If the editor knows to a comma how he wants his poetry written, let him write it himself, as Mr. Gilder mostly does. If he thinks he can improve on the poetical style of his contributor and wants to put in his time that way, let him write and propose collaboration, or at least submit to the poor mortal of an author a plan of the contemplated improvements. But to go ahead on his own hook and change the whole complexion of the thing perhaps, and then send it out over the original signature? It is not honest. The author relinquishes for a time the child of his brain, fondly expecting to get it back again in beautiful new clothes of type. What he does get is a changeling with dyed hair and a clothespin on its nose. Is he grateful? Hardly. When the editor accepts a drawing for his magazine does he proceed to work it over, put in a few more shadows, touch up the high lights and perhaps alter the arrangement of the model’s back hair? Not as a rule. A magazine is not a school for drawing, nor is it a literary kindergarten. An editor is not a pedagogue. If he thinks a thing good enough to print, let him print it honestly as it was made; if not, let him return it with thanks and encourage the author to send it somewhere else. That author, if he is worth his Attic salt, would rather have his verses printed in the Podunk _Thinker_ as he wrote them than in the _Century_ with R. W. Gilder’s emendations. NEITH BOYCE. THE MODEL OF A STATESMAN. When Abiel Whitworth went to the assessor’s office to get fifty per cent. taken from the taxable value of his house and lot, he stepped jauntily into the room. Then he shuddered. “I want to see the assessor,” he faltered. Now, the man who had lifted his head when he stepped on the rug before the official desk filled him with a vague alarm. He was of only medium size, not well put together: he had a curling black mustache, a heavy, monkey-like face, a miraculously clean shave, a political diamond in his shirt, new clothes and an air of brutal leisure that reminded one of a sphinx, or an alderman. But it was the shining, glassy, far seeing eye, with its lashes turned back, that startled Mr. Whitworth. It was so cold, so empty of expression, so thoroughly uncanny, that it scared him. After a long, searching look, in which he did not seem to breathe, the assessor bent his head and resumed the study of a paper that lay on the desk before him. Mr. Whitworth waited; a clock ticked and buzzed somewhere in the room, emphasizing the silence: then he gulped and repeated, “I want to see Mr. Flannery, the assessor.” Some seconds elapsed this time before the man at the desk raised his head again and transfixed him with another stare: then he resumed his reading. The man was wrong, in some way. Was he mad? He might be a vampire, or a ghoul, for he did not look or act like a human being. Mr. Whitworth became quite chilly in his blood.