And now I come to the publication of a big and serious book, Hyde Park, which made its appearance to the public in April, 1908, but took me eighteen months to write and rewrite, while as to the works consulted, seventy-three are duly acknowledged in the opening pages as sources of help, besides which there were, of course, others.
“What put it into your head to write about Hyde Park?” asked a friend the other day.
Well, partly because of my sons. When in search of data across an ocean and thousands of miles of land besides, my endeavour to return for the boys’ holidays entailed trying and often too rapid and arduous travelling. Hyde Park was nearer my own door, so “homeward bound fancy ran its barque ashore.”
Besides in anticipation the task seemed invitingly easy. From early childhood had I not ridden with my father every morning over the tan of the old Park, under its trees, or past its sunlit or steel-grey water? In later days, when friends whose hospitality had been warmly shown me overseas, arrived in London, it had become usual with me to drive them round “the ’Ide Park” until I felt a sort of London Baedeker.
Once, however, the work begun, it proved serious and engrossing, and meant study: study at the British Museum: study of many, many books: search for pictures of old London. Three or four times the amount of material actually used was assiduously gathered. Then began the task of sorting out what was needful. The real difficulty of writing a book is to know what to leave out.
Well, it was a great subject, and deserved the toil spent upon it. Reward came in the praise of the Press, and—this was specially sweet—at once. Within three days, thirteen kind, warm, even enthusiastic reviews! And yet how often the contrary has been the case, and will be with many works which the public slowly learn to value only after their writers have obscurely passed away, embittered, maybe, by the lack of appreciation.
Yes, I am grateful that my history of London’s great playground was called one of “deep research” by the Morning Post, of “bright, cheery entertainment” by the Pall Mall, a “thrilling and true romance which Londoners will have to read” by the Observer. The Westminster Gazette and the Sunday Sun agreed that the book made universal appeal to all lovers of London and lovers of England.
Perhaps not one among the many columns of flattering reviews, however, gave me so much pleasure as the following letter, from an old friend, well known to fame.