On Christmas Day, 1891, my father presented me with his collection of
"Ecclesiastical Jottings," as he called them, having previously had them
handsomely bound in red leather. When he put them into my hands he
expressed a hope that I should some day make a little book of them. Up
to the time of his death he made frequent additions to the collection,
and I have now gathered most of his stories together in "a little book,"
according to his wishes.
To _read_ them is to lose so much; yet that is all that one can do now.
Half their humour seems to have gone with the sound of his voice, the
merry twinkle of his eye, and his own delight in them.
I cannot help hoping that they may serve to brighten the odd minutes of
some other lives spent, as his was, in many labours.
There are some people to whom apologies seem due.
First, to those to whom a large number of these stories are already
familiar. May I ask them to realise that the contents of this volume
have been so familiar to me that it has been almost impossible for me to
know which to throw away as chestnuts?
Secondly, I apologise to those whose appreciation of my father's
goodness and piety is so great that they shrink from the contemplation
of any other characteristics. To them I would, with great deference,
suggest that they are putting on one side a large and important part of
my father's character. No man, as I believe, walked more closely with
his God, but his influence owed much of its power to the fact that he
also walked in closest sympathy with men--sympathy not only with their
tears but with their laughter--sympathy which begot, as it generally
does, a keen sense of humour.
Thirdly, there are those who, possessing no sense of humour themselves,
are fearful lest it should appear derogatory to their stupendous
intellects to appreciate that gift in others. I was going to apologise
to these also--but, on the whole, I think I won't.