So much was settled then: to hoax Germany, 'Walladmor' must be in three volumes. But what, if there were not time for the quickest hoaxer to compose three volumes before the Leipsic Fair? In that case, two men must do what one could not. But now, as the second man could not possibly know what his leader was talking about, he must be allowed to produce his under stratum of Walladmor, without the least earthly reference to the upper stratum: his thorough-bass must go on without any relation to the melodies in the treble. Yet this was awkward: and, when all was finished, the most skilful artist might have found it puzzling to harmonize the whole. To meet this dilemma therefore, it seems that the leader said to his second--'Write me a heap of long speeches upon astrology and Welch genealogy; write me another heap on English politics: I have some people in my novel (Sir Morgan and Dulberry) upon whom I can hang them: I shall take care to leave hooks in plenty, do you leave eyes; and with these hooks and eyes we can fasten your speeches on my men, when both are finished.' This I conceive to have been the pleasant arrangement upon which 'Walladmor' was worked so as to fetch up the ground before the fair began; and thus ingeniously were two men's labors dovetailed into one novel: "aliter non fit, Avite, liber." When the rest of the rigging was complete, the politics, genealogy, and astrology, were mounted as "royals" and "sky-scrapers;" and the ship weighed from Berlin for Leipsic under a press of sail.
Now, as to these long speeches and Welch conversations, I know not who is their author; but in conscience I cannot pay him a less compliment than this--that,
"From Cain the first man-child
To him that did but yesterday suspire,"[[3]]
there has not been such another idiot. All attempt at mending them, or transfusing any sense into their dry bones, was hopeless: translated into English, bottled, and corked up, they would furnish virus enough, if distributed by inoculation amongst the next three thousand novels of the English press, to ruin the constitution of them all.
I know not whether, in thus accounting for my omissions, I shall be thought pleading for my defects, or proclaiming my deserts. In the German author it was a manifest act of pocket-picking to stuff his novel with such insufferable rubbish. And it seemed to me that, by translating it, I should make myself a party to his knavery as well as to his dulness. However, if any man complains of this omission, for an adequate "consideration" (as the lawyers say) I shall be happy to cart the whole of it upon his premises--deliver it in choice English--and shoot it into the coal-cellar or any more appropriate place.
Mean time for the public use I have thought it as well to leave it untranslated. And the reader now understands how the novel comes to be cut down from a three-decker to a two-decker; and upon what argument I pretend to have produced a 'silk purse.' For undoubtedly the difference between Walladmor with and without the rubbish--political, astrological, "and diabolical" (as Mrs. Malaprop says), is as the difference between a sow's ear (excuse the coarseness of the proverb) and a silk purse. And I shall think the better of the German author and myself, as long as I live; of him for the very ideal artist of sow's ears, and of myself as a most respectable manufacturer of silk purses.
Thus much to account for my omissions and compressions. I am afraid, however, there will be some readers who will be so far from asking any apology on those heads, that they will facetiously regard them as my only merits: and that would be as cruel as Lessing's suggestion to an author for his table of errata--"Apropos, of errata, suppose you were to put your whole book into the list of errata." More candid readers, I am inclined to hope, will blame me for not having made larger alterations in Walladmor: and that would be a flattering criticism, as it must suppose that I could have improved it: indeed, compliment never wears so delightful an aspect, as when it takes the shape of blame. The truth is--I have altered; and altered until I had not the face to alter any more. The ghost of Sir John Cutler's stockings began to appear to me; and elder ghosts than that--the ghost of Sir Francis Drake's ship, the ghost of Jason's ship, and other celebrated cases of the same perplexing question: metaphysical doubts fell upon me: and I began to fear that if, in addition to a new end, I were to put a new beginning and a new middle,--I should be accused of building a second English hoax upon the primitive German hoax. In general I have proceeded as one would in transplanting a foreign opera to our stage: where the author tells the story ill--take it out of his hands, and tell it better: retouch his recitative; bring out and develope his situations: in this place throw in a tender air, in that a passionate chorus. Pretty much in this spirit I have endeavoured to proceed. But it is a most delicate operation to take work out of another man's loom, and put work in: joinings and sutures will sometimes appear; colors will not always match. And, after all, it is impossible to alter every thing that one may think amiss. In general, I would request the reader to consider himself indebted to me for any thing he may find particularly good; and above all things to load my wretched 'Principal' with the blame of every thing that is wrong. If he comes to any passage which he is disposed to think superlatively bad, let him be assured that it is not mine. If he changes his opinion about it, I may be disposed to reconsider whether I had not some hand in it. This will be the more reasonable in him, as the critics will "feel it their duty" to take the very opposite course. However, if he reads German, he can judge for himself: and I can assure him my copy of the original Walladmor is quite at his service for "a term of years;" having read it myself as much as I ever mean to do in this life. As to all those who have not that means of settling the question, or do not think it worth so much pains, I beg them to rely on my word when I apply to the English Walladmor the spirit of the old bull--
"Had you seen but these roads before they were made, You would lift up your eyes, and bless Marshal Wade!"
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