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that vast constituency of lay readers, of which you speak with such charming certainty, is entitled to a word in the controversy between editors and authors; because it is to them the mighty hotch-pot concocted by the editor, the author, and the devil is served,—which they devour, too,—God help 'em!—to the bones and the rank dregs, whether they will or not,—a phenomenon as occult as the raison d'être of the black fly. In Japan I have eaten living fish, with the cold eye of the fish upon me in baleful melancholy,—because I was in the presence of royalty that loved live fish—because I was hungry—because I wanted to see what it was like—because I wanted to vaunt myself of the achievement to less ichthyic friends. But later, in the privacy of my bed-chamber, I cursed live fish loud and deep.

Is this parable a hint of the why we "peruse every line from the pens of authors of established reputation"?—in preference, too, to "the work of the cleverest tyros"?

Why should author and editor persist in serving us always hash because once, under the force of circumstances, we lied and said we liked hash? Or why, again, if they have once served us a rare tenderloin, over which we smacked our lips (metaphorically, of course), should they poke it at us with a shovel,—no longer rare, indeed, but common enough, and underdone, overdone, till we are wellnigh undone? I confess I like something verdant now and then, if for no other reason than to invent a new oath for the new writer; for we soon exhaust