But, now that my manuscript is finished, and now that the time draws on apace when it is to be placed in the keeping of our valued friend Darwin Frontenac, by whom, when the period fixed upon has elapsed, it will be given to the world, I feel that there are some points anent which it would be well to say a few words. In the first place, apropos of the shortcomings, of which, in some instances, I am painfully sensible, of this work when viewed through the glasses of the literary artist, I may say in extenuation that this is the first book that I have ever written--and certainly, by the by, it will be the last. Whether the fact that this is an initial venture in authorship excuses my deficiencies as a craftsman with pen, paper and words I can not say; but, at any rate, it is an explanation. Furthermore, far outweighing (so it seems to me) any artistic desiderata, is this: the following narrative does not come to you from any secondhand source or from any source even farther removed; it is written by one who was an eye-witness of, and an actor in, the scenes, adventures and discoveries described in it--an actor that, I do assure you, would at times have given much to be some place else. Also, in the writing of this book, I placed above all other things the endeavor to attain the utmost accuracy possible; the style was, therefore, in a great measure, left to take care of itself. With old Anatomy Burton, though very likely he quoted,[2] I can say: [Footnote 2: This surmise of Mr. Carter's is correct. The above quotation is taken from a modernized _Anatomy of Melancholy_. Burton, though from what Latin writer he took the words I can not say, wrote: "_Animis haec scribo, non auribus._"--_Darwin Frontenac._] "I write for minds, not ears." Too, more than once when disposing of difficulties obtruded upon me by the noncoincidence of thought with words, have I had in mind this observation of Saint Augustine: "For there are but few things which we speak properly, many things improperly; but what we may wish to say is understood." And, similarly, when reminding myself that I had not set out to produce a work of art but merely to put down upon paper a plain and straightforward account of actual happenings and discoveries, many a time did I think of these words of John Stuart Mill: "For it is no objection to a harrow that it is not a plough, nor to a saw that it is not a chisel." And so it should be no objection to this my account of our discovery of another world that it has not the charm of Dante's _Hell_ or the delicate beauties of Kipling's _Gunga Din_.