A preface rather induces a man to speak of himself, which is deemed the
worst subject upon which he _can_ speak. In history we become acquainted
with things, but in a preface with the author; and, for a man to treat
of himself, may be the most _difficult_ talk of the two: for in history,
facts are produced ready to the hand of the historian, which give birth
to thought, and it is easy to cloath that thought in words. But in a
preface, an author is obliged to forge from the brain, where he is
sometimes known to forge without fire. In one, he only reduces a
substance into form; but in the other, he must create that substance.
As I am not an author by profession, it is no wonder if I am
unacquainted with the modes of authorship; but I apprehend, the usual
method of conducting the pen, is to polish up a founding title-page,
dignified with scraps of Latin, and then, to hammer up a work to fit it,
as nearly as genius, or want of genius, will allow.
We next _turn over a new leaf_, and open upon a pompous dedication,
which answers many laudable purposes: if a coat of arms, correctly
engraven, should step first into view, we consider it a singular
advantage gained over a reader, like the first blow in a combat. The
dedication itself becomes a pair of stilts, which advance an author
something higher.
As a horse-shoe, nailed upon the threshold of a cottage, prevents the
influence of the witch; so a first-rate name, at the head of a
dedication, is a total bar against the critic; but this great name, like
a great officer, sometimes unfortunately stands at the head of
wretched troops.
When an author is too _heavy_ to swim of himself, it serves as a pair of
bladders, to prevent his sinking.
It is farther productive of a _solid_ advantage, that of a present from
the patron, more valuable than that from the bookseller, which prevents
his sinking under the pressure of famine.
But, being wholly unknown to the great names of literary consequence, I
shall not attempt a dedication, therefore must lose the benefit of the
stilt, the bladder, and the horse-shoe.
Were I to enter upon a dedication, I should certainly address myself,
"_To the Inhabitants of Birmingham_." For to them I not only owe much,
but all; and I think, among that congregated mass, there is not one
person to whom I wish ill. I have the pleasure of calling many of those
inhabitants _Friends_, and some of them share my warm affections equally
with myself. Birmingham, like a compassionate nurse, not only draws our
persons, but our esteem, from the place of our nativity, and fixes it
upon herself: I might add, _I was hungry, and she fed me_; _thirsty, and
she gave me drink_; _a stranger, and she took me in_. I approached her
with reluctance, because I did not know her; I shall leave her with
reluctance, because I do.
Whether it is perfectly confident in an author, to solicit the
indulgence of the public, though it may stand first in his wishes,
admits a doubt; for, if his productions will not bear the light, it may
be said, why does he publish? but, if they will, there is no need to ask
a favor; the world receives one from him. Will not a piece everlastingly
be tried by its merit? Shall we esteem it the higher, because it was
written at the age of thirteen? because it was the effort of a week?
delivered extempore? hatched while the author stood upon one leg? or
cobbled, while he cobbled a shoe? or will it be a recommendation, that
it issues forth in gilt binding? The judicious world will not be
deceived by the tinselled purse, but will examine whether the _contents_
are sterling.
Will it augment the value of this history, or cover its blunders, to
say, that I have never seen _Oxford?_ That the thick fogs of penury,
prevented the sun of science from beaming upon the mind? That necessity
obliged me to lay down the battledore, before I was master of the
letters? And that, instead of handling systems of knowledge, my hands,
at the early period of seven, became callous with labour?
But, though a whole group of pretences will have no effect with the
impartial eye, yet one reason pleads strongly in my favor--no such thing
ever appeared as _An History of Birmingham_. It is remarkable, that one
of the most singular places in the universe is without an historian:
that she never manufactured an history of herself, who has manufactured
almost every thing else; that so many ages should elapse, and not one
among her numerous sons of industry, snatch the manners of the day from
oblivion, group them in design, with the touches of his pen, and exhibit
the picture to posterity. If such a production had ever seen the light,
mine most certainly would never have been written; a temporary bridge
therefore may satisfy the impatient traveller, till a more skilful
architect shall accommodate him with a complete production of elegance,
of use, and of duration.--Although works of genius ought to come out of
the mint doubly refined, yet history admits of a much greater latitude
to the author. The best upon the subject, though defective, may meet
with regard.
It has long been a complaint, that local history is much wanted. This
will appear obvious, if we examine the places we know, with the
histories that treat of them. Many an author has become a cripple, by
historically travelling through _all England_, who might have made a
tolerable figure, had he staid at home. The subject is too copious for
one performance, or even the life of one man. The design of history is
knowledge: but, if simply to tell a tale, be all the duty of an
historian, he has no irksome task before him; for there is nothing more
easy than to relate a fact; but, perhaps, nothing more difficult than to
relate it well.
The situation of an author is rather precarious--if the smiles of the
world chance to meet his labours, he is apt to forget himself; if
otherwise, he is soon forgot. The efforts of the critic may be necessary
to clip the wings of a presuming author, lest his rising vanity becomes
insupportable: but I pity the man, who writes a book which none will
peruse a second time; critical exertions are not necessary to pull him
down, he will fall of himself. The sin of writing carries its own
punishment, the tumultuous passions of anxiety and expectation, like
the jarring elements in October, disturb his repose, and, like them, are
followed by stirility: his cold productions, injured by no hand but that
of time, are found sleeping on the shelf unmolested. It is easy to
describe his fears before publication, but who can tell his feelings
after judgment is passed upon his works? His only consolation is
accusing the critic of injustice, and thinking the world in the wrong.
But if repentence should not follow the culprit, hardened in scribbling,
it follows, his bookseller, oppressed with _dead works_. However, if all
the evils in Pandora's box are emptied on a blasted author, this one
comfort remains behind--The keeper of a circulating library, or the
steward of a reading society can tell him, "His book is more _durable_
than the others."
Having, many years ago, entertained an idea of this undertaking, I made
some trifling preparations; but, in 1775, a circumstance of a private
nature occurring, which engaged my attention for several years, I
relinquished the design, destroyed the materials, and meant to give up
the thought for ever. But the intention revived in 1780, and the
work followed.
I may be accused of quitting the regular trammels of history, and
sporting in the fields of remark: but, although our habitation justly
stands first in our esteem, in return for rest, content, and protection;
does it follow that we should never stray from it? If I happen to veer a
moment from the polar point of Birmingham, I shall certainly vibrate
again to the center. Every author has a manner peculiar to himself, nor
can he well forsake it. I should be exceedingly hurt to omit a
necessary part of intelligence, but more, to offend a reader.
If GRANDEUR should censure me for sometimes recording the men of mean
life, let me ask, _Which is preferable_, he who thunders at the anvil,
or in the senate? The man who earnestly wishes the significant letters,
ESQ. spliced to the end of his name, will despise the question; but the
philosopher will answer, "They are equal."
Lucrative views have no part in this production: I cannot solicit a kind
people to grant what they have already granted; but if another finds
that pleasure in reading, which I have done in writing, I am paid.
As no history is extant, to inform me of this famous nursery of the
arts, perfection in mine must not be expected. Though I have
endeavoured to pursue the road to truth; yet, having no light to guide,
or hand to direct me, it is no wonder if I mistake it: but we do not
_condemn_, so much as _pity_ the man for losing his way, who first
travels an unbeaten road.
Birmingham, for want of the recording hand, may be said to live but one
generation; the transactions of the last age, die in this; memory is the
sole historian, which being defective, I embalm the present generation,
for the inspection of the future.
It is unnecessary to attempt a general character, for if the attentive
reader is himself of Birmingham, he is equally apprized of that
character; and, if a stranger, he will find a variety of touches
scattered through the piece, which, taken in a collective view, form a
picture of that generous people, who _merit his_ esteem, and
_possess mine_.