Silly as this story may seem, there is a fixed purpose in writing it; and, like water in a goose-pond, it is deeper than it at first appears.

The intention chiefly is to be absurd; to cast ridicule on certain pedants and romancers; and to jeer at the ridiculous solemnity, mystery, and villainy, that hedge in works of fiction. Disgusted with tales which cause exceedingly good heroes and heroines to live a life of torture, only to find a haven of peace and security in the last line of the last chapter, the writer determined to go over the old ground in a different way. Now that the story is written, however, he has a horrible suspicion that in some measure he has totally failed in his design, and that more often than he cares to own, he has overshot the mark.

Having endeavored to make the intention tolerably clear, the reader may now be able to get more enjoyment from this tale.

The tale aims to attack so-called “vagaries,” as well as great and contemptible follies. It attacks the frailties of the school-boy with as much gusto as it attacks the foibles of the romancer. In fact, from first to last, in almost every chapter, the writer rushes gallantly to attack something. Not satisfied with attempting to ridicule other people’s tales, he often indirectly, but not the less insultingly, attacks this one, as the careful reader will doubtless observe. This was begun in jest, perhaps; but it soon became a fixed purpose, carried out in earnest. Even a boy can generally see the drift of our narrative; but it is often hard for the writer himself to see its true meaning—harder still to appreciate it. Nevertheless, there is a good deal to be seen in the story; and doubtless there are some who will see more in it than was designed to be put there.

Again, the story is not written to instruct studious and solemn boys, who mope about the house with grave biographies and heavy ancient histories in their hands, while without, the sun is shining bright, birds are warbling their extempore melodies in the fruit-trees, squirrels are frisking across the garden-walks, and all Nature is smiling. Such people are not boys; they are but figure-heads in creation, who, though they may, perhaps, find a place in so-called “literature,” will never find one in the history of nations. This story does not inform those who crave for knowledge, and yet more knowledge, that the elephant is a pachydermatous native of Asia and Africa, nor that the monkey is a quadrumanous animal, with prehensile tail, whose habitat is in tropical regions. Still, the attentive reader will, in all probability, gather from it that an ass brays, that a punt leaks, that a school-boy’s pets are mortal, and that gunpowder is liable to explode when fire is applied to it. It is not written as a guide and instructor to youth. Its heroes are deplorably depraved; they love to plot mischief. Yet a boy may possibly learn something from our work. He may learn that the boy who plays practical jokes on his school-fellows generally “gets the worst of it,” that he often suffers more than the intended victim. He may learn, also, that a boy’s wickedness brings its own punishment. (The writer takes great pains to correct the culprits—in fact, he never fails to do so after each offence.) Of course every boy has learned all this before; probably, in every book he ever read; but as it is a fundamental principle in romance to enforce this doctrine, it is here enforced.

Many a writer wishes to make assertions for which he does not always choose to be responsible. In such cases, he puts the assertion into the mouth of one of his characters, an “honorable gentleman” fathering it sometimes, a “consummate villain” at other times. In some instances we have followed this example.

The writer here modestly lays claim to a rare, an almost antiquated virtue: though he excels in Wegotism, he never calls himself an author! Yet if he were writing an elementary grammar, he might indulge in such expressions as “The author here begs to differ from Mr. Murray;” or, “The author’s list of adjectives may be increased by the teacher, ad libitum.” But this story is intended for youths of a reasoning age. In writing for juveniles of tender years, it is well to weigh carefully one’s expressions, and to use only choice and elegant expletives.

Understand, gentle reader, that man only is attacked in this story. Though the fair sex are occasionally and incidentally introduced, the writer has too much respect for them to go beyond the introduction, in this book. Even when Henry personates “Sauterelle” the motive is good. Understand all this, and read accordingly.

The moral of this story is intended to be good; but in a story of its light and fickle nature, the less said about a moral the better.

The writer has great affection for boys; he respects them, and loves to see them enjoy themselves, but he is not prepared to say that he fully understands them. A BOY is a credit to a neighborhood—till he hangs a battle-scarred cat to the chief citizen’s flag-staff, or destroys a mill-dam by tunnelling a hole through it, when, of course, he is a disgrace to the race. Though it is uncertain who is the hero of this story, Steve and Henry are the favorites. Steve is more or less a boy; but as the story advances the reader will perceive that he improves in both wit and wisdom. George is one of the boys who “love books;” but he tempered common sense with study, and never refused to join with his companions in their frolics or “expeditions.” With little or no benefit to himself, or, for that matter, to anybody else, George, like most studious youths of his age, read books entirely beyond his comprehension. In one hundred pages of scientific reading, he probably understood and retained one fact; the other facts were either misunderstood or forgotten, or might better have been. Years ago, when the writer used to wear out his pockets with bulky jack-knives, and quarrel with other youngsters about the sagacity of his own dog, he knew a boy who, like Jim, was subject to “the chills.” But the writer was probably too young at that time to have an insight into another’s character, and the only affinity between that boy and Jim is that both were a prey to “the chills.” It may be objected that it is strange that Charles should be able to work on the other boys’ feelings so well. Very true; so it is. Still, he could not have slain a robber-knight, nor outwitted an Indian scout. Henry is not one of the original heroes, but as he is necessary to the story he is introduced.

The writer, disgusted with books in which the heroes are treated with much respect, endeavours to heap every indignity upon these foolish boys. In a word, he has no apparent respect for any one, big or little, old or young, in this volume. To go still further, he has no respect for himself.

In the case of the blue-eyed heroine and each boy’s mother, however, there is an exception, and exceptions prove the rule.

As for Mr. Lawrence’s “mystery,” it does not amount to much, though it is intended, like everything else, to serve a purpose. Look at it as it appears, and in ten minutes a bill-sticker could hatch a better plot. Look at it as it appears, and it is idiotic, yet perfectly harmless; look at it in its figurative meaning, and, though it is not so good as was intended, it yet—but we are too discreet to say more on this head.

The writer respectfully observes that his maniac is not drawn from nature, but from romance. He never informed himself of the habits of those unfortunate people—never had the pleasure of even a slight acquaintance with them—but drew Uncle Dick’s history blindly from romance.

As for the villain’s confession, it is thrown in gratuitously, as ballast to the story, and to pacify the readers of heavy romance.

as many a writer’s confused plot bears witness. Having many objects in view in writing this story, the reader must make the best of it, if it sometimes seems disjointed. Still, if the astute reader thinks he detects a place where this history does not hang together, let him not be too much elated, for the writer believes he could point out several such places himself.

Of course, no boy will read this preface; it would, therefore, be a waste of time to address a discourse to boys in it. Reader, did you ever observe the manner in which a boy ignores the preface in his school-books? If not, you do not know how much scorn a boy’s face is capable of displaying.

Nevertheless, this preface may be of use to a boy. Suppose that an indulgent uncle should be jockeyed into buying a copy of this book for his little nephew. In such a case, would not this preface make an admirable “flier” for the little nephew’s dart? Certainly it would; and the next morning the little nephew’s mamma would find a picturesque dart, with this elaborate preface fluttering at the end, adorning a panel of the parlour door.

“Perhaps,” sneers the reader of mature years, “you think to have a fling at the almost antiquated custom of writing prefaces?”

Perhaps so, kind reader, and why not?

It seems natural for some writers to wish to display their wisdom: some make a show of hammering out tropes that no one can appreciate; others, in coining new compound words that won’t find a place in the dictionaries of the future; still others, in inserting such foreign words and phrases as may be found in the back of a school-boy’s pocket dictionary. (To do them justice, however, the latter geniuses, careful not to offend our noble English, considerately write such words and phrases in italics.) This writer, on the contrary, displays his foolishness by tackling things that he afterwards learns are out of his reach.

The writer seems most at home when attempting to poke fun at romance; yet he is tormented night and day, so much so that he has no peace, with romance. In fact, gentle reader, if any human being suffers more in that way than he, pity him with all your heart, for he must be a wretch indeed.

Cannot this be explained logically? Perhaps so; but it isn’t worth anybody’s while to do it.

Notwithstanding that our preface is so grandiloquent, the story opens, the reader will observe, very modestly. But if he should persevere a little way, he will find that the writer soon strikes out boldly.

Of course this preface was written after the story; but, let the reader be entreated, if he will excuse the Hibernicism, to read it first. If he does not, we are only too confident he will never read it. This is not prophecy, but intuition.

BRUCE W. MUNRO.

A BLUNDERING BOY.