the spell, and being carried on the wings of gentle romance away from Self, away from the everyday cares and petty personalities of social convention, and observance, and living "with" the characters which have been created by the man or woman whose fertile brain and toiling pen have unitedly done their best to give this little respite and holiday to those who will take it and rejoice in it with gratitude.
Few there are nowadays who will so permit themselves to be carried away. Far larger is the class of people who take up a novel or a volume of essays, merely to find fault with it and fling it aside half unread. The attitude of the bad-tempered child who does not know what toy to break next, is the attitude of many modern readers. Nothing is more manifestly unfair to an author than to judge a book by the mere "skimming" of its pages, and this injustice becomes almost felonious when the merits or demerits of the work are decided without reading it at all. For instance, Smith meets Jones in the train which is taking them out to their respective "little places" in the country, and says:
"Have you read So-and-So's latest book? If not, don't!" Whereupon Jones murmurs: "Really! So bad as all that! Have you read it?" To which Smith rejoins rudely: "No! And don't intend! I've heard all about it!" And Jones, acquiescing feebly, decides that he must "taboo" that book, also its author, lest perhaps Mrs. Jones' virtue be put to the blush at the mention of either. Now if Smith dared to condemn a tradesman in this way, and depreciated his goods to
