story and acquired the American rights. This, it seems, was the very firm to which Mr. Farnol's actor-friend intended to show the manuscript and forgot to keep his promise. The Broad Highway, as I have said, sold in hundreds of thousands. It has appeared in an édition de luxe with beautiful illustrations by C. E. Brock. It is a breezy, healthy book, as unpretentious as it is sincere. Neither its author nor his friends need to worry themselves as to whether it is a masterpiece of literature. For our day, at least, it has added to the stock of harmless pleasures. To the critic who complains that "it is but an exercise in archæology," and that the author "has never felt what he has written but has gathered it up from books," one can but reply in the language of Goldsmith's Mr. Burchell, "Fudge."  It is still possible in England, in spite of its railway trains and its mechanical development, to feel the impulse which inspired Charles Dickens, George Borrow, and all the masters of the picaresque romance, who have in days gone by travelled with delight through the countryside, seeking adventures and finding them.  "I felt some desire," says Lavengro, "to meet with one of those adventures which, upon the roads of England, are as plentiful as blackberries in autumn."  Mr. Farnol has a talent for recreating such adventures, and he is perfectly frank with his readers, anticipating a certain type of criticism.  "Whereas the writing of books was once a painful art," he makes Peter Vibart say in The Broad Highway, "it has of late become a trick very easy of accomplishment, requiring no regard for probability and little thought, so long as it is packed sufficiently full of impossible incidents through which a ridiculous heroine and a more absurd hero duly sigh their appointed way to the last chapter. Whereas books were once a power, they are of late degenerated into things of amusement, with which to kill an idle hour, and be promptly forgotten the next."

Then followed some unhappy days which lengthened into months during which the author of 

 was endeavouring to find a publisher. Three separate publishing houses in New York refused the book; two turned it down without ceremony; a third gave as a reason that it was "too long and too English."  One of the actors of the Astor Theatre was about to fulfil an engagement in Boston, and offered to show the manuscript to a publisher in that city. Long months afterwards that friend returned to New York, and Mr. Farnol found to his chagrin that he had forgotten all about his promise. The unlucky story was still at the bottom of his trunk. The author, now almost in despair, sent the manuscript to his wife, who was 

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