Before taking leave of his readers, the author would inform them that at the commencement of these "Tales," the earlier ones dating some thirty years back, nothing was further from his intentions than rushing into print, although repeatedly persuaded to do so by certain well-meaning friends, who from time to time were permitted to peruse the hidden MSS. The tales, nearly all of them, were written when the author was living abroad, and to beguile a period of enforced idleness, which otherwise would have been intolerable.

Never in his wildest dreams did he meditate inflicting them on the public mind. Partly, it may be, that he thought with Lord Tennyson, that "fame is half disfame," and that "in making many books there is no end," as Solomon teaches. Or it may be that he didn't care to augment that already numerous class who are said "to rush on where angels fear to tread." However this might be, time passed and the tales began to accumulate, when the author conceived the idea of stringing them together in a decameron, and later still of illustrating them with his own designs. Still years rolled on, and the tales, long abandoned, were consigned to the limbo of a mysterious black box, where they remained all but forgotten till many years later.

"Why on earth don't you publish them?" was the constant cry of those few who were taken into the writer's confidence.

The author answered by a modest shrug of self-depreciation, and still the unfinished MSS. lay at the bottom of the black box. The fact was that a weight of inertia oppressed him, added to a total lack of experience in business matters of this kind, which prevented him from taking the first step. He recoiled from the thought of calling on a publisher and presenting his own MSS., and being occupied in other ways besides writing, he begrudged the time lost in hunting up printers, publishers, and engravers, together with all the delays contretemps, and disappointments attendant on red tape.

What he wanted was a factotum, "an all round man," who would take, so to speak, the dirty work off his hands. Where was such a man to be found? He knew of none. The author is a man of unusually retired habits, and associates with but few of his kind. By proclaiming his want openly, doubtless, many would have presented themselves for the task, but in matters of this sort a certain amount of intimacy with the person employed seems to be necessary; at least, so the author thought, and thus time rolled on, and the "Tales" were no nearer publication than they were years ago, and might still have remained in this state for years longer but for an unforeseen incident. One morning, whilst taking a constitutional in a neighbouring suburb, the author's attention was attracted by a strange-looking stringed instrument of undoubted antiquity, in the window of an old curiosity shop. He would enquire the price of it. The proprietor, a weasel-faced little man, with a polished bald head, foxy beard streaked with grey, and a nose rather red at the tip, stood at the door of his shop. His ferret eyes spotted a customer.

"What is the price of that instrument?"

"One guinea."

"I'll take it. Wrap it up in paper."

"Right you are, sir. Good morning, sir. Thank you."

And off trudged the author with this new acquisition to his collection of curios.

Little did he imagine at the time what an important part this same weasely little man was destined to play in the drama of his every day life. Soon after this a second visit was paid to the shop. It was a strange place, choked with odd lumber, where any curio might be obtained, from a mermaid to a mummy. A stuffed crocodile hung in the window. There were cases of stuffed birds and animals, dummies in costume, old pictures, antique furniture, armour, weapons, coins, and postage stamps. A third and fourth visit succeeded, and after almost every visit the author's collection was enriched by some new curio. At length, so frequent became these visits to the curio shop, that hardly a day passed without the author putting in an appearance. Some two years may thus have passed away, during which time the author had ample opportunity of studying this human weasel. He learned that he was a bum-bailiff, a commission agent, etc., ready to undertake any odd job for money.

Here, then, at last, was the very man. The author accordingly propounded his plan of publishing the "Tales." That weasel nose sniffed business. With alacrity he seized the MSS., and donning a new top hat, which he did whenever he desired to create an impression of respectability, he climbed to the top of a 'bus, and was soon landed in the thick of our metropolis. From that time all has been comparatively plain sailing. "Ce n' est que le premier pas qui coÛte," and cost it did, readers, you may be certain of that.

The Author.