A young man called once on the great Voltaire, and besought his encouragement in projects he had conceived for a reorganized and better scheme of human society, The philosopher leaned his head upon his hand and thought a minute, then rising, led the way to an inner room, where, against the velvet-hung wall, was an ivory figure of the Redeemer on the cross; he pointed to it with warning forefinger. “Young man,” he said, “behold the fate of a reformer.” When I see the little things many men strive and cavil over and the great ones they disregard or ignore I know that the kingdom of Liliput was not a figment of the imagination of the genial Swift but a lesson from real life. And when I consider how they swarm like water-bugs and quarrel over the pronunciation of words and bicker with their neighbor to make him or her use the sharp “a” in “squalor” so as to make it “squaylor,” I think sensible people might be excused for weeping or even swearing. Little people these, say I, and I would wager a dollar to nothing that William Dean Howells is their prophet and that they all venerate his works. The mere fact that Howells is, is a proof that there are those who want Howells besides himself, and while not entirely subscribing to the saying that “whatever is is best,” it must be recognized that it has its _raison d’être_, and we all know Howells has his readers or he would not have his publishers. One can almost tell what a man’s opinions will be by knowing what he reads or has read, just as I once heard it said of a tuft-hunting editor that it could be predicated with absolute certainty what position he would take on a public question by learning with whom he walked down town in the morning or with what wealthy parvenu he passed the previous evening. This is but a modern application of the old saw, “a man is known by the company he keeps,” and mentally he may be known by the books he reads or the magazines he skims through. I shudder for Richard Watson Gilder, John Brisben Walker, E. Bok, and others of the Mutual Admiration Society style of periodical makers if they are to be believed to keep the company or read the lucubrations of the contributors to the dreary masses of illustrated inanities they edit, publications which have claims to interest, based alone upon the merit of their illustrations and the perfection of their typographical beauty. But to recur to the line of romance and digress from the magazines which need so much attention, and from “Bartley” and the other counter jumping namby-pamby, goody-goodies of the Howells stripe, including his own weary history of himself, and the “Books Which Most Influence Him,” the baleful effects of which are legitimately and plainly perceptible in his works. There are shams in literature more dreadful than Mr. Howells, who is a turgid fact and no sham. For instance;