The Editor is a Man of Mystery. Was he ashamed of his Editorials, or were the Editorials ashamed of him? Deponent sayeth not—because he doesn’t know.
Everybody else’s name is given, save that of the only man whose name there was any special reason for giving—to wit, The Editor.
Is THIS the way they send you into the world, MY CHILD? Offspring of my hand, my heart and my soul—Benjamin of my old age! Is THIS the orphanage upon which you have fallen?
Glancing down the list of writers who have contributed to this November number, I am startled to find the name of Thos. E. Watson.
Who is he, anyhow? Isn’t he the man whom Colonel Mann and DeFrance have been slandering through the newspapers? Why put his name into this pot?
Curious to see what Mr. Watson may have written for the Thing, I follow the page reference (103) and find the familiar headline “Educational Department.” This department was my own creation, primarily intended for the instruction of the younger members of the family. Under the headline of “Educational Department,” the Thing puts a list of books.
Some boy wrote to me last winter asking me to name one hundred books which would be useful to the general reader. I made out the list, last February, and mailed it to New York.
In their quandary of dismissing Watson, the man, and holding on to Watson, the Reputation, they fished that list of books out of the waste-basket and published it. They signed my name to it.
That’s the only item in the Thing’s “Educational Department.”
Pitiful!