Indeed the glut of balderdash in the literary market has become so serious and critical that it seems to me some heroic measure is necessary. I humbly suggest a measure that would, in a radical and effective manner, meet the situation. It is this: that a Censorship of Literature should be established in connection with the department of justice. The sole object of the censorship would be the promotion of the best interests of literature. The censorship would take the delinquents in hand, with a stern and implacable majesty of law, that would indeed put a premium on literary ambition and tempt only the finest spirits and wits into the field. The idea is this: At forty years of age every successful literary man should be “removed”--and by removal we imply the full significance of the picturesque Oriental figure. To obviate all chances, it would be fairly understood that all literary careers ended at forty. There would be no alternative of banishment or imprisonment. It would be death in every case. This would not be done to embarrass the production of good literature, no matter how great the production might become, for the world is big enough, and humanity is slow and dull enough to accommodate all the good literature the centuries may bring forth. But the measure is needed to prevent authors from destroying the good influence of their first honest and strenuous work and their own reputations. And this fate would not deter the finest minds, for they would be content to die with fame secure. But just think of the beneficial and deterrent effect of such an institution on the horde of scribbling men and women who bury all the good literature of our time under their huge mountain of silly novels! JONATHAN PENN. A FANTASIE OF DREAMS. Dreams of Death, Wherein the Breath Of pulsing Life wavereth ’Twixt earth and sky, And fluttering Things sail by In hideous forms that cause the eye To quail in fright ... Dark Things of Night With bat-like wings, and eyes as bright As flames of Hell Wherein they dwell To torment souls with wild revel. With bony claws of razored steel They clutch the naked soul and seal Thereon their hellish dies ... ... Midst eldritch yelps, and cries Of fiendish triumph--echoed by the skies-- They bear the gasping soul, Livid and seared, through voids that roll Away in endless horrors up to the goal Of all lost souls: and there They wrench their way thro’ putrid air Of brimstone,--foul smells that bear The Soul on seas of thirsty flames That surge and swell ... ... And there the soul forever broils And roasts and boils Within the blackened gates of Hell. JOHN NORTHERN HILLIARD. BUBBLE AND SQUEAK. Women are the exceptions to every rule. That is what rules are made for--so that women can be exceptions to them.