This etext was prepared by David Widger
The Complete Writings of Charles Dudley Warner Volume 1
MY DEAR MR. FIELDS,—I did promise to write an Introduction to thesecharming papers but an Introduction,—what is it?—a sort ofpilaster, put upon the face of a building for looks' sake, andusually flat,—very flat. Sometimes it may be called a caryatid,which is, as I understand it, a cruel device of architecture,representing a man or a woman, obliged to hold up upon his or herhead or shoulders a structure which they did not build, and whichcould stand just as well without as with them. But an Introductionis more apt to be a pillar, such as one may see in Baalbec, standingup in the air all alone, with nothing on it, and with nothing for itto do.
But an Introductory Letter is different. There is in that noformality, no assumption of function, no awkward propriety or dignityto be sustained. A letter at the opening of a book may be only afootpath, leading the curious to a favorable point of observation,and then leaving them to wander as they will.
Sluggards have been sent to the ant for wisdom; but writers mightbetter be sent to the spider, not because he works all night, andwatches all day, but because he works unconsciously. He dare noteven bring his work before his own eyes, but keeps it behind him, asif too much knowledge of what one is doing would spoil the delicacyand modesty of one's work.
Almost all graceful and fanciful work is born like a dream, thatcomes noiselessly, and tarries silently, and goes as a bubble bursts.And yet somewhere work must come in,—real, well-considered work.
Inness (the best American painter of Nature in her moods of realhuman feeling) once said, "No man can do anything in art, unless hehas intuitions; but, between whiles, one must work hard in collectingthe materials out of which intuitions are made." The truth could notbe hit off better. Knowledge is the soil, and intuitions are theflowers which grow up out of it. The soil must be well enriched andworked.
It is very plain, or will be to those who read these papers, nowgathered up into this book, as into a chariot for a race, that theauthor has long employed his eyes, his ears, and his understanding,in observing and considering the facts of Nature, and in weavingcurious analogies. Being an editor of one of the oldest daily news-papers in New England, and obliged to fill its columns day after day(as the village mill is obliged to render every day so many sacks offlour or of meal to its hungry customers), it naturally occurred tohim, "Why not write something which I myself, as well as my readers,shall enjoy? The market gives them facts enough; politics, liesenough; art, affectations enough; criminal news, horrors enough;fashion, more than enough of vanity upon vanity, and vexation ofpurse. Why should they not have some of those wandering and joyousfancies which solace my hours?"
The suggestion ripened into execution. Men and women read, andwanted more. These garden letters began to blossom every week; andmany hands were glad to gather pleasure from them. A sign it was ofwisdom. In our feverish days it is a sign of health or ofconvalescence that men love gentle pleasure, and enjoyments that donot rush or roar, but distill as the dew.
The love of rural life, the habit of finding enjoyment in familiarthings, that susceptibility to Nature which keeps the nerve gentlythrilled in her homliest nooks and by her commone