It is impossible to begin a story which must of necessity tax the powers
of belief of readers unacquainted with the class of facts to which its
central point of interest belongs without some words in the nature of
preparation. Readers of Charles Lamb remember that Sarah Battle insisted
on a clean-swept hearth before sitting down to her favorite game of
whist.

The narrator wishes to sweep the hearth, as it were, in these opening
pages, before sitting down to tell his story. He does not intend to
frighten the reader away by prolix explanation, but he does mean to warn
him against hasty judgments when facts are related which are not within
the range of every-day experience. Did he ever see the Siamese twins, or
any pair like them? Probably not, yet he feels sure that Chang and Eng
really existed; and if he has taken the trouble to inquire, he has
satisfied himself that similar cases have been recorded by credible
witnesses, though at long intervals and in countries far apart from each
other.

This is the first sweep of the brush, to clear the hearth of the
skepticism and incredulity which must be got out of the way before we can
begin to tell and to listen in peace with ourselves and each other.

One more stroke of the brush is needed before the stage will be ready for
the chief characters and the leading circumstances to which the reader's
attention is invited. If the principal personages made their entrance at
once, the reader would have to create for himself the whole scenery of
their surrounding conditions. In point of fact, no matter how a story is
begun, many of its readers have already shaped its chief actors out of
any hint the author may have dropped, and provided from their own