Mr. Henry Lavaden, of the French Academy, in a series of articles, has said some good things on books that we should not read. He tells us that “the danger line is when our conscience begins to flinch. If a certain phrase seem innocent in appearance, extremely perfect, if it touches the conscience, do not hesitate, but stop. It is the needle of the compass which quivers when it gets off the course.” He declares that “there is no one but has experienced that sure and silent reproach that never deceives; and if you think I am severe against bad, inopportune, culpable reading, it is because you can not yet imagine the ravages which it produces, even among those to whom it teaches nothing and who therefore persuade themselves—imprudent men!—that they need not worry about it. It disturbs, it agitates, it shatters the equilibrium of the higher forces, and above all it soils the soul, it splashes it with mud.” He declares that our reading ought to be such that it shall be “the logical and indispensable radiance of all the deeds of our life; that it shall escort our work, supplement our profession, finish and perfect at all times and under all circumstances the special men that we are,” and he declares that what one should read is that which “can be read aloud,” not alone, but to “one’s daughter or to one’s mother.”