“Papa,” said the smart boy at dinner, “does consomme mean consumed?” “No, my son,” said the philologic pa, “consomme is from a Latin word, _summum_—all—and comes to us via the French. It means ‘all together’—the same as the Trilby pose.” And there was silence for the space of four seconds. * * * * * Somebody has sent me the prospectus of a magazine shortly to be published in Cincinnati. In spite of rumors to the contrary THE PHILISTINE will continue publication. Even _The Century_, although frightened, will let advertising contracts as heretofore. THE PHILISTINE, and supposedly other magazines, base their hopes of a longer existence not on their equal worth—for lo! it is but timorously we draw breath after reading this prospectus—but knowing that the new magazine will be keyed to so exquisite a pitch of literary supremacy that only a few from the world erudite may revel in such a rarified atmosphere. The birth of the periodical—from the prospectus—fittingly closes this momentous era. Evolution, hitherto satisfied with minute gradations, now forges ahead in a stupendous leap; we are diatoms, we scratch rudely on bones, and live in caves; we still bag the mastodon with embryonic pitfall, we shave with a shell and are only paleozoic microbes in a literary miocene age. We are mental fossils clogged in stratified oblivion—but we can’t help it, we are rudimentary and still possess some basal instincts such as love, religion, love of beauty and the like. But we never imagined how infinitesimal we were until the coming of that fatal prospectus. Now we realize that the groaning of the world, the extraordinary upheaval of the age, the quickening of the leaven, the quaking of the Zeit Gheist were but the premonitory travaillings of eternity before the awful nativity of this infant from Over-the-Rhine. The veil of our temple is rent and our suspenders are in hock. Mighty Spirit of the æons have mercy on us! we are worms! moribund, senile old things. Our ears are sessile, yet we hear the portents. In this hackneyed, conventional, sterile age somebody is going to be original! Prostrate we make obeisance. Spare us Original that is to be—spare us! But who t’ell started this Literary Fresh Air Fund, anyway? * * * * *