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!"

* * * * *

"A friend of mine" (as we all say, when we are looking out for a masque under which to praise ourselves or to abuse the verses of any 'dear' acquaintance)—"a friend of mine" has written a very long review (or analysis rather) of the German Walladmor in a literary journal of the metropolis. He concludes it with the following passage, which I choose to quote—partly on account of the graceful allusion which it contains, and partly because it gives me an opportunity of trying my hand at an allusion to the same beautiful and romantic legend:

"Now turning back from the hoaxer to the hoax, we shall conclude with this proposition.—All readers of Spenser must know that the true Florimel lost her girdle; which, they will remember, was found by Sir Satyrane—and was adjudged by a whole assemblage of knights to the false Florimel, although it did not quite fit her. She, viz. the snowy Florimel,

——exceedingly did fret; And, snatching from her hand half angrily The belt again, about her body gan it tie.

Yet nathemore would it her body fit: Yet natheless to her, as her dew right, It yielded was by them that judged it. Faery Queene, B. IV. C 5.

"'By them that judged it!' and who are they? Spenser is here prophetic, and means the Reviewers. It has been generally whispered that the true Scotch Florimel has latterly lost her girdle of beauty. Let this German Sir Satyrane, then, indulgently be supposed to have found it: and, whilst the title to it is in abeyance, let it be adjudged to the false Florimel: and let her have a licence to wear it for a few months until the true Florimel comes forward in her original beauty, dissolves her snowy counterfeit, and reclaims her own 'golden cestus.'"

This was very well for "my friend" to wish at the time he did wish it: for that was more than two months ago. At present (December 11) matters are changed: the true Florimel is said to be just on the point of embarking at Leith in Mr. Constable's ship: and we must again consult Spenser to see what is likely to happen in this case to the false Florimel:

Then did he set her by that snowy one, Like the true saint beside the image set. Of both their beauties to make paragone And triall—whether should the honor get. Streightway, so soone as both together met, Th' enchanted damzell vanisht into nought: Her snowy substance melted as with heat; Ne of that goodly hew remayned ought, But th' emptie girdle which about her wast was wrought. Faery Queene, B. V. C. 3.

Shocking! I abominate the omen; [Greek: apeptusa]. What, my two volumes, post 8vo. "vanish into nought?" Delectable news this!—No, no: Spenser may be a pretty fair prophet as prophets went in Queen Elizabeth's days: about the reviewers I hope he is: but prophets, I trust, have their weak points as well as other people. The Sortes Spenserianae are no Sortes Virgilianae. And, if my prayers to Neptune are heard, the case will take a different turn. I wish for no ill luck to Mr. Constable—his ship—or her cargo. I wish him a safe voyage: but I hope it is no sin to wish him a long one. It could do no harm to him—his ship—ship's company—or Florimel, if Neptune would order a tumbling sea and a good stiff South-West wind to blow them safe and sound into some excellent harbour on the coast of Norway. In that harbour, good Neptune, keep Mr. Constable for a month. By that time I and my snowy Florimel shall have transacted all our business. The two Florimels will never meet; and the fatal results of 'melting,' and 'vanishing into nought,' will thus be obviated. That done, by all means I would have Neptune take off the embargo, and let Mr. Constable out. The German Florimel will have cleared the stage; and no one will witness with more pleasure than myself the spectacle of the true Scotch Florimel resuming the girdle which she can have dropped only from accident or venial negligence.

FOOTNOTES TO "POSTSCRIPT."

[Footnote 1: In here speaking of Sir Walter Scott by name as the author of the Constable Scotch novels, the writer would be sorry to have it supposed that he was inattentive to the courtesies of literature. Whatever disguise an author chooses to assume, it is a point of good breeding to respect it in any case where there is not some higher reason for declining to do so. In this case there is. It is now become essential to Sir Walter Scott's honour no longer to speak of the author of the Scotch novels as 'unknown.' Sir Walter is not under any necessity of avowing himself the author: but no man who does not mean to insult him is now at liberty to doubt whether he is. For Sir W. S. cannot now be supposed ignorant that he has long and universally had the credit of being the author: and a man of honour would not, even by his silence, acquiesce in the public direction to himself of praise due to some other. Consequently it is not possible to make it a question whether Sir W. S. were the author, without at the same time making it a question whether he were a man of honour. This single consideration would have saved a world of literary gossip.]

[Footnote 2: See his Anthropologie.]

[Footnote 3: K. John.]



THE END.



ERRATUM.

In the Advertisement (Vol. I.) for Koenigsburg. read Koenigsberg.