One little picture in this book, the Magic Locket, at p. 77, was drawnby 'Miss Alice Havers.' I did not state this on the title-page, sinceit seemed only due, to the artist of all these (to my mind) wonderfulpictures, that his name should stand there alone.

The descriptions, at pp. 386, 387, of Sunday as spent by children ofthe last generation, are quoted verbatim from a speech made to me by achild-friend and a letter written to me by a lady-friend.

The Chapters, headed 'Fairy Sylvie' and 'Bruno's Revenge,' are a reprint,with a few alterations, of a little fairy-tale which I wrotein the year 1867, at the request of the late Mrs. Gatty,for 'Aunt Judy's Magazine,' which she was then editing.

It was in 1874, I believe, that the idea first occurred to me of makingit the nucleus of a longer story. As the years went on, I jotted down,at odd moments, all sorts of odd ideas, and fragments of dialogue,that occurred to me--who knows how?--with a transitory suddenness thatleft me no choice but either to record them then and there, or to abandonthem to oblivion. Sometimes one could trace to their source theserandom flashes of thought--as being suggested by the book one was reading,or struck out from the 'flint' of one's own mind by the 'steel' of afriend's chance remark but they had also a way of their own, of occurring,a propos of nothing--specimens of that hopelessly illogical phenomenon,'an effect without a cause.' Such, for example, was the last line of'The Hunting of the Snark,' which came into my head (as I have alreadyrelated in 'The Theatre' for April, 1887) quite suddenly, during a solitarywalk: and such, again, have been passages which occurred in dreams,and which I cannot trace to any antecedent cause whatever.There are at least two instances of such dream-suggestions in this book--one, my Lady's remark, 'it often runs in families, just as a love forpastry does', at p. 88; the other, Eric Lindon's badinage about havingbeen in domestic service, at p. 332.

And thus it came to pass that I found myself at last in possession of ahuge unwieldy mass of litterature--if the reader will kindly excuse thespelling--which only needed stringing together, upon the thread of aconsecutive story, to constitute the book I hoped to write.Only! The task, at first, seemed absolutely hopeless, and gave me a farclearer idea, than I ever had before, of the meaning of the word 'chaos':and I think it must have been ten years, or more, before I had succeededin classifying these odds-and-ends sufficiently to see what sort of astory they indicated: for the story had to grow out of the incidents,not the incidents out of the story I am telling all this, in no spiritof egoism, but because I really believe that some of my readers will beinterested in these details of the 'genesis' of a book, which looks sosimple and straight-forward a matter, when completed, that they mightsuppose it to have been written straight off, page by page, as onewould write a letter, beginning at the beginning; and ending at the end.

It is, no doubt, possible to write a story in that way: and, if it benot vanity to say so, I believe that I could, myself,--if I were in theunfortunate position (for I do hold it to be a real misfortune) ofbeing obliged to produce a given amount of fiction in a given time,--that I could 'fulfil my task,' and produce my 'tale of bricks,'as other slaves have done. One thing, at any rate, I could guaranteeas to the story so produced--that it should be utterly commonplace,should contain no new ideas whatever, and should be very very wearyreading!

This species of literature has received the very appropriate name of'padding' which might fitly be defined as 'that which all can write andnone can read.' That the present volume contains no such writing I darenot avow: sometimes, in order to bring a picture into its proper place,it has been necessary to eke out a page with two or three extra lines:but I can honestly say I have put in no more than I was absolutelycompelled to do.

My readers may perhaps like to amuse themselves by trying to detect,in a given passage, the one piece of 'padding' it contains.While arranging the 'slips' into pages, I found that the passage,whichnow extends from the top of p. 35 to the middle of p. 38, was 3 linestoo short. I supplied the deficiency, not by interpolating a word hereand a word there, but by writing in 3 consecutive lines. Now can my readersguess which they are?

A harder puzzle if a harder be desired would be to determine, as to theGardener's Song, in which cases (if any) the stanza was adapted to thesurrounding text, and in which (if any) the text was adapted to thestanza.

Perhaps the hardest thing in all literature--at least I have found itso: by no voluntary effort can I accomplish it: I have to take it as itcome's is to write anything original. And perhaps the easiest is,when once an original line has been struck out, to follow it up,and to write any amount more to the same tune.I do not know if 'Alice in Wonderland' was an original story--I was,at least, no conscious imitator in writing it--but I do know that,since it came out, something like a dozen story-books have appeared,on identically the same pattern. The path I timidly explored believingmyself to be 'the first that ever burst into that silent sea'--is now a beaten high-road: all the way-side flowers have long ago beentrampled into the dust: and it would be courting disaster for me toattempt that style again.

Hence it is that, in 'Sylvie and Bruno,' I have striven with I know notwhat success to strike out yet another new path: be it bad or good,it is the best I can do. It is written, not for money, and not for fame,but in the hope of supplying, for the children whom I love, some thoughtsthat may suit those hours of innocent merriment which are the very lifeof Childhood; and also in the hope of suggesting, to them and to others,some thoughts that may prove, I would fain hope, not wholly out of harmonywith the graver cadences of Life.

If I have not already exhausted the patience of my readers, I wouldlike to seize this opportunity perhaps the last I shall have ofaddressing so many friends at once of putting on record some ideas thathave occurred to me, as to books desirable to be written--which Ishould much like to attempt, but may not ever have the time or power tocarry through--in the hope that, if I should fail (and the years aregliding away very fast) to finish the task I have set myself, otherhands may take it up.

First, a Child's Bible. The only real essentials of this would be,carefully selected passages, suitable for a child's readingand pictures. One principle of selection, which I would adopt, would bethat Religion should be put before a child as a revelation of love noneed to pain and puzzle the young mind with the history of crime andpunishment. (On such a principle I should, for example, omit thehistory of the Flood.) The supplying of the pictures would involve nogreat difficulty: no new ones would be needed: hundreds of excellentpictures already exist, the copyright of which has long ago expired,and which simply need photo-zincography, or some similar process, fortheir successful reproduction. The book should be handy in size with apretty attractive looking cover--in a clear legible type--and, above all,with abundance of pictures, pictures, pictures!

Secondly, a book of pieces selected from the Bible--not single texts,but passages of from 10 to 20 verses each--to be committed to memory.Such passages would be found useful, to repeat to one's self and toponder over, on many occasions when reading is difficult, if notimpossible: for instance, when lying awake at night--on a railway-journey--when taking a solitary walk-in old age, when eye-sight is failing ofwholly lost--and, best of all, when illness, while incapacitating us forreading or any other occupation, condemns us to lie awake through manyweary silent hours: at such a time how keenly one may realise the truthof David's rapturous cry 'O how sweet are thy words unto my throat: yea,sweeter than honey unto my mouth!'

I have said 'passages,' rather than single texts, because we have nomeans of recalling single texts: memory needs links, and here are none:one may have a hundred texts stored in the memory, and not be able torecall, at will, more than half-a-dozen--and those by mere chance:whereas, once get hold of any portion of a chapter that has beencommitted to memory, and the whole can be recovered: all hangs together.

Thirdly, a collection of passages, both prose and verse, from booksother than the Bible. There is not perhaps much, in what is called'un-inspired' literature (a misnomer, I hold: if Shakespeare was notinspired, one may well doubt if any man ever was), that will bear theprocess of being pondered over, a hundred times: still there are suchpassages--enough, I think, to make a goodly store for the memory.

These two books of sacred, and secular, passages for memory--will serveother good purposes besides merely occupying vacant hours: they willhelp to keep at bay many anxious thoughts, worrying thoughts,uncharitable thoughts, unholy thoughts. Let me say this, in betterwords than my own, by copying a passage from that most interesting book,Robertson's Lectures on the Epistles to the Corinthians, Lecture XLIX."If a man finds himself haunted by evil desires and unholy images,which will generally be at periodical hours, let him commit tomemory passages of Scripture, or passages from the best writers inverse or prose. Let him store his mind with these, as safeguards torepeat when he lies awake in some restless night, or when despairingimaginations, or gloomy, suicidal thoughts, beset him. Let these be tohim the sword, turning everywhere to keep the way of the Garden of Lifefrom the intrusion of profaner footsteps."

Fourthly, a "Shakespeare" for girls: that is, an edition in whicheverything, not suitable for the perusal of girls of (say) from 10 to 17,should be omitted. Few children under 10 would be likely to understandor enjoy the greatest of poets: and those, who have passed out of girlhood,may safely be left to read Shakespeare, in any edition, 'expurgated'or not, that they may prefer: but it seems a pity that so many children,in the intermediate stage, should be debarred from a great pleasure forwant of an edition suitable to them. Neither Bowdler's, Chambers's,Brandram's, nor Cundell's 'Boudoir' Shakespeare, seems to me to meet thewant: they are not sufficiently 'expurgated.' Bowdler's is the mostextraordinary of all: looking through it, I am filled with a deep senseof wonder, considering what he has left in, that he should have cutanything out! Besides relentlessly erasing all that is unsuitable onthe score of reverence or decency, I should be inclined to omit alsoall that seems too difficult, or not likely to interest young readers.The resulting book might be slightly fragmentary: but it would be a realtreasure to all British maidens who have any taste for poetry.

If it be needful to apologize to any one for the new departure I havetaken in this story--by introducing, along with what will, I hope,prove to be acceptable nonsense for children, some of the graverthoughts of human life--it must be to one who has learned the Art ofkeeping such thoughts wholly at a distance in hours of mirth andcareless ease. To him such a mixture will seem, no doubt, ill-judgedand repulsive. And that such an Art exists I do not dispute: withyouth, good health, and sufficient money, it seems quite possible tolead, for years together, a life of unmixed gaiety--with the exceptionof one solemn fact, with which we are liable to be confronted at anymoment, even in the midst of the most brilliant company or the mostsparkling entertainment. A man may fix his own times for admittingserious thought, for attending public worship, for prayer, for readingthe Bible: all such matters he can defer to that 'convenient season',which is so apt never to occur at all: but he cannot defer, for onesingle moment, the necessity of attending to a message, which may comebefore he has finished reading this page,' this night shalt thy soul berequired of thee.'

The ever-present sense of this grim possibility has been, in all ages,*Note...At the moment, when I had written these words, therewas a knock at the door, and a telegram was brought me,announcing the sudden death of a dear friend.an incubus that men have striven to shake off. Few more interestingsubjects of enquiry could be found, by a student of history, than thevarious weapons that have been used against this shadowy foe.Saddest of all must have been the thoughts of those who saw indeed anexistence beyond the grave, but an existence far more terrible thanannihilation--an existence as filmy, impalpable, all but invisible spectres,drifting about, through endless ages, in a world of shadows, with nothingto do, nothing to hope for, nothing to love! In the midst of the gayverses of that genial 'bon vivant' Horace, there stands one dreary wordwhose utter sadness goes to one's heart. It is the word 'exilium' in thewell-known passage

Omnes eodem cogimur, omniumVersatur urna serius ociusSors exitura et nos in aeternumExilium impositura cymbae.

Yes, to him this present life--spite of all its weariness and all itssorrow--was the only life worth having: all else was 'exile'! Does itnot seem almost incredible that one, holding such a creed, should everhave smiled?

And many in this day, I fear, even though believing in an existencebeyond the grave far more real than Horace ever dreamed of, yet regardit as a sort of 'exile' from all the joys of life, and so adoptHorace's theory, and say 'let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die.'

We go to entertainments, such as the theatre--I say 'we', for I also goto the play, whenever I get a chance of seeing a really good one andkeep at arm's length, if possible, the thought that we may not returnalive. Yet how do you know--dear friend, whose patience has carriedyou through this garrulous preface that it may not be your lot, whenmirth is fastest and most furious, to feel the sharp pang, or thedeadly faintness, which heralds the final crisis--to see, with vaguewonder, anxious friends bending over you to hear their troubledwhispers perhaps yourself to shape the question, with trembling lips,"Is it serious?", and to be told "Yes: the end is near" (and oh, howdifferent all Life will look when those words are said!)--how do youknow, I say, that all this may not happen to you, this night?

And dare you, knowing this, say to yourself "Well, perhaps it is animmoral play: perhaps the situations are a little too 'risky', thedialogue a little too strong, the 'business' a little too suggestive.I don't say that conscience is quite easy: but the piece is so clever,I must see it this once! I'll begin a stricter life to-morrow."To-morrow, and to-morrow, and tomorrow!

"Who sins in hope, who, sinning, says,'Sorrow for sin God's judgement stays!'Against God's Spirit he lies; quite stopsMercy with insult; dares, and drops,Like a scorch'd fly, that spins in vainUpon the axis of its pain,Then takes its doom, to limp and crawl,Blind and forgot, from fall to fall."

Let me pause for a moment to say that I believe this thought, of thepossibility of death--if calmly realised, and steadily faced would beone of the best possible tests as to our going to any scene ofamusement being right or wrong. If the thought of sudden deathacquires, for you, a special horror when imagined as happening in atheatre, then be very sure the theatre is harmful for you, howeverharmless it may be for others; and that you are incurring a deadlyperil in going. Be sure the safest rule is that we should not dare tolive in any scene in which we dare not die.

But, once realise what the true object is in life--that it is notpleasure, not knowledge, not even fame itself, 'that last infirmity ofnoble minds'--but that it is the development of character, the risingto a higher, nobler, purer standard, the building-up of the perfectMan--and then, so long as we feel that this is going on, and will(we trust) go on for evermore, death has for us no terror; it is not ashadow, but a light; not an end, but a beginning!

One other matter may perhaps seem to call for apology--that I shouldhave treated with such entire want of sympathy the British passion for'Sport', which no doubt has been in by-gone days, and is still, in someforms of it, an excellent school for hardihood and for coolness inmoments of danger. But I am not entirely without sympathy for genuine'Sport': I can heartily admire the courage of the man who, with severebodily toil, and at the risk of his life, hunts down some 'man-eating'tiger: and I can heartily sympathize with him when he exults in theglorious excitement of the chase and the hand-to-hand struggle with themonster brought to bay. But I can but look with deep wonder and sorrowon the hunter who, at his ease and in safety, can find pleasure in whatinvolves, for some defenceless creature, wild terror and a death ofagony: deeper, if the hunter be one who has pledged himself to preachto men the Religion of universal Love: deepest of all, if it be one ofthose 'tender and delicate' beings, whose very name serves as a symbolof Love--'thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women'--whose mission here is surely to help and comfort all that arein pain or sorrow!

'Farewell, farewell! but this I tellTo thee, thou Wedding-Guest!He prayeth well, who loveth wellBoth man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best, who loveth bestAll things both great and small;For the dear God who loveth us,He made and loveth all.'