I’m a newspaper man, and I’m supposed to “write something” every day. Of course, it can’t be done; but once in a while, when the powers are kind, I am permitted to write something that delights me and others. That’s the best I can do, so help me, and I am reminded of the Western epitaph, which went something like this: Here Lies JIM JONES. He Done His Damnedest. Angels Can Do No More. And so I hope you’ll never get out a _Little Review_ with any of the pages blank. You are wonderfully honest—one of the honestest persons, I think, that I know, and I shout for joy at your godlike impatience with imperfection. But patience—pardon the platitude—is also a godlike attribute. More Consolation _C. A. C., Chicago_: Bully! Since your outburst of righteous indignation towards yourself and your contributors I have been comparing your magazine with the others I receive. _The Forum_, _Vanity Fair_ (Oh, dear, yes!), _The Masses_, and sometimes I see _The Bang_—a weekly pamphlet of Alexander Harvey’s, which he distributes discriminately. Your wail seems not wholly justified. True, Arthur Symons’s _Spiritual Adventures, Plays, Acting, and Music_, and other essays, are things to be sought after by any editor. His stuff is appearing in America in _Vanity Fair_ and _The Forum_; it seems to lack his first fire, except that he has put a new ring to Cleopatra’s statement of herself: Kings have cast their crowns Into the dust, and kings that are my foes I can take up into my hand and cast Into the dust for love of me. I am a woman But I have power greater than any man’s. And his poems—Symons never was much of a poet. Then, again, that Wright person who writes for _The Forum_—any magazine is the better without his squibs on Art. Max Eastman had an article in a recent number of _Vanity Fair_ on “Magazine Writing.” He claims it is amazingly well done, so well done that there is “not a speck on it”—the main fault being that “it is professional. It is work and not play. And for that reason it is never profoundly serious, or intensely frivolous enough to captivate the soul. It lacks abandon. It is simply well done.” Now, the fact that the very essence of your magazine seems “pure living,” brings it out of Eastman’s indictment. One cannot say that Sherwood Anderson, Hecht, and Kaun, or even yourself, have been guilty of “earning your living” at the expense of play. “In that play alone is the heart altogether gay and inconsiderate.” And _The Bang_ has been pounding away steadily for a magazine that exists for the fun of it, the joy of it, and is not built upon the circulation manager’s point of view. Does Harvey get your magazine? Does he ever feel, if he sees it, that the “Ideal” he holds for magazinedom is being realized in your magazine?