Everybody knows that _The Friday Literary Review_ of _The Chicago Evening Post_ under Mr. Francis Hackett and, later, under Mr. Floyd Dell gave us the most alert, the most eager, the most intelligent, and the best-written discussion of literature in the United States. That eight-page supplement did what had hardly been done west of England before: it made book reviews worth reading. There was almost as much difference between the _Friday Review_ and _The Dial_ as there is between Mr. George Bernard Shaw and Mr. Nicholas Murray Butler, almost as much difference between the _Friday Review_ and _The New York Times Literary Supplement_ as there is between M. Anatole France and Mr. Henry Van Dyke. There was good writing in the _Friday Review_ and good thinking behind it. It was almost never dull; and if it was young it was not wholly unsophisticated; and if it was sometimes dead wrong it was not stupid. If there were half as many persons interested in the discussion of ideas as most of us like to believe the _Friday Review_ would inevitably have continued. It would, that’s all. But as things are it was fated. Neither the mechanics nor the economics of daily journalism permitted it. The _Post_ could not continue to give us—it quite literally gave us—eight pages of what so few of us wanted so much. Everybody knows that if a weekly paper dealing not only with literature but with all the other arts in the spirit and with the journalistic competence of the _Friday Review_ were established in Chicago everybody would have to read it.