There is one book, the Book of Books, swelling rich and full with the wisdom and beauty and joy and sorrow of humanity--a book that set humility like a diamond in the forehead of virtue; that found mercy and charity outcasts among the minds of men and left them radiant queens in the world's heart; that stickled not to describe the gorgeous esotery of corroding passion and shamed it with the purity of Mary Magdelen; that dragged from the despair of old Job the uttermost poison-drop of doubt and answered it with the noble problem of organized existence; that teems with murder and mistake and glows with all goodness and honest aspiration--that is the Book of Books. There hasn't been one written since that has crossed the boundary of its scope. What would that book be after some goody-goody had expurgated it of evil and left it sterilized in butter and sugar? Let no ignorant paternal Czar, ruling over cottage or mansion, presume to keep from the mind and heart of youth the vigorous knowledge and observation of evil and good, crime and virtue together. No chaff, no wheat; no dross, no gold; no human faults and weaknesses, no heavenly hope. And if any gentleman does not like the sentiment, he can find me at my usual place of residence, unless he intends violence--and be hanged, also, to him! * * * * * A novel is a novel, and there are no bad ones in the world, except those you do not happen to like. Suppose a boy started with Robinson Crusoe and was scientifically and criminally steered by the hand of misguided “culture” to Scott and Dickens and Cooper and Hawthorne--all the classics, in fact, so that he would escape the vulgar thousands? Answer a straight question, ye old rooters between a thousand miles of muslin lids--would you have been willing to miss “The Gunmaker of Moscow” back yonder in the green days of say forty years ago? What do you think of Prof. William Henry Peck's “Cryptogram?” Were not Sylvanus Cobb, Jr., and Emerson Bennett authors of renown--honor to their dust, wherever it lies! Didn't you read Mrs. Southworth's “Capitola” or the “Hidden Hand” long before “Vashti” was dreamed of? Don't you remember that No. 52 of Beadle's Dime Library (light yellowish red paper covers) was “Silverheels, the Delaware,” and that No. 77 was “Schinderhannes, the Outlaw of the Black Forest?” I yield to no man in affection and reverence for M. Dumas, Mr. Thackeray and others of the higher circles, but what's the matter with Ned Buntline, honest, breezy, vigorous, swinging old Ned? Put the “Three Guardsmen” where you will, but there is also room for “Buffalo Bill, the Scout.” When I first saw Col. Cody, an ornament to the theatre and a painful trial to the drama, and realized that he was Buffalo Bill in the flesh--why, I was glad I had also read “Buffalo Bill's Last Shot”--(may he never shoot it). The day has passed forever, probably, when Buffalo Bill shall shout to his other scouts,