On the use of Prefaces and Dedications. quit the late the sooner, because the posture is suspected to draw the body awry; so this is not always practised without some villainy to the mind; wresting it from present occasions; and accustoming us to a style somewhat removed from common use. After speaking in humble terms of his poems, and threatening the lady if she does not throw them into the fire he proceeds: If they come where green boughs are in the chimney, with the help of your fair friends, (for, thus bound, it will be too hard a task for your hands alone) tear them in pieces, wherein you will honor me with the fate of Orpheus, for so his poems, whereof we only hear the form, (not his limbs, as the story will have it) I suppose were scattered by the Thracian Dames. His readers would think that the amatory Waller had addressed all this to a favorite mistress, had he not vouchsafed a hint at the conclusion to inform them that my Lady * * * is only an imaginary person— As they would be apt to take your ladyship's for a Roman name, so would they believe that I endeavoured the character of a perfect nymph, worshipped an image of my own making, and dedicated this to the lady of the brain, not of the heart, of your ladyship's most humble servant, &c. It is curious to observe how differently men write upon the same subject; for, surely, the simple matter of dedicating a work to a friend or a patron admits of but little variation. There is an apology, indeed I might say a necessity for amplification and digression in a preface; for, like a prologue to a play, it should lead us in some measure into the scenes that are to follow, explain the author's design, and his peculiar reasons for publication, if any existed: but this privilege is frequently abused- Cowley's preface to a folio edition of his Poems, published in 1656, is absurdly egotistical, and Colman's preface to the "Iron Chest" makes "so much ado about nothing," that its readers must become fatigued before they can well understand his drift. It is amusing to peruse those introductions in which authors assume fictitious characters to help out the deception of a novel or a satire; and I have been almost persuaded to credit those of Mackenzie, and the author of "Tales of my Landlord." There is a servility in the generality of dedications that debases the writers; and we reflect with regret on the feeling that carries away great talents, when all their energies, and all their capabilities, and all their supremacy over the intellectual powers of other men, are chained down, and degraded in the vile office of adulation. On the other hand how much do we admire the noble independence of mind displayed by those authors who address their labors to men above their station, the greatest and the highest in the land, On the use of Prefaces and Dedications. without descending to flatter their vices, excuse their follies, or exaggerate their virtues. Of this class Sterne's dedication of "Tristram Shandy" to Mr. Pitt is an illustration. Although there are no men who decry hypocrisy and falsehood more than our poets, yet there are no men who have practised it oftener; Mr. Moore, of the present day, is, however, a splendid exception; and I feel satisfaction in referring your readers to his dedication of Anacreon to the present King, then Prince of Wales, as an instance in proof. Burns' dedication to the Gentlemen of the Caledonian Hunt is of the same class. As there is a negative virtue in avoiding venal praise while addressing great characters, there is a still higher independence in inscribing literary performances to persons on a level with ourselves, whom we esteem for their virtues, and from whom we cannot expect recompense or remuneration. On this principle, the late R. B. Sheridan dedicated the play of " Pizarro" to his wife-Lord Byron the "Corsair" to Mr. Moore, another of his poems to Mr Rogers--and Mr. Shiel addressed his tragedy of " Adelaide" to Miss O'Neil, now Mrs. Beecher. Treading, however, out of the beaten track, some writers have sought for illustrious names among the dead, and others have dedicated their works to creatures of their own imagination. Of those who have honored the memory of their patrons, I do not remember a more celebrated person than Otway-his " Windsor Castle" is inscribed "To the immortal fame of our late dread Sovereign, King Charles 11. of ever blessed memory; and to the sacred Majesty of the most august and mighty Prince James II. &c. &c. this poem is in all humility dedicated"-thus offering up, in a combined garland, a tribute to the dead and the living. Godwin, a writer of great and peculiar powers, inscribes the novel of "Mandeville" to the memory of John Philpot Curran. I recollect meeting somewhere an anecdote of a foreign author, who, finding I suppose all human beings unworthy of the honor, dedicated his work to the Maker of the Universe, as the source from whence all things are derived, and to which all things should be devoted. I fear I have intruded on your limits, and as I have a few curious remarks to suggest on the above subject, I will reserve the remainder of my observations for a future communication. I remain, Sir, your obliged servant. Misfortunes of Authorship. THE MISFORTUNES OF AUTHORSHIP. (Concluded from page 278.) YOUR observations on human life must have shewn you that a conviction of our defects is the last we will acknowledge, and that self love stands up to argue even against reason when our capacities or attainments are the subject of discussion: who is willing to expose his poverty? You will consider me prolix if I carry you into a further detail of the vexations I endured and the resolutions I adopted-yet do not declaim against my tediousness if you discover a single passage from which a practical inference can be drawn. My spirit remained yet unbroken, and my determinations became more fixed, the more they were thwarted; the disappointments I had met were no proof of a want of talent, inasmuch as none had openly declared my incapacity, and I considered that if I could obtain a fair trial of my abilities I should succeed. In consequence I frequented Coffee-houses, and Committee-rooms, Debating Clubs, and E. O. Tables, and all those places where an opportunity could occur for an exercise of my powers. Thus I dwindled away for a few weeks into a mere spectre, that strode into every room to behold the happiness of others, and moralize on his own misery-my finances were sinking-and my hopes decayingat last I had almost begun to despair, when a ray of promise broke through the gloom of my despondency, and led me to more glorious anticipations than I had hitherto entertained. One night, as I sauntered through a Coffee-room, I descried an old man seated at the end of a table, alone, and apparently in meditation. As I am not an adept in the Lavaterian philosophy, his countenance made no impression on me-but I observed that he repeatedly used a kind of action with his arm as if he was repeating a speech or addressing a multitude. I insensibly approached him, and in a few minutes was seated by his side-a newspaper lay near me which I affected to peruse --he, however, perceived my design and immediately addressed me-I confess I felt aukward in replying, as I was aware I had intruded; but his manner wearing off my diffidence, we entered freely into conversation. "Sir," said he, "have you read the new play ?" I answered in the negative-" Impossible! why, my dear Sir, it were less culpable in a native of Venice not to have seen St. Mark's horses than a resident in London to be ignorant of the new Misfortunes of Authorship. Play; It has been performed eleven nights to crowded houses, and, it is expected, will be performed eleven more. The Fatal Mistake, or the Misfortunes of Zamorinda-it is in every one's mouth-it is sold in the fruit-shops, and talked over in the Park, and they have even gone so far as to quote a passage from it in Parliament in one of their last debates. Proceed, Sir, immediately to purchase it, for the last copy in London will be sold before morning." "Pray, Sir," said 1," have you heard the author's name?" "Sir," he returned," it might appear like vanity, or self praise in me to speak so highly of it-but, Sir, the public have decided, and they are of opinion the thing has merit,-I, to be sure, had some labor, but what does that signify?" I perceived at once, I had the honor of addressing the author of "Zamorinda's Misfortunes," and I made a discreet bowbut to be brief, the result of that evening's conference, was an appointment to meet in the same place the next day ;and we continued to see each other every day until I was seduced from the recollection of my injuries into a downright and positive belief that I had a strong and powerful genius for the Drama. You will smile at my delusion, when you learn that I contrived many ways of evading hunger, and lessening my expenses in order to remain long enough in London to write-a Play. This vast and eventful undertaking was, in the course of some months, completed-and, with a letter of introduction from my new friend, I waited upon one of the Managers, certain of success, and elated at my own prowess. When he had conned over carefully, I perceived he took off his spectacles, and wiped them with his handkerchief as if they had not been sufficiently clearHe made further delays by putting the paper at a little distance from him, then nearer and so on, apparently endeavouring to make out the character; but as I attributed all this to the illegibility of the writing, and the badness of his sight, I could not reasonably feel angry with the old gentleman, although my impatience was sufficiently roused by his slowness of perception. My anxiety, however, was removed when, assuming a look of politeness and complacence, he assured me he had never heard of the gentleman before who did him the honor of addressing him-and that the object of his letter could not be attended to, as they had already such a variety of plays under consideration as rendered it necessary to reject all others until they had disposed of those in their possession. Judge, Sir, of my amazement at his declarationI will pass it by, for it is impossible to describe it-I had Misfortunes of Authorship. been the dupe of a fellow who played upon my credulity, and lived upon me in taverns- -a reptile-a knave-a liar-a --I must not speak of him-the recollection renders me more ridiculous in my own mind than it is possible for you to conceive. Foiled in every attempt I made to become a writer, I had one resource left. My play I considered as my master-piece, and leaving vanity aside, I have a feeling of pride about it to this moment. I bestowed two or three fresh perusals on it, and finding nothing to alter, I set about raising a subscription to print it. I accordingly wrote a prospectus, and had it printed on a leaf of paper, at the expence of the remainder of the money I possessed. This was distributed through the shops and gambling-houses; but I found to my inexpressible astonishment, after waiting patiently for a fortnight, that not a single name, and more to be lamented, not a single shilling came in as the reward of my composition! "Insulting indifference!" I exclaimed; "London has no taste-I will lampoon it every where I go-I will satirize its customs, and its disgusting negligence of genius-I will ruin it." Rage suspended my desperate resolves. In the conviction that he would give me some salutary counsel and a little money, I carried the manuscript to an elderly man, who was from his infancy my father's friend, and whom I had seen but once since I came to London. Fortunately he was alone, and after breaking to him in as gentle a manner as I could, the reception I had already met with, I proceeded to beg his advice and opinion. "Young man," said he, " the pictures which have been drawn by your imagination excel in their tints the colouring of nature. You have been like a landscape painter who designs in a garret an imitation of forests, fields, and fountains -you were unacquainted with what you undertook, and you have failed. Your imagination is of so poetical a nature, that it mistook the occurrences of real life for the romance of heroes and heroines who never existed. You have imbibed poison from your early tuition, and it has so infected you that you are become obnoxious in society. Allow me to impart truth to you unmingled with flattery-honest truth -which, thongh it cuts deep, will ultimately effect your cure. Your heroic romance I take to be a tissue of extrava, gant nonsense, forced imagery, and bombast-this may account for the silence of the magazine. Your publisher, has prudence enough to keep aloof from a speculation which must |