The uncommon favour with which the story of "LOST SIRMASSINGBERD" has been received while appearing in thecolumns of a popular periodical, has induced its author tosolicit the suffrages of that more critical Public who "hateto read novels bit by bit."
PREFATORY
CHAPTER I. GIANT DESPAIR
CHAPTER II. MY FIRST INTERVIEW
CHAPTER III. THE DREAM BY THE BROOK
CHAPTER IV. THE DUMB WITNESS
CHAPTER V. THE STATE BEDROOM
CHAPTER VI. HEAD OVER HEELS
CHAPTER VII. AT THE DOVECOT
CHAPTER VIII. MEETING HIS MATCH
CHAPTER IX. MR. HARVEY GERARD
CHAPTER X. LOVE THE LIFEGIVER
CHAPTER XI. WOOING BY PROXY
CHAPTER XII. THE COUNCIL OF WAR
CHAPTER XIII. THE GIPSY CAMP
CHAPTER XIV. WHY SIR MASSINGBERD DID NOT MARRY
CHAPTER XV. THE REASON CONTINUED
CHAPTER XVI. I DO SIR MASSINGBERD A LITTLE FAVOUR
In these days, when every man and woman becomes an author upon the leastprovocation, it is not necessary to make an apology for appearing inprint. Perhaps there was always something affected in those prefatorialjustifications; although they did disclaim any literary merit, it isprobable that the writers would have been indignant enough had thecritics taken them at their word; and perhaps the publication was notentirely owing to "the warmly-expressed wishes of numerous friends."But, at all events, we have done with all such excuses now. Not to havewritten anything for the press, is no small claim to being an Original.Neither sex nor age seems to exempt from the universal passion ofauthorship. My niece, Jessie (ætat. sixteen), writes heart-rendingnarratives for the "Liliputian Magazine;" her brother, whom I havealways looked upon as a violent, healthy hobbledehoy whose highestvirtue was Endurance, and whose darkest experience was Skittles,produces the most thrilling romances for the "Home Companion." Even myhousekeeper makes no secret of forwarding her most admired recipes tothe "Family Intelligencer;" while my stable-boy, it is well known, is aprominent poetical contributor to the "Turf Times," having also the giftof prophecy with reference to the winner of all the racing events of anyimportance. And yet, I believe, my household is not more addicted topublication than those of my neighbours.
What becomes of authors by profession in such a state of things literaryas this, I shudder to think; I feel it almost a sin to add one more tothe long list of competitors with whom they have to struggle; but still,if I do not now set down the story which I have in my mind, I am certainthat, sooner or later, my nephew will do so for me, and very likelyspoil it in the telling. He writes in a snappy, jerky, pyrotechnic way,