ghted who have yet to approach his altars. Once, at least, he
spoke: "A book that pleases no one may be poor. The book that pleases
every one is detestable."

I seem to remember to have heard his name all my life, but until
recently I have not read one line concerning or by him. I find that my
friends, many of whom are extensive readers, are in the same sad state
of ignorance. There is an exception and that exception is responsible
for my conversion. For six years, no less, Edna Kenton has been urging
me to read Edgar Saltus. She has been gently insinuating but firm.
None of us can struggle forever against fate or a determined woman. In
the end I capitulated, purchased a book by Edgar Saltus at random, and
read it ... at one sitting. I sought for more. As most of his books
are out of print and as the list in the Public Library conspicuously
omits all but one of his best _opera_ the matter presented
difficulties. However, a little diligent search in the old book shops
accomplished wonders. In less than two weeks I had dug up twenty-two
titles and in less than two weeks I had read twenty-four; since then I
have consumed the other four. There are few writers in American or any
other literature who can survive such a test; there are few writers
who have given me such keen pleasure.

The events of his life, mostly remain shrouded in mystery. His comings
and goings are not reported in the newspapers; he does not make
public speeches; and his name is seldom, if ever, mentioned "among
those present." That he has been married and has one daughter "Who's
Who" proclaims, together with the few biographical details mentioned
below. That is all. May we not herein find some small explanation for
his apparent neglect? Many thousands of lesser men have lifted
themselves to "literary" prominence by blowing their own tubas and
striking their own crotals. Even in the case of a man of such manifest
genius as George Bernard Shaw we may be permitted to doubt if he would
be so well known, had he not taken the trouble to erect monuments to
himself on every possible occasion in every possible location. Fame is
a quaint old-fashioned body, who loves to be pursued. She seldom, if
ever, runs after anybody except in her well-known role of necrophile.

Edgar Evertson Saltus was born in New York City June 8, 1858. He is a
lineal descendant of Admiral Kornelis Evertson, the commander of the
Dutch fleet, who captured New York from the English, August