If the publisher of this series did not have such absurd sensitiveness about the value of space and such pitifully small ideas about the nobility of novels, I should like to write at least twenty pages about “Chicot.” There are books that none of us ever put down in our lists of great books, and yet which we think more of and delight more in than all the great guns. Not one of the friends I've loved so long and well has been President of the United States, but I wouldn't give one of them for all the Presidents. Just across the hall at this minute I can hear the frightful din of war--shells whistling and moaning, bullets s-e-o-uing, the shrieks of the dying and wounded--Merciful Heaven! the “Don Juan of Asturia” has just blown up in Manila Bay with an awful roar--again! Again, as I'm a living man, just as she has blown up every day, and several times every day, since May 1, 1898. There are two warriors over in the play-room, drenched with imaginary gore, immersed in the tender grace of bestowing chastening death and destruction upon the Spanish foe. Don't I know that they rank somewhat below Admiral Dewey as heroes? But do you suppose that their father would swap them for Admiral Dewey and all the rainbow glories that fine old Yankee sea-dog ever will enjoy--long may he live to enjoy them all!--do you think so? Of course not! You know perfectly well that his--wife--wouldn't--let--him! I would not wound the susceptibilities of any reader; but speaking for myself--“Chicot” being beloved of my heart--if there was a mean man, living in a mean street, who had the last volume of “Chicot” in existence, I would pour out my library's last heart's blood to get it. He could have all of Scott but “Ivanhoe,” all of Dickens but “Copperfield,” all of Hugo but “Les Miserables,” cords of Fielding, Marryat, Richardson, Reynolds, Eliot, Smollet, a whole ton of German translations--by George! he could leave me a poor old despoiled, destitute and ruined book-owner in things that folks buy in costly bindings for the sake of vanity and the deception of those who also deceive them in turn. Brother, “Chicot” is a book you lend only to your dearest friend, and then remind him next day that he hasn't sent it back. * * * * *