PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
HE success of the first edition of this little work, compels its author to say a few words on the issue of a second. "Expressive silence" would now be in him the excessive impudence of not acknowledging, as he respectfully does acknowledge, that success to be greatly ascribable to the eminent artists who have drawn and engraved the illustrations.
"A man's worst wish for his enemy is that he might write a book," is a generally-received notion, of whose accuracy it is hoped there is no impertinence in suggesting a doubt. To reflect on having contributed, however slightly, to the innocent amusement of others, without giving pain to any, is alone an enjoyment well worth writing for. But when even so unpretending a trifle as this is, can, besides, bring around its obscure author fresh and valuable friendships, the hackneyed exclamation would appear more intelligible if rendered thus: "Oh, that my friend would write a book!"
In former days, possibly, things may have been very different from what they now are. Haply, the literary highway may, heretofore, have been not particularly clean, choked with rubbish, badly drained, ill lighted, not always well paved even with good intentions, and beset with dangerous characters, bilious-looking Thugs, prowling about, ready to pounce upon, hocus, strangle, and pillage any new arrival. But all that is now changed. Now, the path of literature is all velvet and roses. The race of quacks and impostors has become as extinct, as are the saurian and the dodo; and every honest flourisher of the pen, instead of being tarred and feathered, is hailed as a welcome addition to "the united happy family"—of letters.
Much of this agreeable change is owing to the improvement of the literary police, which is become a respectable, sober, well-conducted body of men, who seldom go on duty as critics, without a horse-shoe. Much is owing to the propagation of the doctrines of the Peace Society, even among that species of the genus irritabile, authors themselves, who have at last learned
"That brother should not war with brother
And worry and devour each other;
But sing and shine by sweet consent
Till life's poor transient night is spent."
Chiefly, however, is the happy change attributable to the discriminating and impartial judgment of the reading public of this golden Victorian era. In the present day, it may be considered a general rule, that no picture is admired, no book pronounced readable, no magazine or newspaper circulated, unless in each case it develope intrinsic merit. The mere name of the artist, or author, or editor, has not the slightest weight with our present intelligent, discriminating community, who are never enslaved, or misled, by whim, caprice, or fashion. It has been said, but it seems too monstrous for belief, that, formerly, persons were actually to be found so extremely indolent, or stupid, or timid, as never to think for themselves; but who followed with the crowd, like a swarm of bees, to the brazen tinkle of a mere name! Happily, the minds of the present age are far too active, enlightened, independent, and fearless, for degradation so unworthy. In our day, the professed wit hopes not for the homage of a laugh, on his "only asking for the mustard;" the artist no longer trusts to his signature on the canvas for its being admired; no amount of previous authorship-celebrity preserves a book from the trunkmaker; and the newspaper-writer cannot expect an extensive sale, unless his leaders equal, at least, the frothy head of "Barclay's porter," or possess the Attic salt of "Fortnum and Mason's hams." At the same time, the proudest notable in literature can now no longer swamp, or thrust aside, his obscurer peers; nor is the humblest votive offering at the shrine of intellect, in danger, as formerly, from the hoofs of spurious priests, alike insensible to receive, and impotent to reflect or minister, light or warmth, from the sacred fire they pretend to cherish. In short, such is the pleasant change which has come over literary affairs, that, however apposite in past times, there is not, in the present, any fitness in the exclamation, "Oh, that mine enemy would write a book!"
With reference to the observation, made by more than one correspondent, that the horse-shoe has not always proved an infallible charm against the devil, the author, deferentially, begs to hazard an opinion that, in every one of such cases, the supposed failure may have resulted from an adoption of something else than the real shoe, as a protection. Once upon a time, a witness very sensibly accounted for the plaintiff's horse having broken down. "'Twasn't the hoss's fault," said he; "his plates was wore so thin and so smooth, that, if he'd been Hal Brook[1] his self, he couldn't help slipping."
"You mean," said the judge, "that the horse, instead of shoes, had merely slippers?"
Peradventure, the alleged failures may be similarly accounted for; the party, in each case, having perhaps nailed up, not a shoe, but a slipper, the learned distinction respecting which was thus judicially recognised. The deed which the devil signed, must, like a penal statute, be construed strictly. It says nothing of a slipper; and it has been held by all our greatest lawyers, from Popham and Siderfin, down to Ambler and Walker, that a slipper is not a shoe.
Another solution suggests itself. Possibly the horse-shoe, even if genuine, was not affixed until after the Wicked One had already got possession. In that case, not only would the charm be inefficacious to eject him, but would actually operate as a bar to his quitting the premises; for that eminent jurisconsult, Mephistopheles himself, has distinctly laid it down as "a law binding on devils, that they must go out the same way they stole in." Nailing up a shoe to keep the devil out, after he has once got in, is indeed too late; and is something like the literary pastime of the "Englishman," who kept on showing cause against the Frenchman's rule, long after the latter had, on the motion of his soldiers, already made it absolute with costs.
There is one other circumstance the author begs to refer to, from a desire to dispel any uneasiness about our relations with the Yezidi government. The late distinguished under-secretary for foreign affairs, as every one knows, not regarding as infra dig. certain great, winged, human-headed bulls,[2] that would have astonished Mr. Edgeworth, not less than they puzzle all Smithfield, and the rest of the learned "whose speech is of oxen," has imported those extraordinary grand-junction specimens, which, with their countryfolk, the Yezidis, Dr. Layard has particularly described in his book on Nineveh. When speaking of the Yezidis, he has observed, "The name of the evil spirit is, however, never mentioned; and any allusion to it by others so vexes and irritates them, that it is said they have put to death persons who have wantonly outraged their feelings by its use. So far is their dread of offending the evil principle carried, that they carefully avoid every expression which may resemble in sound the name of Satan, or the Arabic word for 'accursed.' Thus, in speaking of a river, they will not say Shat, because it is too nearly connected with the first syllable in Sheitan, the devil; but substitute Nahr. Nor, for the same reason, will they utter the word Keitan, thread or fringe. Naal, a horse-shoe, and naal-band, a farrier, are forbidden words; because they approach to laan, a curse, and māloun, accursed."—Layard, vol. i. p. 297.
Notwithstanding all this, the author has the pleasant satisfaction of most respectfully assuring his readers, on the authority of the last Yezidi Moniteur, that the amicable relations of this country with the Yezidi government are not in the slightest danger of being disturbed by this little book; and that John Bull is, at present, in no jeopardy of being swallowed up by those monstrous distant cousins of his, of whom Mr. Layard has brought home the above-mentioned speaking likenesses.
1, Adam Street, Adelphi.
