PREFACE
TO THE TWENTIETH EDITION.
hat a lucky maid you are, my Lorna! When first you came from the Western Moors, nobody cared to look at you; the "leaders of the public taste" led none of it to make test of you. Having struggled to the light of day, through obstruction and repulses, for a year and a half you shivered in the cold corner, without a sunray. Your native land disdained your voice, and America answered "No child of mine;" knowing how small your value was, you were glad to get your fare paid to any distant colony.
Still a certain[1] brave man felt convinced that there was good in you, and standing by his convictions—as the English manner used to be—"She shall have another chance," he said; "we have lost a lot of money by her; I don't care if we lose some more."
Accordingly forth you came, poor Lorna, in a simple pretty dress, small in compass, small in figure, smaller still in hope of life.
But, oh but—let none of the many fairer ones, who fail, despond—a certain auspicious event occurred just then, and gave you golden wings. The literary public found your name akin to one which filled the air, and as graciously as royalty itself, endowed you with imaginary virtues. So grand is the luck of time and name; failing which more solid beings melt into oblivion's depth.
- ↑ The late Mr. Sampson Low the younger.
