Charles Brockden Brown (1771-1810)
"To the Public"
[Preface to Edgar Huntly; or, Memoirs of a Sleep-Walker (1799)]
The flattering reception that has been given, by the public, to Arthur Mervyn, has prompted the writer to solicit a continuance of the same favour, and to offer the world a new performance.
America has opened new views to the naturalist and politician, but has seldome furnished themes to the moral painter. That new springs of action, and new motives to curiosity should operate; that the field of investigation, opened to us by our own country, should differ essentially from those which exist in Europe, may be readily conceived. The sources of amusement to the fancy and instruction to the heart, that are peculiar to ourselves, are equally numerous and inexhaustible. It is the purpose of this work to profit by some of these sources; to exhibit a series of adventures, growing out of the condition of our country, and connected with one of the most common and most wonderful diseases or affections of the human frame.
One merit the writer may at least claim; that of calling forth the passions and engaging the sympathy of the reader, by means hitherto unemployed by preceding authors. Puerile superstition and exploded manners; Gothic castles and chimeras, are the materials usually employed for this end. The incidents of Indian hostility, and the perils of the western wilderness, are far more suitable; and, for a native of America to overlook these, would admit of no apology. These, therefore, are, in part, the ingredients of this tale, and these he has been ambitious of depicting in vivid and faithful colours. The success of his efforts must be estimated by the liberal and candid reader.
C.B.B.
"A Receipt for a Modern Romance"
[Weekly Magazine 2.22 (30 June 1798), 278.]
Take an old castle; pull down a part of it, and allow the grass to grow on the battlements, and provide the owls and bats with uninterrupted habitations among the ruins. Pour a sufficient quantity of heavy rain upon the hinges and bolts of the gates, so that when they are attempted to be opened, they may creak most fearfully. Next take an old man and woman, and employ them to sleep in a part of the castle, and provide them with frightful stories of light that appear in the western or eastern tower every night, and of music heard in the neighbouring woods, and ghosts dressed in white who perambulate the place.
Convey to this castle a young lady; consign her to the care of the old man and woman, who must relate to her all they know, that is all they do not know, but only suspect. Make her dreadfully terrified at the relation, but dreadfully impatient to behold the reality. Convey her, perhaps on the second night of her arrival, through a trap-door, and from the trap-door to a flight of steps downwards, and from a flight of steps to a subterraneous passage, and from a subterraneous passage, to a door that is shut, and from that to a door that is open, and from that to a cell, and from that to a chapel, and from a chapel back to a subterraneous passage again; here present either a skeleton with a live face, or a living body with the head of a skeleton, or a ghost all in white, or a groan from a distant part of a cavern, or the shake of a cold hand, or a suit of armour moving—fierce "put out the light, and then"—
Let this be repeated for some nights in succession, and after the lady has been dissolved to a jelly with her fears, let her be delivered by the man of her heart, and married—Probatum est:
As in medicine there is what physicians call an elegant prescription to distinguish it from those incongruous and absurd mixtures of the ancient empirics, so, lest any one should think I have put too many ingredients into the above recipe, let him take the following:
A novel now, says Will, is nothing more
Than an old castle, and a creaking door:
A distant hovel,
Clanking of chains, a gallery, a light,
Old armour, and a phantom all in white—,
And there's a novel.
ANTI-GHOST.