Of course we are not going to deny the abilities of the greatest European writers and artists of the day. That would be too absurd; and we thank the good God that a proper sense of humor is one of the unfailing elements of good nature, good taste and charm that our readers may always count upon finding in the FLY LEAF. In some cases, they are men of the finest genius, who would grace the literature of any era; and it will never be the province of the FLY LEAF to decry men who have honestly won their laurels. But we have particularly in mind some of the mere industrious mechanics of letters, who build their domestic and sanguinary romances after the pattern desired by the exemplary publishers, who are most romantic for the dollar’s sake. And the publishers have somehow become invested with the onerous charge of the world’s morality, and insist that we poor critics shall be driven into crime and immorality by sheer intolerable dulness, and not by any potent allurements of the sort employed by some of the delightfully audacious French romancers. If we must make a choice between the female theological novelist of the Humphrey Ward stripe and Catulle Mendes, we prefer to be debauched morally rather than mentally. In the case of these eminently successful writers who are so liberally encouraged to save us the trouble of producing a native literature peculiar to the soil and conditions of life and thought here, it is not too much to say that the genius is so excellently and artistically simulated by ingenious puffery, that the average American reader, gobbling up his culture and luncheon in one frantic breath, does not stop to inquire whether this London hall mark is genuine or fraudulent. It is not generally known, or even suspected, in this land of guileless innocence, outside “the Trade” and journalism, that a good many British authors flourish in American literature as full fledged masters of the Yellow-jacket, who are very much more famous in this country than they are at home. In fact, a crowd of English mediocrities, of no more significance in their Grub-street than the most ordinary denizen of our own Grub Street is here, are received by our critics and public as writers of the first order of merit. They flood the American newspapers and magazines from Portland, Maine, to San Francisco, until there is actually no sort of opening left to the men and women who are trying, under the most discouraging circumstances, to produce an American literature. This is due largely to the adroit exploitation of the literary syndicates, and partly due to the apathy and timorousness of the American reading public, that is almost afraid to recognize American authors without the endorsation of the London press. And the English critics damn all American writers on principle.