The Equinox (Volume I, Number III)

EDITORIAL We do not blame the Editors of these papers for nodding; but we do think they owe us some poetry as good as Homer’s or some erotic adventures to match Jove’s. I had almost forgotten dear old Mathers. Yet it was only last December that a colleague of mine was told by some greasy old harridan, in her best nominal 7° = 4° voice (she has paid hundreds of pounds for that nominal 7°=4°, and never got initiated into any mysteries but those of Over-eating) that Imperrita (? Imperator) was coming over from Paris to crush Perdurabo; and Perdurabo has fled before his face. Anyhow, I sneaked back from Algeria, trembling all over, and began to enjoy the comedy of a lawyer pretending that he could not serve a writ on a man with an address in the telephone directory, who was spending hundreds of pounds on letting the whole world know where to find him. It was perhaps unkind of me not to warn Mr. Cran that he was putting his foot in it. But if I had said a word, the case would have been thrown up; and then where would our advertisement have been? So, even now, I restrict my remarks; there may be some more fun coming. But at least there’s a prophet loose! Some anonymous person wrote Cran, Cran, McGregor’s man, Served a writ, and away he ran