not. There is a novel that, I assure you on my honor, is as good as
the "Three Guardsmen;" but--oh!--so--much--shorter; the pity of it,
too!--oh, the pity of it! On the second reading--now, let us speak with
frank conservatism--on the second reading of it, I give you my word, man
to man, I dreaded to turn every page, because it brought the end nearer.
If it had been granted to me to have one wish fulfilled that fine winter
night, I should have said with humility: "Beneficent Power, string it
out by nine more volumes, presto me here a fresh box of cigars, and the
account of your kindness, and my gratitude is closed."

* * * * *

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