press, or those whose pleasure it is to "skim" it for themselves. "They have no time." They have time for motoring, cycling, card-playing, racing, betting, hockey and golf,—anything in short which does not directly appeal to the intellectual faculties,—but for real reading, they can neither make leisure, nor acquire aptitude.
This vague, sieve-like quality of brain and general inability to comprehend or retain impressions of character or events, which is becoming so common among modern so-called "readers" of books, can but make things very difficult for authors who seek to contribute something of their utmost and best to the world of literature. Most men and women who feel the "divine afflatus," and who are able to write in a style above the average, must be conscious of a desire to rise yet higher than any of their own attempted efforts, and to do something new, strong, and true enough to hold life and lasting in it when other contemporary work is forgotten. It is the craving of the "sick eagle looking at the sky" perhaps, nevertheless it is a noble craving. In taking an aim, it is as well to let fly at the moon, even if one only hits a tree. But when fiery-footed Pegasus would fain gallop away with its rider into the realms of imagination and enchantment,—when the aspiring disciple of literature, all aglow with freshness and fervour, strives to catch some new spirit of thought as it rushes past on its swift wings, or seeks to create some fair consoling idyll of human circumstance, then all the publishers stand massed in the way and cry "Halt!" "Don't let us have any great ideas!" they say—"They are above the heads of the public. Be domestic—
