The story in _Gil Blas_ of the strolling player—true to what he deemed his art—working with commendable if misdirected energy, walking from town to town, and as he walked soaking his dry crusts in the water of wayside wells—this were a story of success. Success, it seems to me, lies not so much in having one’s name a commonplace among this great American public, which falls down to worship mediocrity if it is well advertised, as in doing one’s day’s work honestly and sincerely. To sing a song that finds its way into the hearts of men; to act a part that helps another toward his happiness, and do it all without blare of trumpets and jangle of hurdy-gurdy; and then walk on to the next town, stopping by the roadside wells to soak a dry crust in cool water, or, perhaps, a fresh cake in a mug of Bass as occasion served, and then, at the end, to lie down quietly, listening to the singing by the people of one’s own songs—though they know it not—presents a picture of a perfect harmony. This is the preachment of Stevenson and of men before him, and until a better one may be advanced this will serve. I would rather have written _The Pavilion on the Links_ than _Successward_, or even Mr. Davis’s masterpiece, _Van Bibber and the Swan Boats_. Still, it is a matter of taste, and if one likes lactated food, roast mutton is bad for his stomach. * * * * * According to the prospectus Mr. Cudahy’s book fairly bristles with epigram: the bristles alone are said to be worth the money. * * * * * Probably Lawrence Hutton knows more about death masks than any living man. I cheerfully grant him this honor, but when he writes the advertising pages in _Harper’s_ and springs them on an unsuspecting public as “Literary Notes,” I rebel. Rebellion is not, however, confined to mere objection to his sailing under false colors, but to such sentences as these from a recent number of _Harper’s_: “_Beyond the Dreams of Avarice_ is not as _amusing_ as an entertaining story, but it is intensely interesting from beginning to end. No one who picks it up for an evening’s _amusement_ will be likely to lay it down unfinished or to lay it aside for any other form of current _entertainment_.” The italics are mine, and are put in simply to emphasize the occult meaning of Mr. Hutton, who belongs to the class which assumes to set the literary pace of the world. I doubt if Brander Matthews could do worse. * * * * * The portrait of Mr. Cudahy that is used as a frontispiece in his new book is a photograph from the original chromo, signed by the electrotyper. * * * * * It is reported to me that quite a large section of the Metropolitan colony sing their jubilate this way: “It is Howells that hath made us and not we ourselves—We are his people and the sheep of his pasture.” * * * * *