Tales of the Wonder Club, Volume III

PREFACE TO VOL. III.


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."