eived. One
nymph who, like the rest, could not keep off the horrid topic of my
occupation, said 'You never write anything but fairy books, do you?' A
French gentleman, too, an educationist and expert in portraits of Queen
Mary, once sent me a newspaper article in which he had written that I
was exclusively devoted to the composition of fairy books, and nothing
else. He then came to England, visited me, and found that I knew rather
more about portraits of Queen Mary than he did.

In truth I never did write any fairy books in my life, except 'Prince
Prigio,' 'Prince Ricardo,' and 'Tales from a Fairy Court'--that of the
aforesaid Prigio. I take this opportunity of recommending these fairy
books--poor things, but my own--to parents and guardians who may never
have heard of them. They are rich in romantic adventure, and the Princes
always marry the right Princesses and live happy ever afterwards; while
the wicked witches, stepmothers, tutors and governesses are _never_
cruelly punished, but retire to the country on ample pensions. I hate
cruelty: I never put a wicked stepmother in a barrel and send her
tobogganing down a hill. It is true that Prince Ricardo _did_ kill the
Yellow Dwarf; but that was in fair fight, sword in hand, and the dwarf,
peace to his ashes! _died in harness._

The object of these confessions is not only that of advertising my own
fairy books (which are not 'out of print'; if your bookseller says so,
the truth is not in him), but of giving credit where credit is due. The
fairy books have been almost wholly the work of Mrs. Lang, who has
translated and adapted them from the French, German, Portuguese,
Italian, Spanish, Catalan, and other languages.

My part has been that of Adam, according to Mark Twain, in the Garden of
Eden. Eve worked, Adam superintended. I also superintend. I find out
where the stories are, and advise, and, in short, superintend. _I do not
write the stories out of my own head._ The reputation of having written
all the fairy books (an European reputation in nurseries and the United
States of America) is 'the burden of an honour unto which I was not
born.' It weighs upon and is killing me, as the general fash of being
the wife of the Lord of Burleigh, Burleigh House by Stamford Town, was
too much for the village maiden espoused by that peer.

Nobody really _wrote_ most of the stories. People told them in all parts
of the world long before Egyptian hieroglyphics or Cretan signs or
Cy