Reminiscences of a roving life
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| Reminiscences of a roving life - Max Müller |
Whosoever that -Irishman may have been who said that " the right and proper place for a ^^reface is at the end of the book," he had a reason, for in a great majority of cases prefaces have a knack of falling into an apologetic strain, and it is obvious that any apology should follow the offence that called it into being. Perhaps, in my heart of hearts, I am loth to admit that this book is in the nature of an offence, and so this Preface is less of an apology than a disclaimer.
The book it precedes is the narrative of the life of a wanderer — a vagabond — and nothing more. It has been my fortune — evil or good — to visit at one time or another nearly every inhabited country in the world — in some cases under circumstances that appear to me to have some points of interest. I have fought in the Austrian service, I have been most woundingly handled by the Press on at least one occasion, and I have studied human nature all the time.
"The different ways that different things are done An' men an' women lovin' in this world," as Rudyard Kipling, the poet of all vagabonds, says in his wondrously true " Sestina of the Tramp Royal." You will find little enough of History, nothing of Science, and still less statistics in these pages. If serious research is your aim, the Gazetteer, the guide book, et hoc genus omne, will supply you with all your requirements. I can't — and don't pretend to.
So much for one disclaimer, and now for another. Ever since I made England my home this name of mine has involved me in one modestly apologetic explanation after another. " I am not Professor Max Miiller," I have said again and again to hundreds of people who ought to know better than PREFACE XI. need the assurance. " I am not even related to him; I never had anything to do with Oxford University, and I don't know any Sanskrit." " But you know lots of languages," they insist. " Some," I admit. " Latin? " " Yes." " French? German? Italian? Russian? " " Yes. Yes." " Arabic? " " Yes; some." " And you don't know Sanskrit? " " No."
Then they go away and think I'm a fraud. I cannot add to my denial of the Professor's identity the statement that I never set eyes on him in my life, because I met him in Vienna some years ago. He was then on his way to Corfu to coach the late Empress of Austria in ancient Greek, and the similarity in our names, together with the fact that we were able to enter into a pretty wide-ranging philological discussion of European dialects and languages, gave the old gentleman, lie professed, great delight.
My best thanks are most willingly tendered to Dr Henry S. Lunn for the kindly loan of the excellent photographs which illustrate this book; and now, having made all necessary acknowledgements and disclaimers, I will proceed with my narrative.
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