Preface to the New Edition

This book originally owed its existence to an accident, and it was printed under circumstances that prevented the usual supervision of the press by the author.  The consequences were many defects in plot, style, and arrangement, that were entirely owing to precipitation and inexperience; and quite as many faults, of another nature, that are to be traced solely to a bad manuscript and worse proof reading.  Perhaps no novel of our times was worst printed than the first edition of this work.  More than a hundred periods were placed in the middle of sentences, and perhaps five times that number were omitted in places where they ought to have been inserted.  It is scarcely necessary to add, that passages were rendered obscure, and that entire paragraphs were unintelligible.

Most of the faults just mentioned have now been corrected, though it would require more labor than would produce an entirely new work, to repair all the inherent defects that are attributable to haste, and to the awkwardness of a novice in the art of composing.  In this respect, the work and its blemishes are probably inseparable.  Still, the reader will now be better rewarded for his time, and, on the whole; the book is much more worthy of his attention.

It has been said that Precaution owes its existence to fortuitous circumstances.  The same causes induced its English plot, and, in a measure, the medley of characters that no doubt will appear a mistake in the conception.  It can scarcely be said that the work was commenced with any view to publication; and when it was finally put into a publisher’s hands, with “all its imperfections on its head,” the last thought of the writer was any expectation that it would be followed by a series of similar tales from the same pen.

More than this the public will feel no interest in knowing, and less than this the author could not consent to say on presenting to the world a reprint of a book with so few claims to notice.

PRECAUTION.

Chapter I.

“I wonder if we are to have a neighbor in the Deanery soon,” inquired Clara Moseley, addressing herself to a small party assembled in her father’s drawing-room, while standing at a window which commanded a distant view of the house in question.

“Oh yes,” replied her brother, “the agent has let it to a Mr. Jarvis for a couple of years, and he is to take possession this week.”

“And who is the Mr. Jarvis that is about to become so near a neighbor?” asked Sir Edward Moseley.

“Why, sir, I learn he has been a capital merchant; that he has retired from business with a large fortune; that he has, like yourself, sir, an only hope for his declining years in son, an officer in the army; and, moreover, that he has couple of fine daughters; so, sir, he is a man of family in one sense, at least, you see.  But,” dropping his voice, “whether he is a man of family in your sense, Jane,” looking at his second sister, “is more than I could discover.”