INTRODUCTION

In offering this little book—­the third of its kind—­to the public, I am glad to take the opportunity of recording the pleasure I have received at the appreciation its predecessors have met with, as attested by their wide circulation, and by the universally kind notices of them from the Press.  To have been the means of administering innocent mirth to thousands, may surely be a just motive for satisfaction, and an excuse for grateful expression.

At the same time, I am desirous of adding a few words as to the history of the two previously published volumes, and more particularly of the first or original “Book of Nonsense,” relating to which many absurd reports have crept into circulation, such as that it was the composition of the late Lord Brougham, the late Earl of Derby, etc.; that the rhymes and pictures are by different persons; or that the whole have a symbolical meaning, etc.; whereas, every one of the Rhymes was composed by myself, and every one of the Illustrations drawn by my own hand at the time the verses were made.  Moreover, in no portion of these Nonsense drawings have I ever allowed any caricature of private or public persons to appear, and throughout, more care than might be supposed has been given to make the subjects incapable of misinterpretation:  “Nonsense,” pure and absolute, having been my aim throughout.

As for the persistently absurd report of the late Earl of Derby being the author of the “First Book of Nonsense,” I may relate an incident which occurred to me four summers ago, the first that gave me any insight into the origin of the rumor.

I was on my way from London to Guildford, in a railway carriage, containing, besides myself, one passenger, an elderly gentleman:  presently, however, two ladies entered, accompanied by two little boys.  These, who had just had a copy of the “Book of Nonsense” given them, were loud in their delight, and by degrees infected the whole party with their mirth.

“How grateful,” said the old gentleman to the two ladies, “all children, and parents too, ought to be to the statesman who has given his time to composing that charming book!”

(The ladies looked puzzled, as indeed was I, the author.)

“Do you not know who is the writer of it?” asked the gentleman.

“The name is ‘Edward Lear,’” said one of the ladies.

“Ah!” said the first speaker, “so it is printed; but that is only a whim of the real author, the Earl of Derby.  ‘Edward’ is his Christian name, and, as you may see, Lear is only Earl transposed.”

“But,” said the lady, doubtingly, “here is a dedication to the great-grandchildren, grand-nephews, and grand-nieces of Edward, thirteenth Earl of Derby, by the author, Edward Lear.”

“That,” replied the other, “is simply a piece of mystification; I am in a position to know that the whole book was composed and illustrated by Lord Derby himself.  In fact, there is no such a person at all as Edward Lear.”