his young ally won the set of patters (let us use the Wykehamist word), the Major allowed the other side to gain a far more serious victory.  They carried off the young Philadelphian and kept him in England until he was spoiled for all good American uses.  That was badly done, Major!  Because we needed Pearsall Smith over here, and now we shall never recapture him.  He will go on calling an elevator a lift, and he will never write an American “Trivia.”

PREFACES

It has long been my conviction that the most graceful function of authorship is the writing of prefaces.  What is more pleasant than dashing off those few pages of genial introduction after all the dreary months of spading at the text?  A paragraph or two as to the intentions of the book; allusions to the unexpected difficulties encountered during composition; neatly phrased gratitude to eminent friends who have given gracious assistance; and a touching allusion to the Critic on the Hearth who has done the indexing—­one of the trials of the wives of literary men not mentioned by Mrs. Andrew Lang in her pleasant essay on that topic.  A pious wish to receive criticisms “in case a second edition should be called for”; your address, and the date, add a homely touch at the end.

How delightful this bit of pleasant intimacy after the real toil is over!  It is like paterfamilias coming out of his house at dusk, after the hard day’s work, to read his newspaper on the doorstep.  Or it may be a bit of superb gesturing.  No book is complete without a preface.  Better a preface without a book....

Many men have written books without prefaces.  But not many have written prefaces without books.  And yet I am convinced it is one of the subtlest pleasures.  I have planned several books, not yet written; but the prefaces are all ready this many a day.  Let me show you the sort of thing I mean.

PREFACE TO “THE LETTERS OF ANDREW MCGILL”

How well I remember the last time I saw Andrew McGill!  It was in the dear old days at Rutgers, my last term.  I was sitting over a book one brilliant May afternoon, rather despondent—­there came a rush up the stairs and a thunder at the door.  I knew his voice, and hurried to open.  Poor, dear fellow, he was just back from tennis; I never saw him look so glorious.  Tall and thin—­he was always very thin, see p. 219 and passim—­with his long, brown face and sparkling black eyes—­I can see him still rambling about the room in his flannels, his curly hair damp on his forehead.  “Buzzard,” he said—­he always called me Buzzard—­“guess what’s happened?”

“In love again?” I asked.

He laughed.  A bright, golden laugh—­I can hear it still.  His laughter was always infectious.

“No,” he said.  “Dear silly old Buzzard, what do you think?  I’ve won the Sylvanus Stall fellowship.”