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Updated: May 18, 2025
Meunier, fulfilling his promise to me, paid my fare to New York. I soon walked into the office of the National Magazine. Clara Martin was there, and Allsworth Lephil, the managing editor, and his assistant Galusha Siddon. As I sat in the office, they gave me a sort of impromptu reception. Ray Sanford strolled in, as fresh-complexioned as an Englishman.
I had cursed at him, thought he was trying to make a monkey of me ... for I had dropped on deck a letter to me from Lephil of the National, and so the crew had learned that I was a poet among them. But I was not being spoofed ... actual tears of surprise and chagrin came into the coal-passer's eyes. Then I had been ashamed of myself ...
Lephil, editor of the National Magazine, for whom he was writing a serial, had showed him some of my verse, and he must hasten to encourage me ... I puzzled long over the writer's signature.... It could not be possible! but it seemed to be inscribed with the name of a novelist famous for his investigations of capitalistic abuses of the people ... the author of the sensational novel, The Slaughter House, which was said to out-Zola Zola Penton Baxter.
You need to sit quiet and write for a few years ... you've been over the map too much already." "Baxter has just been in here ... he's writing us a sensational novel exposing society. He spoke to me about you," Lephil remarked, "said he wished we'd put a tag on you and ship you down to his Eden colony." There was a pause. Miss Martin thoughtfully tapped her forehead with a pencil.
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