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flattery) at the rate of $10 a thousand words, is the unseen part of the publishers' dizzy extravagance. The average payment for such an amount of literary work, from respectable publishers, is $40 to $75. Literary Life is "a young magazine," and if this be its method of living it is to be hoped that it may be spared the burden of old age.

Justin McCarthy, M.P., the distinguished Irish patriot and author, delivered an eloquent address on the "Cause of Ireland," in the Boston Theater, on Sunday evening, October 10. A reception and banquet were given him, the next evening, in the Parker House. O'Reilly presided and made the following speech of welcome to the guest:

Gentlemen: You have confided to me the sweetest duty of my life—that of welcoming in your name, as our guest and friend, a gentleman whose genius and character have won the respect of the world, one who has held high, among strangers, the ancient name and honor of the Irish race.

In the name of the Irish-American citizens of Boston and Massachusetts, Mr. Justin McCarthy, I express to you the deep pride we feel in the fame and eminence you have achieved in the high and arduous field of letters, the admiration we cherish for your genius, and the gratitude and affection we offer for your unselfish loyalty to Ireland. You are one who need not stand on national or race lines in receiving a welcome. Wherever men are cultured and intellectual, your welcome awaits you. But for your own gratification we place you on the line of nationality and race—a line that we ourselves are voluntarily obliterating and writing anew as Americans. We are done with Ireland, except in the love and hope we and our children have for her. Were Ireland free to-morrow, we would continue our lives as Americans. Our numbers and interests are so great and so deep here that, paraphrasing the words of your distinguished national leader, we can't spare a single Irish-American. But, nevertheless, we leave others to greet you as a cosmopolitan, as a poet, as a novelist, as a historian; and we speak the welcome of the heart, because we Irish-Americans are proud of you as an Irishman. We know how hard it is for one living under the British Crown to be at once an Irish patriot and a successful man of letters. Men of other professions may harmonize their callings with this deadly sin, and succeed; but the author is allowed no concealment; he lives by his individuality, more than other professional men; between the lines he cannot help telling the secret of his own profound convictions; he must either write himself or a lie—and lies are failures, and shall be forever.

Impoverished and oppressed, Ireland is no field for literary fame or