AN HISTORY OF BIRMINGHAM. [Illustration: the-text-caption] THE SECOND EDITION, WITH CONSIDERABLE ADDITIONS. By W. HUTTON. PREFACE. 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.