Not, I realize, for every taste, this novel strikes me as one of F. Marion Crawford's best.

It will be despised by most critics, and I assume it was at the time of its premiere. Further, not all lovers of fantasy will take to it, either, it being such a strange brew of Gothic and romance and even philosophy.

But I greatly enjoyed the book. The tattered copy I first bought served me throughout this first reading, and still exists, not fallen apart, dirtied by too many readings as it is. I've purchased other editions, since.

And it is, I assure the reader, an almost unique experience, a rare thing in literature. The main character is never called anything but The Wanderer. The witch is a powerful and magical hypnotist, putting the Mesmerists to shame. The magician, Keyork Arabian, is a wicked man, full of life and vinegar and brimstone and smoke. And Israel Kafka, he's a character pitiful and much abused. Indeed, the witch Unorna's most grievous abuse of him would shock most readers then, and will now. The author built the abuse out of a shocking tale from Prague's history, and it demanded a footnote to the novel, the novel's only one.

Finally, there's Beatrice, the Wanderer's true love. I can't help but almost snigger when I write "true love," but Crawford didn't, and the reader won't, in context.

At least, the good reader won't.

I wonder: how many good readers of books like this are left in this world of video games and blood-drenched film? ( )

The note I left myself after reading this is: not to my taste, really. ( )