. The third volume of "The
Cambridge History of American Literature," bringing the subject up to
1900, has not yet appeared but I should be amazed to discover that the
editors had decided to include Saltus therein. Curiously enough he is
mentioned in Oscar Fay Adams's "A Dictionary of American Authors"
(1901 edition) and, of all places, I have found a reference to him in
one of Agnes Repplier's books.

You will find few essays about the man or his work in current or
anterior periodicals. There is, to be sure, the article by Ramsay
Colles, entitled "A Publicist: Edgar Saltus," published in the
"Westminster Magazine" for October, 1904, but this essay could have
won our author no adherents. If any one had the courage to wade
through its muddy paragraphs he doubtless emerged vowing never to read
Saltus. Besides only the novels are touched on. In 1903 G. F.
Monkshood and George Gamble arranged a compilation from Saltus's work
which they entitled "Wit and Wisdom from Edgar Saltus" (Greening and
Co., London). The work is done without sense or sensitiveness and the
prefatory essay is without salt or flavour of any sort. An anonymous
writer in "Current Literature" for July, 1907, asks plaintively why
this author has been permitted to remain in obscurity and quotes from
some of the reviews. In "The Philistine" for October, 1907, Elbert
Hubbard takes a hand in the game. He says, "Edgar Saltus is the best
writer in America--with a few insignificant exceptions," but he
deplores the fact that Saltus knows nothing about the cows and
chickens; only cities and gods seem to interest him. Still there is
some atmosphere in this study, which is devoted to one book, "The
Lords of the Ghostland." In the New York Public Library four of
Saltus's books and one of his translations (about one-sixth of his
published work) are listed. You may also find there in a series of
volumes entitled "Nations of the World" his supplementary chapters
bringing the books up to date. That is all.

All these years, of course, Saltus has had his admiring circle,[1]
people of intelligence, of whom, unfortunately, I cannot say that I
was one. These, who have been content to read and admire without
spreading the news, may well be inclined to regard my performance as
repetitive and impertinent. Of these I must crave indulgence and of
Saltus himself too. For he, knowing how well he has done his work,
must sit like Buddha, ironic and indulgent, smiling on the poor
beni