BE IT REMEMBERED, That on the eighth day of October, A.D. 1828, and in the fifty-third year of the Independence of the United States of America, Shirley & Hyde of said District, have deposited in this office, the title of a book, the right whereof they claim as proprietors, in the words following, to wit.
“Rachel Dyer: A North American Story. By John Neal. Portland.”
In conformity to the act of the Congress of the United States, entitled “An Act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned;” and also, to an act, entitled “An Act supplementary to an act, entitled An Art for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned; and for extending the benefits thereof to the arts of designing, engraving and etching historical and other prints.”
J. MUSSEY, Clerk of the District of Maine.
A true copy as of record,
Attest, J. MUSSEY, Clerk D. C. Maine.
PREFACE.
I have long entertained a suspicion, all that has been said by the novel-writers and dramatists and poets of our age to the contrary notwithstanding, that personal beauty and intellectual beauty, or personal beauty and moral beauty, are not inseparably connected with, nor apportioned to each other. In Errata, a work of which as a work, I am heartily ashamed now, I labored long and earnestly to prove this. I made my dwarf a creature of great moral beauty and strength.
Godwin, the powerful energetic and philosophizing Godwin, saw a shadow of this truth; but he saw nothing more—the substance escaped him. He taught, and he has been followed by others, among whom are Brown, Scott and Byron, (I observe the chronological order) that a towering intellect may inhabit a miserable body; that heroes are not of necessity six feet high, nor of a godlike shape, and that we may be deceived, if we venture to judge of the inward by the outward man. But they stopped here. They did not perceive, or perceiving, would not acknowledge the whole truth; for if we consider a moment, we find that all their great men are scoundrels. Without one exception I believe, their heroes are hypocrites or misanthropes, banditti or worse; while their good men are altogether subordinate and pitiable destitute of energy and wholly without character.
Now believing as I do, in spite of such overwhelming authority, that a man may have a club-foot, or a hump-back, or even red hair and yet be a good man—peradventure a great man; that a dwarf with a distorted shape may be a giant in goodness of heart and greatness of temper; and that moral beauty may exist where it appears not to have been suspected by the chief critics of our age, and of past ages—namely, in a deformed body (like that of Æsop,) I have written this book.