Treasure Island? These are masterpieces which we read with pleasure as children, but with how much more pleasure when we are grown-up. In any case, what do we mean by children? A boy of three, a girl of six, a boy of ten, a girl of fourteen — are they all to like the same thing? And is a book suit able for a boy of twelve any more likely to please a boy of twelve than a modern novel is likely to please a man of thirty-seven; even if the novel be described truly as suitable for a man of thirty-seven I confess that I cannot grapple with these difficult problems. But I am very sure of this: that no one can write a book which children will like, unless he write it for himself first. That being so, I shall say boldly that this is a storyise until I received a letter from an unknown reader a few weeks after its first publication; a letter which said that he was delighted with my clever satires of the Kaiser, Mr. Lloyd George and Mr. Asquith, but he could not be sure which of the characters were meant to be Mr. Winston Churchill and Mr. Bonar Law. Would I tell him on the enclosed postcard? I replied that they were thinly disguised on the title-page as Messrs. Hodder Stoughton. In fact, it is not that sort of book. But, as you see, I am still finding it difficult to explain just what sort of book it is. Per haps no explanation is necessary. Read in it what you like; read it to whomever you like; be of what age you like; it can only fall into one of the two classes. Either you will enjoy it, or you won't.
