Walter de la Mare has written an exquisite story of a midget. It is not a pleasant story, for pitiful stories are not pleasant stories. And the "Memoirs of a Midget" is very and sincerely pitiful. No one has written the life of Zip the "What Is It" to whom Barnum gave fame. Dickens gave a name, and the public gave the vital interest of its perpetual indecorum. But now that Zip is dead and the fellowship of freaks takes on the vestments of usual mourning the need of such a memoir becomes less remote. Zip should be perpetuated. For in a time of mental, moral and physical pattern and similarity he stood for originality and uniqueness. That he was endowed thus is true--but that he maintained his endowment is equally true. No college, unfortunately, dared give him an honorary degree. It remains for some capable writer to give him immortality. Yet perhaps he has that already. Somebody may have found in a place more adapted to consistent originality the answer to Dicken's question when he first saw Zip--"What is it?" And there is not real proof that spirits can appreciate modern literature.
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