And here comes from Emma Eggleson, Sumner, Iowa, something that is too choice even for my Waste Basket: Hail to thee, Neith Boyce! Suffering makes a sisterhood and I embrace thee. The desire to “edit” every article printed in its columns is often a ruling force in the career of the Presiding Elder of a Newspaper. Especially is this illustrated in the walk and conversation of sundry publications that pour out chronic sweetness at stated periods on the classic air of the Hub. It is meat and drink to the modest Literary Aspirant to see himself in type, even if his “effort” is served with a few modifications in style, but when he beholds the offspring of his genius scalped on the crown, shorn on each side, and whittled down to a sickly wedge of small talk at the close, the swift flow of interesting narrative converted to a sluggish bayou with the cream ideas carefully skimmed from its surface and discarded, he stares helplessly at the title and signature, which are all the recognizable features left, and resolves to become—a kicker. Yet this is Boston, that sits upon her throne of Baked Beans sandwiched between hills of Brown Bread, and discourses to hungry souls on the occult sciences of philosophical research, and the inscrutable never-the-less-ness of the More-over. Boston, the mystic sea-kine, wearing horns of pearl, a ring in her nose whereby Wisdom leads her, and a board before her placid countenance on which is printed “Inquire Within,” so that even the ships in the harbor may read the sign and profit thereby! Farewell, thou Press of a traditional city! Smitten on both cheeks by the blade of thy pruning knife, I withdraw my MS. from thy sanctum and seek for it a field where its individuality is not thrown aside like a worthless banana-peel. The world is wide, and if a publisher offends in this manner, though he may have been like one’s right hand, he should be cut off and cast away entirely. The blue pencil has many privileges, but when it rides too high on the wave of editorial presumption, a halt must be called. Better the comforting printed slip that offers thanks to the obliging contributor for submitting unavailable matter for consideration and announces it “returned herewith,” (probably unread). * * * * * I welcome David B. Hill to the ranks of the Philistines. There are some things about the more or less disingenuous David that I don’t like, but when he slings a pebble at the gluttony that calls itself public life in Washington, he strikes twelve. It was Emerson who spoke of “the riot of the senses to be seen in American Hotels,” and when Mr. Hill stands in the gilded bar-room of the Ebbitt House and asks “Are we a Christian people?” the question is in order. * * * * *