I should have thought a man who has enough love of _real_ literature to turn to the good old eighteenth century form of the gossipy essay, as Mr. Martin has done in one or two books, would have had enough sense of humor to appreciate a sincere and honest attempt to rehabilitate free thought, robust opinion and high endeavor in present day literature. The revival of the old and honorable pamphlet form, which is and always has been the vehicle of free thought, free fancy and the honest literature of Democracy since the popularization of the printing press should appeal to a bookman. Mr. Martin is, however, a much better Tory than he is a humorist; and to those who are not aware of it, it is well to point out that one of the significant developments in American literature is the Tory spirit of a certain clique of comfortables, who regard literature not as the sacred tables of the human mind, but as a mere game for people of taste. It is disappointing, however, to find a man who shows his appreciation of the good old school of essayists by attempting to work out a career as one of this scanty apostolic succession, so completely vitiated in his critical and humorous perception by bad company that he can only find a cheap, cant term, borrowed from the gutter or the class-room, for the honest work of men, who, in this age of clatter and notoriety, are striving against odds to bring in the ideals of the old robust English literature. But a Tory cannot be tolerant of Grub Street, or stick at simple honesty in criticism. He is bound to associate genius with prosperity, or some of his friends’ fame will suffer, and discriminating readers will grow overbold in their choice of polite literature. Fame depends nowadays on one’s appreciations of one’s well to do contemporaries. It is the solemn business of all “respectable” critics to keep literature as the sacred gift and heirloom of a close corporation of perfectly “respectable” and inoffensive writers. But perhaps time will bring a sense of humor to Mr. Martin. We hope so, as we have a tenderness for every man who cares for and writes essays. Mr. Martin’s attitude surprised us somewhat, as he really can write an amusing essay and we expect much toleration from an essayist. But he may live to grow mellow and learn to love stout heretics. Every independent writer since Job has appeared “fresh” to smug complacency, and an essayist should never countenance smuggery, if he would hold any status with book men. It always appears ridiculous to a clique that other men should fight for and demand a hearing. But we must honestly aver our egotistical opinion that there is fully as much brains in Grub Street, frowned upon as it is by the respectable tin gods of contemporary criticism and literature, as there is in other and more respectable coteries of literature.