Ponkapog Papers
by Aldrich

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IN his Memoirs, Kropotkin states the singular
fact that the natives of the Malayan Archipel-
ago have an idea that something is extracted from
them when their likenesses are taken by photo-
graphy. Here is the motive for a fantastic short
story, in which the hero--an author in vogue
or a popular actor--might be depicted as having
all his good qualities gradually photographed
out of him. This could well be the result of
too prolonged indulgence in the effort to "look
natural." First the man loses his charming sim-
plicity; then he begins to pose in intellectual
attitudes, with finger on brow; then he becomes
morbidly self-conscious, and finally ends in an
asylum for incurable egotists. His death might
be brought about by a cold caught in going out
bareheaded, there being, for the moment, no hat
in the market of sufficient circumference to meet
his enlarged requirement.

THE evening we dropped anchor in the Bay
of Yedo the moon was hanging directly over
Yokohama. It was a mother-of-pearl moon,
and might have been manufactured by any of
the delicate artisans in the Hanchodori quarter.
It impressed one as being a very good imitation,
but nothing more. Nammikawa, the cloisonne-
worker at Tokio, could have made a better

I NOTICE the announcement of a new edition
of "The Two First Centuries of Florentine
Literature," by Professor Pasquale Villari. I
am not acquainted with the work in question,
but I trust that Professor Villari makes it plain
to the reader how both centuries happened to be

THE walking delegates of a higher civiliza-
tion, who have nothing to divide, look upon the
notion of property as a purely artificial creation
of human society. According to these advanced
philosophers, the time will come when no man
shall be allowed to call anything his. The bene-
ficent law which takes away an author's rights
in his own books just at the period when old
age is creeping upon him seems to me a hand-
some stride toward the longed-for millennium.

SAVE US from our friends--our enemies we
can guard against. The well-meaning rector of
the little parish of Woodgates, England, and
several of Robert Browning's local admirers
have recently busied themselves in erecting a
tablet to the memory of "the first known fore-
father of the poet." This lately turned up an-
cestor, who does not date very far back, was also
named Robert Browning, and is described on
the mural marble as "formerly footman and
butler to Sir John Bankes of Corfe Castle."
Now, Robert Browning the poet had as good
right as Abou Ben Adhem himself to ask to be
placed on the list of those who love their fellow
men; but if the poet could have been consulted
in the matter he probably would have preferred
not to have that particular footman exhumed.
However, it is an ill wind that blows nobody
good. Sir John Bankes would scarcely have
been heard of in our young century if it had
not been for his footman. As Robert stood day
by day, sleek and solemn, behind his master's
chair in Corfe Castle, how little it entered into
the head of Sir John that his highly respectable
name would be served up to posterity--like a
cold relish--by his own butler! By Robert!