delicious horrificness." A tribute which, failing all other endorsement, would send the "Derelict" a long way on her cruise to the future.
In a copy of the book mentioned above, presented to a certain person, Mr. Riley has inscribed this characteristic verse of appreciation (ah, collectors! wouldn't ye like to set gloating lamps upon it?— Hold off!—your pieces of eight shall not tempt me.)—
Fifteen men on the dead man's chest—
Yo—ho—ho and a bottle of rum!
Young E. Allison done all the rest—
Yo—ho—ho and a bottle of rum!
He's sung this song for you and me,
Jest as it wuz—or it ort to be—
Clean through time and eternity.
Yo—ho—ho and a bottle of rum!
* * *
The more laws the less liberty. And no country in the world is piling up statutes at the rate that we are. But wait until the women begin legislating—ach, Himmel!
The American people are the worst afflicted in the world with that species of human puce known as the "busybody." There are several vicious kinds of him, but the journalistic species alone is sufficient to keep us in a permanently miserable and unhappy condition.
A woman writes:
"'A Drop of Dew' in the April Phoenix is a beautifully written thing, but my very soul resents its hopeless conclusion, therefore I do not like it. Time was when I would have quite agreed with Hearn, but to-day I know better! Not for naught is nature's continuous attempt at individualization. The miracle worker back of it all is striving for some thing beyond just fleeting shadows, do not doubt it.
"But outside of any words (which tell us so little), I say to you that I rely on my own spirit consciousness beyond all science, beyond all teachings, beyond all thought. To be conscious of a thing is to be aware of, to know it:
