It is with the idea of partially remedying this state of affairs, in which the odds are so uneven, that I venture to offer a few suggestions on the advisability of adopting an old and picturesque institution from a totally different Trade, and adapting it to the needs of contemporary Literature. This is the explanation of the caption of this paper, which may be a little perplexing to some unsophisticated readers. I propose to borrow the main features of the old clothing Fair, which is held among the Hebrews every Sunday morning in Petticoat Lane, London,--one of the most picturesque Babels in the world. This would even up matters a little. I do not propose any reform, and I should not dare to mention any of the remarkable modern instances of success in literature by persons who produce much fiction which is not literature. They are sufficiently glaring to advertise themselves among book lovers. But I do want to lead a forlorn hope to re-establish some sort of social and moral, if not intellectual, equilibrium between poor handicapped brains and overwhelming _brass_. At the present moment the calling of literature is the caravan or the refuge of the charlatan, the demagogue, the weakminded, the social fop, the hysterical and the notorious. My aim in this modest proposal is simply to remove a few obsolete superstitions and traditions of literary dignity that, once swept away, will leave all competitors for fame on the same footing. Perhaps we may then hope to see the few writers who are marred with a simple equipment of inspiration and talent enjoy some sort of equality with those who bring to the conquest of literature the overwhelming advantages of sex, brass, social authority and money. Let us first touch upon certain aspects of criticism and publicity in the Literary Show. It will then be perfectly clear to the most prejudiced reader--and I expect prejudice in this wicked world--that my suggestion of a Sunday Fair for Literature is the most feasible and dignified expedient that can now be adopted, if any of us are to continue the struggle for some literary achievement and standard and some genuine thought in our modern Babel. It has always been a question in the mind of the present writer whether most men, that is, sane men, do not actually know, in their own hearts, just about what they stand for _absolutely_ in life, or whether saints and rogues, wise and unwise, we are all deluded about ourselves. Heine, who wrote with so much charm about himself, and could scarcely have found a more interesting subject, was of the opinion that one cannot tell the truth about one’s self; and, since the greater portion of mankind is of this opinion, autobiography is the most irresistible form of literature. [Illustration]