In selecting such passages as I have in these letters I have necessarily followed my own taste, and taste—­as I said when I first began writing to you—­is illusive.  I could do no more than cite that which makes my own heart beat faster from a compelling sense of its nobility and beauty.

When I was young, Antony, I lived long in my father’s house among his twelve thousand books, with his scholarly mind as my companion, and his exact memory as my guide; for more than a quarter of a century since those days I have lived in the more modest library of my own collecting, and have long learnt how much fine literature there is that I have never read, and now can never read.  But, Antony, you may not find, in these crowded days, even so much time for reading, or so much repose for study as I have found, and therefore it is that I have offered you in these letters the preferences of my lifetime, even though it has been the lifetime of one who makes no claim to be a literary authority.

As you look back at those from whom you have sprung, you will see that for five generations they have been men of letters—­many distinguished, and one world-famous; and though I myself am but a puny link in the chain, yet I may perhaps afford you the opportunity of hitching your wagon by and by to the star that has for so long ruled the destinies of our house.

Farewell, then, dear Antony; and if “the dear God who loveth us” listens to the benedictions of the old upon their children’s children, may He guide and bless you to your life’s end.

Your loving old
G.P.