Literary fiction, whether directed to the purpose of transient amusement, or adopted as an indirect medium of instruction, has always in its most genuine form exhibited a mirror of the times in which it is composed: reflecting morals, customs, manners, peculiarity of character, and prevalence of opinion. Thus, perhaps, after all, it forms the best history of nations, the rest being but the dry chronicles of facts and events, which in the same stages of society occur under the operations of the same passions, and tend to the same consequences.

But, though such be the primary character of fictitious narrative, we find it, in its progress, producing arbitrary models, dervied from conventional modes of thinking amongst writers, and influenced by the doctrines of the learned, and the opinions of the refined. Ideal beauties, and ideal perfection, take the place of nature, and approbation is sought rather by a description of what is not, than a faithful portraiture of what is. He, however, who soars beyond the line of general knowledge, and common feelings, must be content to remain within the exclusive pale of particular approbation. It is the interest, therefore, of the novelist, who is, par état, the servant of the many, not the minister of the FEW, to abandon pure abstractions and “thick coming fancies,” to philosophers and to poets; to adopt, rather than create; to combine, rather than invent; and to take nature and manners for the grounds and groupings of works, which are professedly addressed to popular feelings and ideas.

Influenced by this impression, I have for the first time ventured on that style of novel, which simply bears upon the “flat realities of life.” Having determined upon taking Ireland as my theme, I sought in its records and chronicles for the ground-work of a story, and the character of an hero. The romantic adventures, and unsubdued valor of O'DONNEL the Red, Chief of Tirconnel*, in the reign of Elizabeth, promised at the first glance all I wished, and seemed happily adapted to my purpose. I had already advanced as far as the second volume of my MS. and had expended much time and labor in arduous research and dry study, when I found it necessary to forego my original plan. The character of my sex, no less than my own feelings, urged me, in touching those parts of Irish history which were connected with my tale, to turn them to the purposes of conciliation, and to incorporate the leaven of favorable opinion with that heavy mass of bitter prejudice, which writers, both grave and trifling, have delighted to raise against my country. But when I fondly thought to send forth a dove bearing the olive of peace, I found I was on the point of flinging an arrow winged with discord. I had hoped, as far as my feeble efforts could go, to extenuate the errors attributed to Ireland, by an exposition of their causes, drawn from historic facts; but I found that, like the spirit in Macbeth , I should at the same moment hold up a glass to my countrymen, reflecting but too many fearful images,

To “shew their eyes and grieve their hearts” -

for I discovered, far beyond my expectation, that I had fallen upon “evil men, and evil days;” and that, in proceeding, I must raise a veil which ought never to be drawn, and renew the memory of events which the interests of humanity require to be for ever buried in oblivion.

I abandoned, therefore, my original plan, took up a happier view of things, advanced my story to more modern and more liberal times, and exchanged the rude chief of the days of old, for his polished descendant in a more refined age: and I trust the various branches of the ancient house with whose name I have honored him will not find reason to disown their newly discovered kinsman.

SYDNEY MORGAN.

35, Kildare-street, Dublin,
March 1, 1814.