Janice Meredith

To George W. Vanderbilt

My dear George:

Into the warp and woof of every book anauthor weaves much that even the subtlest readers cannot suspect,far less discern. To them it is but a cross and pile of threadsinterlaced to form a pattern which may please or displease theirtaste. But to the writer every filament has its own association:How each bit of silk or wool, flax or tow, was laboriouslygathered, or was blown to him; when each was spun by the wheel ofhis fancy into yarns; the colour and tint his imagination gave toeach skein; and where each was finally woven into the fabric by theshuttle of his pen. No thread ever quite detaches itself from itsgrowth and spinning, dyeing and weaving, and each draws him back tohours and places seemingly unrelated to the work.

And so, as I have read the proofs of thisbook I have found more than once that the pages have faded out ofsight and in their stead I have seen Mount Pisgah and the FrenchBroad River, or the ramp and terrace of Biltmore House, just as Isaw them when writing the words which served to recall them to me.With the visions, too, has come a recurrence to our long talks, ourwork among the books, our games of chess, our cups of tea, ourwalks, our rides, and our drives. It is therefore a pleasure to methat the book so naturally gravitates to you, and that I may makeit a remembrance of those past weeks of companionship, and anearnest of the present affection of

PAUL LEICESTER FORD