In the Preface Mr. Fay informs us that the most important features of his story are founded on fact--that he has availed himself of certain poetical licenses--that he has transformed character, and particularly the character of a young lady, (oh fi! Mr. Fay--oh, Mr. Fay, fi!) that he has sketched certain peculiarities with a mischievous hand--and that the art of novel writing is as dignified as the art of Canova, Mozart or Raphael,--from which we are left to infer, that Mr. Fay himself is as dignified as Raphael, Mozart, and Canova--all three. Having satisfied us on this head, he goes on to say something about an humble student, with a feeble hand, throwing groupings upon a canvass, and standing behind a curtain: and then, after perpetrating all these impertinences, thinks it best "frankly to bespeak the indulgence of the solemn and sapient critics." Body of Bacchus! _we_, at least, are neither solemn nor sapient, and, therefore, do not feel ourselves bound to show him a shadow of mercy. But will any body tell us what is the object of Prefaces in general, and what is the meaning of Mr. Fay's Preface in particular? As far as we can understand the plot of Norman Leslie, it is this. A certain family reside in Italy--"independent," "enlightened," "affectionate," "happy,"--and all that. Their villa, of course, stands upon the seashore, and their whole establishment is, we are assured, "a scene of Heaven," &c. Mr. Fay says he will not even attempt to describe it--why, therefore, should we? A daughter of this family is nineteen when she is wooed by a young Neapolitan, Rinaldo, of "mean extraction, but of great beauty and talent." The lover, being a man of suspicious character, is rejected by the parents, and a secret marriage ensues. The lady's brother pursues the bridegroom--they fight--and the former is killed. The father and mother die (it is impossible to see for what purpose they ever lived) and Rinaldo flies to Venice. Upon rejoining her husband in that city, the lady (for Mr. Fay has not thought her worth enduing with a specific appellation) discovers {55} him, for the first time, to be a rascal. One fine day he announces his intention of leaving herself and son for an indefinite time. The lady beseeches and finally threatens. "It was the first unfolding," says she, in a letter towards the _dénouement_ of the story, "of that character which neither he nor I knew belonged to my nature. It was the first uncoiling of the basilisk within me, (good Heavens, a snake in a lady's stomach!). He gazed on me incredulously, and cooly smiled. You remember that smile--I fainted!!!" Alas! Mr. Davy Crockett,--Mr. Davy Crockett, alas!--thou art beaten hollow--thou art defunct, and undone! thou hast indeed succeeded in grinning a squirrel from a tree, but it surpassed even thine extraordinary abilities to smile a lady into a fainting fit!