University of Virginia Library

PREFACE.

BY THE AUTHOR.

I went into Burgess & Stringer's book-store 'tother
day, under the great Museum Buildings opposite the
Astor House, and was kind of shying round, and lookin'
at the everlastin' sight of books they've got—as
much as two cart-loads on the counter, clear from one
end to 'tother, packed down in rows side by side, jest
like the bricks of the side-walks in New-York, or of
Uncle Joshua's kitchen harth in Downingville, besides
as much as twenty cart-loads piled up round on the
shelves. I begun at one end of the long counter, and
was takin' a kind of raking view of the titles, and when
I'd got over about a rod and a half of 'em, along come
Mr. Burgess, lookin' as good natured as if he couldn't
help it. And says he—

“Major Downing, how are ye? I havn't seen you
this long time; where have you kept yourself?”

“O,” says I, “all about in spots, and the rest of the
time at home with Polly. But,” says I, “Mr. Burgess,
for gracious sake, you don't expect there's folks enough
in America to read all these books, do you?”

“Read all these!” says he, “why, Major Downing,
here is n't half a mouthful for 'em. There's a plaguy
sight more folks in America, Major, than you think for;
and the way they swallow down these things is a caution
to old rags and paper-makers, I can tell ye. If
we should cram every book we 've got in the store down

their throats for breakfast, they'd be as hungry as bears
for more by eleven o'clock, and cry out for something
for a lunch. It's a fact, Major, the public has a dreadful
cravin appetite for books; there's no pacifying of
'em; and it's the duty of every man that can write his
name and spell in words of four syllables, to go to
work and help to make books with all his might, so that
the public shan't starve.”

I looked up at him, and says I, “Mr. Burgess, you
are joking.”

“Upon my word, I am not,” says he, “it's true as
preachin. The sufferins of the public for want of
books is awful; and now, Major Downing, you can
write, I know you can; I've hearn tell of your writing
years ago, in the Gineral's time; and now, if you've
got one spark of patriotism or common humanity left
in your veins, you'll go to work and contribute your
mite to keep your countrymen from starving.”

“What,” says I, “you don't mean for me to put out
a book, du ye?”

“Most certainly I do,” says he; “it's your duty,
and you ought to do it immediately,—this very week.
There's thousands and thousands that have to go to bed
supperless every night for the want of a shilling book,
and get up in the morning with nothing to stay their
stomachs for the want of a sixpenny pamphlet. Major,
it's too bad that the public should be left to suffer so.—
Go right to work and get us up a book this week.”

“Well,” says I, “Mr. Burgess, I don't know as I've
got anything to make a book out of, unless it's a few
letters I've been writing to Aunt Heziah, about the
bobbery you Yorkers always get into about the first of
May.”

“Well,” says he, “less see 'em.”

So I pulled 'em out of my pocket and showed 'em
to him. He took 'em and looked 'em over, and read
along, and his face kept growing shorter and shorter,
and at last it burst right open crossways, and his sides
was all of a shake, and I thought he was going to
swallow the letters right down raw before they was
cooked. Says I, “Mr. Burgess, don't, for it's the only
copy I've got.”

“Just the thing, Major,” says he, “as far as it goes;
but there aint quite enough for a dose. You must add
a little more to it.”

“But,” says I, “I haint got nothin' ready.”

“Never mind,” says he, “borrow a few yarns of
your old friend that used to print your letters in the
Gineral's time, away down east. You've done him
many a good turn afore now, and turn about is fair
play.”

“Very well,” says I, “Mr. Burgess, if that's your
view of the case, go ahead; the book shall be ready
for you to-morrow.”

And that's the reason how this book come to light.