Tonya Allen, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed
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"Ah, happy years! Once more who would not be a boy?"
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.
When a man poses before the world—even the Canadian world—in therole of an author, he is expected to step up to the footlights,and explain his purpose in presenting himself before the public in thatcapacity.
The thoughts of the world are sown broadcast, very much as the seedfalls from the sweep of the husbandman's hand. It drops here and there,in good ground and in stony places. Its future depends upon itsvitality. Many a fair seed has fallen on rich soil, and never reachedmaturity. Many another has shot up luxuriantly, but in a short time hasbeen choked by brambles. Other seeds have been cast out with the chaffupon the dung heap, and after various mutations, have come in contactwith a clod of earth, through which they have sent their roots, and havefinally grown into thrifty plants. A thought thrown out on the world, ifit possesses vital force, never dies. How much is remembered of the workof our greatest men? Only a sentence here and there; and many a manwhose name will go down through all the ages, owes it to the truth orthe vital force of the thought embedded in a few brief lines.
I have very little to say respecting the volume here with presented tothe public. The principal contents appeared a short time ago in theCanadian Monthly and the Canadian Methodist Magazine. Theywere written at a time when my way seemed hedged around withinsurmountable difficulties, and when almost anything that could affordme a temporary respite from the mental anxieties that weighed me down,not only during the day, but into the long hours of the night, wouldhave been welcomed. Like most unfortunates, I met Mr. Worldly Wisemanfrom day to day. I always found him ready to point out the way I shouldgo and what I should do, but I have no recollection that he ever got thebreadth of a hair beyond that. One evening I took up my pen and beganjotting down a few memories of my boyhood. I think we are all fond oftaking retrospective glances, and more particularly when life's pathwaytrends towards the end. The relief I found while thus engaged was verysoothing, and for the time I got altogether away from the present, andlived over again many a joyous hour. After a time I had accumulated agood deal of matter, such as it was, but the thought of publication hadnot then entered my mind. One day, while in conversation with Dr.Withrow, I mentioned what I had done, and he expressed a desire to seewhat I had written. The papers were sent him, and in a short time hereturned them with a note expressing the pleasure the perusal of themhad afforded him, and advising me to submit them to the CanadianMonthly for publication. Sometime afterwards I followed his advice.The portion of the papers that appeared in the last-named periodicalwere favourably received, and I was mu