It would ill become any writer to adopt an apologetic tone in
introducing the work of another pen than his own, and indeed I have no
thought of _apologia_ where Nicholas Freydon's writing is concerned.
On the contrary, it is out of respect for my friend's quality as a
writer that I am moved to a word of explanation here. It is this:
there are circumstances, sufficiently indicated I think in the text of
the book and my own footnote thereto, which tended to prevent my
performance of those offices for my friend's work which are usually
expected of one who is said to edit. It would be more fitting, I
suppose, if a phrase were borrowed from the theatrical world, and this
record of a man's life were said to be 'presented' rather than
'edited,' by me. I am advised to accept the editorial title in this
connection, but it is the truth that the book has not been edited at
all, in the ordinary acceptance of the term. A few purely verbal
emendations have been made in it, but Nicholas Freydon's last piece of
writing has never been revised, nor even arranged in deference to
accepted canons of book-making. It is given here as it left the
author's pen, designed, not for your eye or mine, but for that of its
writer, to be weighed and considered by him. But that weighing and
consideration it has not received.
So much I feel it incumbent upon me to say, as the avowed sponsor for
the book, in order that praise and blame may be rightly apportioned.
Touching the inherent value of this document, nothing whatever is due
to me. Any criticism of its arrangement, or lack of arrangement, to be
just, should be levelled at myself alone.