212 SIR W. ROBERTSON NICOLL If I may, I should like to utter my own personal testimony, and it is this : Reading has been the chief pleasure of my life. It has given me so much pleasure that I feel I am in danger of falling into extravagance when I speak of it. The pleasure has gone on increasing, and is stronger now than ever. Of many things we grow weary in the course of years, but nowadays I have a greater happiness in reading than ever before, and I am thankful that this is so. . . . James Payn, of happy memory, wrote an admirable essay against sham admiration in literature, in which he denounced the classics, the works of Thomas Love Peacock, and other respected performances. We are all entitled to choose our favourites, and to say frankly who these favourites are, no matter how stupid may be our choice. Once on a time people used to fill up albums of confessions. To one question, ** Who is your favourite novelist ? " I always wrote with perfect honesty and sincerity "The Rev. C B. Greatrex." Probably no gentle reader has ever heard Mr. Greatrex's name. He wrote a novel which went through a magazine called Hogg's Instructor, and it was continued for volume after volume. The title of the tale is Meinoranda of a Marine Officer, and that was my favourite story, and, to be perfectly candid, I think it is my favourite story still. But I have introduced it to various persons, eminent and not eminent, and no one could ever see anything in it. Years ago I discovered where the author was living. He was rector of a little parish called Hope, near Ludlow, and I went there, and found him old, and bent, and feeble. Whoever owes him anything, I owe him much, and hope some day to discharge my debt. IV I had marked several other passages — but my space is done ; and, indeed, the human grouping reflected in those last few lines is too tender and charming to be blurred by other scenes. And in its sweetness and humility, its courtesy and enthusiasm, its precise remembrance of the past and unashamed display of sentiment, it really does epitomize, rather perfectly, as in a picture, the pervasive influence that moulds this book, the personal element that gives it ripeness, rhythm, and beauty. It is the kindliest of books — not in its tolerance towards its
