Here is a tiny stray wanderer in the jotting heap. Such a little one, no one can object to it. Plainly it refers to some of my proof. Also that a review in “T. P.’s” familiar weekly had unkindly referred to me as an elderly sort of scribe, or something “previous” of the kind. “P.S.—Just looked over proof. Feeling very sad at the prospect of settling down to contemplate middle age and anticipating senile decay, ordered hansom, gave man address. “‘Yes, miss.’ “Hurrah! Nice man! Extra sixpence in prospect for the ‘miss’! “Went to shop, ‘young gentleman’ behind the counter enquired: “‘Your pleasure, miss?’ “Charming young man! Buy more than I really want. “‘T. P.’ may be wrong; senile decay may be further off than he so ardently hopes!” With this farewell to jottings. * * * * * And now I come to the publication of a big and serious book, _Hyde Park_, which made its appearance to the public in April, 1908, but took me eighteen months to write and rewrite, while as to the works consulted, seventy-three are duly acknowledged in the opening pages as sources of help, besides which there were, of course, others. “What put it into your head to write about Hyde Park?” asked a friend the other day. Well, partly because of my sons. When in search of data across an ocean and thousands of miles of land besides, my endeavour to return for the boys’ holidays entailed trying and often too rapid and arduous travelling. Hyde Park was nearer my own door, so “homeward bound fancy ran its barque ashore.” Besides in anticipation the task seemed invitingly easy. From early childhood had I not ridden with my father every morning over the tan of the old Park, under its trees, or past its sunlit or steel-grey water? In later days, when friends whose hospitality had been warmly shown me overseas, arrived in London, it had become usual with me to drive them round “the ’Ide Park” until I felt a sort of London _Baedeker_. Once, however, the work begun, it proved serious and engrossing, and meant study: study at the British Museum: study of many, many books: search for pictures of old London. Three or four times the amount of material actually used was assiduously gathered. Then began the task of sorting out what was needful. The real difficulty of writing a book is to know what to leave out. Well, it was a great subject, and deserved the toil spent upon it. Reward came in the praise of the Press, and—this was specially sweet—at once. Within three days, thirteen kind, warm, even enthusiastic reviews! And yet how often the contrary has been the case, and will be with many works which the public slowly learn to value only after their writers have obscurely passed away, embittered, maybe, by the lack of appreciation.