our Anathasian vocabularies upon the old ones. It is a question whether the second best of the literary hack is always ahead of the cleverest tyros. His work may be faultless in style; but, great heaven! how barren it sometimes is of ideas! Naturally, too, the galled jade must wince.
I do not sign this note, because I know some of the people I am going to name; and because I have not the fear of the waste-basket before my eyes; and because, after all, I have faith that I shall prick the tender cuticle which I have heard venomously called the editorial pachyderm, and this shall be glory enough. This leaves me free to cite sans peur the very cases upon which you have challenged the whole world,—as I see them, of course; leaving the rest of us to speak now or else forever hold their shameful peace.
Stockton: One may read his "Rudder Grange" again and again, and "The Remarkable Wreck of the Thomas Hyke" (I believe that's right) at Least twice, and "The Lady, or the Tiger," once or more; but "The Discourager of Hesitancy" and "The Transferred Ghost" not at all; unless one wishes, prepense, to sutler the chill of a futile jest. And the dreary stretches of "The Hundredth Man" make my feeble mind ache,—I presume from aggravated vacuity. Of this latter a dim idea has penetrated me lately that in its arid photographic imbecility it aims to parody Mr. James,—one of the ad nauseam sort of jokes that only the joker can appreciate,—a sort of humorous solitaire. If this be true, I hope Mr. Stockton will not fatuously attempt to explain the joke in the painful fashion that kills. Has he forgotten his "Bull Calf"? If not, perhaps he will be merciful; for even the judge who sends men to the scaffold begs the Lord to have mercy on their souls.
Howells: Perhaps the most delightful of American writers. Almost I am persuaded to call him altogether lovely. And yet, and yet—over against "A Modern Instance," "Silas Lapham," and "Indian Summer" stand "A Foregone Conclusion" and "A Woman's Reason." But when Howells does not write with a visible weariness of the pen he is delightful. If he photographs, his camera is steady, and gives us a true genre effect sometimes through the gauze that softens and harmonizes the hard angularities of this life of ours. But for the most part there are trees that sough and whisper in our ears, turf that springs beneath our feet, and men and women whom we recognize for such through all their silly nothings, for of these—strange!—men and women are mostly made.
But, by way of contrast, take that society of New York into which Bliss Magruder has just introduced Stella. Her camera was not steady. The features crop out at any place on the plate. No one, I think, would recognize the portrait. Its creation is clearly morganatic. And those cow-boys in knickerbockers and Tam O' Shanter caps!—shall we ever look upon their like again? Her camera certainly had uncontrollable recollections of former doings with lawn-tennis lads and lassies.
And what evil genius prompted the author of "Marse Chan" to write "Soldiers of the Empire"? Did Mr. Page personally know this soldier? Sure no Frenchman ever knew such an one. And bad poetry? Whom the gods wish to destroy they first make to write poetry, I think. And of dialect stories generally might we not with profit have surcease? Is it not true that enough is better than a feast? And do not Mr. R. M. Johnston's people latterly talk as if they were stirred up with a stick and reminded of their proper business?
No, no, my dear sir: if you recruit your magazine largely from the ranks of authors of established reputation simply because of that reputation, and with-
