I approach the subject with the greatest diffidence, because, when a man begins to analyse his own particular work, he occupies the peculiar position of being his own critic, and must either make a sacrifice of his feelings--i.e. his vanity, and natural desire to cover up his weaknesses and pose only on his few strong parts,--for, of course, every man who has had experience must know in his inmost consciousness his strength and failings (although it may not always be advisable to reveal the knowledge even to himself, far less to his critical friends),--or else be ruthless and strip himself bare for the benefit of those coming after him. If I were only a critic, I could enter the lists in a jocund spirit and tilt away right and left as critics mostly do, satisfied that no one could pierce my armour and place me _hors de combat_; but when a knight goes to the tournament with armour a little worse designed than many of the coats of mail he is facing, or, at least, when he is aware of the sad fact, he does not ride forth so joyfully. Nevertheless I shall endeavour, as far as possible, to lay aside my _amour propre_ for the sake of my readers and give them the benefit of my experience, even although I may be wounded badly while I am doing so. I take a few of the illustrated books which lie handiest to me at this moment, and make them the text for my remarks, which, as I have already said, I intend to make strictly practical rather than historical; therefore, I shall only touch upon illustrative work in the more distant past in so far as it may apply to the canons which I have laid down for myself to follow, and no further. An illustrated book, to be perfect, ought to have nothing intrusive about it; no single picture ought to assert itself unduly, and so make the text with the other illustrations appear mean, washy, or weak. If the keynote struck is to be rugged strength, let there be no incongruity of super-refined and delicate lines; let the text be bold and assertive enough to suit the quality of the illustrations from the title-page to the end, so that the reader's eye may get accustomed at once to take a distant view of the whole, and not have to push the book back from him to arm's length on the one page, and bring it close to his eyes at the next. Books are like pictures, or ought to be--either gallery works, or produced for the cabinet; either to be admired from the distance, or else examined with a microscopic lens. [Illustration: ST. CHRISTOPHER]