This slightly-built romance was the outcome of a wish to set the emotional history of two infinitesimal lives against the stupendous background of the stellar universe, and to impart to readers the sentiment that of these contrasting magnitudes the smaller might be the greater to them as men.

But, on the publication of the book people seemed to be less struck with these high aims of the author than with their own opinion, first, that the novel was an ‘improper’ one in its morals, and, secondly¹, that it was intended to be a satire² on the Established Church of this country. I was made to suffer in consequence from several eminent³ pens.

That, however, was thirteen years ago, and, in respect of the first opinion, I venture to think that those who care to read the story now will be quite astonished at the scrupulous⁴ propriety⁵ observed therein on the relations of the sexes; for though there may be frivolous⁶, and even grotesque⁷ touches on occasion, there is hardly a single caress⁸ in the book outside legal matrimony, or what was intended so to be.

As for the second opinion, it is sufficient to draw attention, as I did at the time, to the fact that the Bishop⁹ is every inch a gentleman, and that the parish priest who figures in the narrative¹⁰ is one of its most estimable characters.

However, the pages must speak for themselves. Some few readers, I trust — to take a serious view — will be reminded by this imperfect story, in a manner not unprofitable to the growth of the social sympathies, of the

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