OVERTURE.
Thou light of other days, vision joyous though brief,
whose voice was music, and whose presence sunshine!
on the dusty high-way of life, fatigue arrested my footsteps.
I saw a green tree, a grassy knoll, which invited
me to repose. I slept—and my dreams were
happy ones—they were of thee!
Brief the season for slumber! The hour of returning
toil came round. I awoke. And now a book
must be writ. Imagination could find in the realms
of fiction nothing half so charming as thou—thou, lost
reality!
I wrote. But when I remembered the original, I
could have destroyed the picture, which so feebly portrayed
her lineaments. It was too late. What was
writ, was writ. But thou, most gentle critic, would'st
have smiled upon my labors, and not have seen the
injustice which was done thyself; for thou would'st
ever pluck roses so as to leave their thorns behind!
Would that the world were of thy philosophy!
The public know me not. That is one consolation.
They have attributed my former literary trespasses,
and will probably attribute this, to another—to one
who might commit far more flagrant offences, and yet
be forgiven. Be patient, dear sir, under the trying
imputation. Forgive me, if the frail and slippery raft,
composed of two rolling timbers, whereon I stood expecting
momentary submersion, has been floated by
chance under the lee of your handsome yacht, to which
I am well content to owe my parasitical progress.
My publisher remarks that I have said enough. I
consider him infallible in these matters. He gave the
title to my last book—though I must say it struck me
that it was not altogether new—that I had heard something
of the kind before. No matter. Twenty thousand
copies were sold. And so, when he insinuates
that I had better come to a full stop in my overture, I
reply, “You know best, my dear sir,” and throw aside
my pen.
