To SMITH MAJOR

HONOURED SIR,

If amid the storm and stress of your academic career you find an
hour's relaxation in perusing the pages of this book, all the travail
that I have suffered in the making of it will be repaid a
thousandfold. Throughout the quiet hours of many nights, when Morpheus
has mercifully muzzled my youngest (a fine child, sir, but a female),
I have bent over my littered desk driving a jibbing pen, comforted and
encouraged simply and solely by the vision of my labour's object and
attainment. I have seen at such moments the brink of a river, warm
with the sun's rays, though sheltered in part by the rustling leaves
of an alder, and thereon, sprawling at great ease, chin in the cups of
the hand, stomach to earth, and toes tapping the sweet-smelling sod,
your illustrious self--deep engrossed in my book. For this alone I
have written. If, then, it was the prospect of thus pleasing you that
sustained me in my task, to whom else can I more fittingly inscribe
the fruits of my labour? Accept then, honoured sir, this work of your
devoted servant, assured that, if the book wins your affection and
leaves an ideal or two in the mind when you come regretfully upon
"Finis," I shall smoke my pipe o' nights with greater pleasure and
contentment than ever I have done since I ventured the task of
sketching my gallant hero's adventurous career.

I have the honour to be, sir,

Your most humble and obedient servant,