I want to read you some new passages from an interleaved copy of my
book. You haven't read the printed part yet. I gave you a copy of it,
but nobody reads a book that is given to him. Of course not. Nobody but
a fool expects him to. He reads a little in it here and there, perhaps,
and he cuts all the leaves if he cares enough about the writer, who will
be sure to call on him some day, and if he is left alone in his library
for five minutes will have hunted every corner of it until he has found
the book he sent,--if it is to be found at all, which doesn't always
happen, if there's a penal colony anywhere in a garret or closet for
typographical offenders and vagrants.--O. W. HOLMES. _The Poet at the
Breakfast-Table._