Search -
Far Away And Long Ago - A History Of My Early Life
Far Away And Long Ago A History Of My Early Life Author:W. H. Hudson FAR AWAY AND LONG AGO A HISTORY OF MY EARLY LIFE BY W. H. HUDSON AUTHOR OF IDLE DAYS IN PATAGONIA, THE PURPLE LAND, A CRYSTAL AGE, ADVENTURES AMONG BIRDS, ETC. INTRODUCTION BY R. B. CUNNINGHAMS GRAHAM E. P. DUTTON CO., INC. NEW YORK COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY E. P. Durum Co., Inc. COPYRIGHT RENEWAL, 1946, BY THE ROYAL SOCIETY FOE THE PROTECTION OF BIKD... more »S All Right Reserved Twenty Fifth Printing, September, I PRINTED XH THI UNlTKD STATES OF AMKRfCA MONTAUK BOOK MFG. CO., INC., NKW YORK INTRODUCTION PERHAPS of all the books that Hudson wrote, this has the most of his own personality. He must have written it, in the same spirit as when he wrote The London Sparrow, wistfully, from the drear environment of bricks and mortar, and of streets damp with petrol, with an eye on the bright birds that he had known so long ago and far away. The title has a beauty of its own, but he was always happy in his titles The Purple Land, Green Mansions, El Qmbu f The Hind in Richmond Park f and Birds in London. He was himself a bird in London, caged in ill-health and poverty, for the most part unable to escape, but at rare intervals, into his own world of light and air. As cruel fools put out birds eyes to make them, as they say and perhaps think, to sing more sweetly, so had a cruel world imprisoned Hudson in his London cage Luckily, in spite of its neglect of a genius so rare, it could not stop his singing. Many have written of his great simplicity, nearness to nature, and of his style, that seems to have as little effort in it as have the trills and quavers of a nightingale. I confess, for long, both I and a more competent au thority, Joseph Conrad, were both deceived. Conrad who wrote in drops of blood wrung from the fibres of his soul, vi INTRODUCTION has often envied Hudsons damned facility I also used to think that he sat down and wrote and wrote, without erasure, till the maid in his dingy lodgings, looked in, and holding the door in a red, grimy hand, said Mr. Udson, sir, yer suppers gettin cold. Then Hudson, as I thought, would say Supper, eh Oh, yes, thank you and go on writing till the maid came again to say she did not like to see good victuals spoiled. I had forgotten Byrons dictum, that your easy writ ing makes your damned hard reading. Byron was right, though in his own case he did not always follow what he preached. When Hudson had departed, to join his old horse Zango in Trapalanda, where I hope they ride contented, the one never to smell the stench of London streets, the other not to feel the cruel spur, to mak him weary, I saw some of his manuscripts. Scored and rescored, they looked like an etching by Muirhead Bone of some great building in construction, with its tiers of scaffolding Conrad was dead, and so I was unable to console him with the assurance that Hudson was no exception from the law, that entails suffering and tears at birth. Galsworthy, in his fine introduction to this volume in the collected works of Hudson, has dwelt upon his unity with nature, his sensitiveness, and his literary style. All that he says is true, and what he says on style is j er haps the best definition of that gift, for it is not an art, but comes by nature, like a sense of colour, or good hands upon a horse, that perhaps ever has been penned. Certainly Hudson had it, just as a condor has the gift of soaring motionless in the thin atmosphere of the high Andes. In neither case was it a thing acquired, but born. INTRODUCTION vii both with the bird and man, as soon as either of them first used wings or pen. It may be that Hudsons real eminence and extraordi nary attraction lie in his spirit and philosophy. It may be so To me his astonishing attraction is that, apart from all his other gifts, his style, quiet humour, sarcasm, and pantheistic mind, he was at heart an old-time gaucho of the plains...« less