The narrative, it may be, is woven of so humble a texture as to requirethis advantage, and, at the same time, to render it the more difficult ofattainment.

Many writers lay very great stress upon some definite moral purpose, at whichthey profess to aim their works. Not to be deficient in this particular, theauthor has provided himself with a moral,—the truth, namely, that thewrong-doing of one generation lives into the successive ones, and, divestingitself of every temporary advantage, becomes a pure and uncontrollablemischief; and he would feel it a singular gratification if this romance mighteffectually convince mankind—or, indeed, any one man—of the follyof tumbling down an avalanche of ill-gotten gold, or real estate, on the headsof an unfortunate posterity, thereby to maim and crush them, until theaccumulated mass shall be scattered abroad in its original atoms. In goodfaith, however, he is not sufficiently imaginative to flatter himself with theslightest hope of this kind. When romances do really teach anything, or produceany effective operation, it is usually through a far more subtile process thanthe ostensible one. The author has considered it hardly worth his while,therefore, relentlessly to impale the story with its moral as with an ironrod,—or, rather, as by sticking a pin through a butterfly,—thus atonce depriving it of life, and causing it to stiffen in an ungainly andunnatural attitude. A high truth, indeed, fairly, finely, and skilfully wroughtout, brightening at every step, and crowning the final development of a work offiction, may add an artistic glory, but is never any truer, and seldom any moreevident, at the last page than at the first.

The reader may perhaps choose to assign an actual locality to the imaginaryevents 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. Not to speakof other objections, it exposes the romance to an inflexible and exceedinglydangerous species of criticism, by bringing his fancy-pictures almost intopositive contact with the realities of the moment. It has been no part of hisobject, however, to describe local manners, nor in any way to meddle with thecharacteristics of a community for whom he cherishes a proper respect and anatural regard. He trusts not to be considered as unpardonably offending bylaying out a street that infringes upon nobody’s private rights, andappropriating a lot of land which had no visible owner, and building a house ofmaterials long in use for constructing castles in the air. The personages ofthe tale—though they give themselves out to be of ancient stability andconsiderable prominence—are really of the author’s own making, orat all events, of his own mixing; their virtues can shed no lustre, nor theirdefects redound, in the remotest degree, to the discredit of the venerable townof which they profess to be inhabitants. He would be glad, therefore,if—especially in the quarter to which he alludes—the book may beread strictly as a Romance, having a great deal more to do with the cloudsoverhead than with any portion of the actual soil of the County of Essex.

LENOX, January 27, 1851.