From seven to seventy; memories of a painter and a Yankee
If some curious reader, chancing upon this foreword to the narrative of the life of Edward Simmons, should require my reason for calling it an Interruption instead of an Introduction, I might reply with the obvious evasion that so distinguished a painter as Edward Simmons needs no introduction.
The recipient of medals innumerable, and the most flattering mention in every European capital, surely should need no introduction even in his own country, many of whose public buildings and galleries are enriched by examples of his work in decoration, portraiture, or genre.
But this, as I have said, would be evasion and not my true reason for calling my preface an interruption, and since the curiosity that can drive a reader to the perusal of matter that is essentially deterrent, wholly superfluous, and probably dull must be of persistence that will brook no gainsay, I will make a virtue of compulsion and narrate for that reader's private enlightenment a story of a very personal nature concerning Mr. Simmons, the telling of which I had rather hoped to avoid.
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