PREFACE
I observe that it is customary to begin a book by an Introduction, Preface, or Foreword. In the good old days of the eighteenth century this generally took the form of a burst of grovelling adoration aimed at some most noble or otherwise highly important person. This fulsome fawning on the great was later changed into propitiation of the British public, and unknown authors revelled in excuses for publishing their earlier efforts.
But now that every one has written a book, or is about to do so, I feel that my apologies are rather due to the public for not having rushed into print before. I have really spared it because I had nothing in particular to write about, and I confess I am somewhat doubtful as to whether I am even now justified in invoking the kind offices of a publisher with a view to bringing forth this literary mouse in due form!
No admiring (if partial) relatives have hung upon my lips as I read them my journal, imploring me with tears in their eyes to waste not an instant, but give to a longing world this literary treasure. I have no illusions as regards my literary powers, and I do not imagine that I shall depose the gifted author of Eöthen from his pride of place.
I claim, however, the merit of truth. The journal was written day by day, and the sketches were all done on the spot; and if this account—bald and inadequate as I know it to be—of a very happy time spent in rambling among some of the finest scenery of this lovely earth, may induce any one to betake himself to Kashmir, he will achieve something worth living for, and I shall not have spilt ink in vain.