ht of you--undoubtedly you
are not the type of Mrs. Tracy.

Why will all these people don my imaginary characters? Truly, it may
seem to be a compliment, as proving that they speak from heart to heart,
of universal human nature, not unaptly; still is their inventor or
creator embarrassed terribly by such unwelcome honours; your precious
balms oppress him, gentle friends; lift off your palm branches; indeed,
he is unworthy of these petty triumphs; and, to be serious, he detests
them.

No: once and for all, let a plain first person say it, I abjure
personalities; my arrows are shot at a venture; and if they hit any one
at all, it is only that he stands in my shaft's way, and the harness of
his conscience is unbuckled. The target of my feeble aim is general--to
pierce the heart of evil, evil in the form of social heartlessness: it
is no fault of mine, if some alarmed particulars will crowd about the
mark. Ideal characters, ideal incidents, ideal scenes--to these I
honestly pledge myself: but as most men have two eyes, being neither
naturally monocular nor triocular, so most men of their own special cast
have similar distinguishable sympathies.

The overweening love of money is a seed, a soil, and a sun that
generates a certain crop: the aim of my poor husbandry is only to reap
this; but my sickle does not wish to wound the growers: let them stand
aside; or, better far, let them help me cut those rank and clogging
tares, and bind them up in bundles to be burned. Heart is a
sweet-smelling shrub, ill to stand against the chilling breath of
worldliness: my small care desires to cherish this; gather round it,
friends! shelter it beside me. How many fragrant flowers now are
bursting into beauty! how cheering is their scent! how healthful the
aroma of their bloom! Pluck them with me; they are sweet, delicate, and
lustrous to look upon, even as the night-blowing cereus.

Henceforth then, social circle, feel at peace with such as I am, whose
public parable would teach, without any thought of personality, entirely
disclaiming private interpretations: there are other people stout
besides one's uncle, other people deaf besides one's aunt. Sir Thomas
Dillaway is not Alderman Bunce, nor any other friend or foe I wot of; a
mere creature of the counting-house, he is a human ledger-mushroom: rub
away the mildew from your hearts, if any seem to see yourselves in him:
neither have I ventured to transplant Miss Cassiopeia Curtis's red hai