If it has been established as a precedent that every book should have a dedication, it has been more imperatively enjoined that none should make its appearance without a preface. These are matters of punctilio which it might appear ill-breeding to neglect, and constitute the soft and easy civilities through which books find favor in the eyes of their readers. As no one is disposed kindly to welcome the rude boor who intrudes into his presence, and without a polite nod or pleasant smile at once encounters him with rough speech, so none is inclined to enter upon the perusal of a volume without first knowing somewhat concerning it.
Now, it is only necessary for the editor, in the discharge of his trifling duty, to inform the reader that sometime ago the records of an old association came into his possession. The precise date when this junto was formed could not be definitely discovered, yet it has been certainly ascertained that it was gifted with a very peculiar kind of life—surpassing, in the tenacity with which it adhered to existence, the nine lives ascribed to the cat. Though it had been defunct, to all appearances, more than a dozen times, it was as often revived to flourish again for a brief period. Not many years have elapsed since it received its last blow; but whether this has given it the final quietus, being neither a diviner nor prophet, the editor cannot decide: yet he is inclined to the opinion, that if those of the present generation will do nothing to restore it to life again, their rising posterity will not suffer it to sleep in peace.
It was the design of this organization to unite the useful with the amusing, and each member was required to furnish his quota of the one or the other. The consequence was that a large number of papers were collected together, some of which are now “for the first time given to the world.” Whether the world will do them the honor to value them, remains to be seen; yet the editor flatters himself, that in the deluge of literature which this age is incessantly pouring forth upon the poor reader, they will float along with the endless array of small craft, and perhaps his book may prove as successful as some others in contributing its just portion to produce the wreck and ruin of some better and worthier production.
The Magi of Persia were at one time the depositories of learning. With us the people are the Magi, and although their unaccountable tastes and Quixotic fancies have heretofore elevated into note the effusions of many a fool who experimented upon their discrimination, and permitted the productions of some very wise men to sink into utter and irredeemable oblivion, the editor still trusts—if not to their judgment, then (which may be safer for him,) to their good-natured indulgence. He is fully aware that his book contains nothing above their comprehensions, and is not in the least apprehensive that they will condemn the RECORDS, as an old council did the Petit Office, because “signo” was spelt with a C instead of an S: much less does he fear that his freedom will be endangered for the reason which prompted the same council to arrest the Prince de la Mirandola, because “so much learning in so young a person could only be acquired by a compact with the devil.”
MAURICE EUGENE.
PHILADELPHIA, March 26, 1855.