The Philistine
                         A Periodical of Protest.

          _We make no proud boast that we are the chosen people
           of God; we are simply plain Philistines._—THACKERAY.

                         [Illustration: No. Six.]

                        Printed Every Little While
                    for The Society of The Philistines
                             and Published by
                       Them Monthly. Subscription,
                            One Dollar Yearly
                         Single Copies, 10 Cents.
                             November, 1895.




_SPECIAL._


The Bibelot for 1895, complete in the original wrappers, uncut, is now
supplied on full paid subscriptions only, at 75 cents net.

On completion of Volume I in December the price will be $1.00 net in
wrappers, and $1.50 net in covers. INVARIABLY POSTPAID.

Covers for Volume I ready in November. These will be in old style boards,
in keeping with the artistic make-up of THE BIBELOT, and are supplied at
30 cents, postpaid. _End papers and Title-page are included_, whereby the
local binder can case up the volume at about the cost of postage were it,
as is usual, returned to the publisher for binding.

Back Numbers are 10 cents each, subject to further advance as the edition
decreases.

=Numbers Issued:=

       _I._ _Lyrics from William Blake._
      _II._ _Ballades from Francois Villon._
     _III._ _Mediæval Latin Students’ Songs._
      _IV._ _A Discourse of Marcus Aurelius._
       _V._ _Fragments from Sappho._
      _VI._ _Sonnets on English Dramatic Poets._
     _VII._ _The Pathos of the Rose in Poetry._
    _VIII._ _Lyrics from James Thomson (B. V.)_
      _IX._ _Hand and Soul: D. G. Rosetti._
       _X._ _A Book of Airs from Campion._
      _XI._ _A Lodging for the Night. (November.)_

                       THOMAS B. MOSHER, Publisher,
                             Portland, Maine.




LITTLE JOURNEYS

To the Homes of Good Men and Great.

_A series of literary studies published in monthly numbers, tastefully
printed on hand-made paper, with attractive title-page._

By ELBERT HUBBARD

The publishers announce that Little Journeys will be issued monthly and
that each number will treat of recent visits made by Mr. Elbert Hubbard
to the homes and haunts of various eminent persons. The subjects for the
twelve numbers will be announced later.

The “Journeys” for 1896 will treat of visits to the homes of American
authors.

_LITTLE JOURNEYS: Published Monthly, 50 cents a year. Single copies, 5
cents, postage paid._

“Little Journeys” and “The Philistine” will be sent to any address for
one year for one dollar.

Published by G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS,

                   27 and 29 West 23d Street, New York.
                    24 Bedford Street, Strand, London.




The Roycroft Printing Shop announces the publication about Christmas time
of an exquisite edition of the Song of Songs: which is Solomon’s; being a
Reprint of the text together with a Study by Mr. Elbert Hubbard.

In this edition a most peculiar and pleasant effect is wrought by casting
the Song into dramatic form. The Study is sincere, but not serious, and
has been declared by several Learned Persons, to whom the proofsheets
have been submitted, to be a Work of Art. The Volume is thought a seemly
and precious gift from any Wife to any Husband, or from one Friend to
another.

=The book is printed by hand, with rubricated initials and title page,
on Dickinson’s handmade paper. The type was cast to the order of the
Roycroft Shop, and is cut after one of the earliest Roman faces. It is
probable that no more beautiful type for book printing was ever made,
and, for reasons known to lovers of books, this publication will mark an
era in the art of printing in America.=

_Only six hundred copies, bound in flexible Japan vellum, have been made
and will be offered for sale at two dollars each, net. There are also
twelve copies printed on Japan vellum throughout, which will be sold at
five dollars each. Every copy is numbered and signed by Mr. Hubbard. The
type has been distributed and no further edition will be printed._

                       THE ROYCROFT PRINTING SHOP,
                          East Aurora, New York.




THE PHILISTINE.

Edited by H. P. TABER.


                       THE ROYCROFT PRINTING SHOP,
                          East Aurora, New York,
                               Publishers.

THE PHILISTINE is published monthly at $1 a year, 10 cents a single
copy. Subscriptions may be left with newsdealers or sent direct to the
publishers. The trade supplied by the AMERICAN NEWS COMPANY and its
branches. Foreign agencies, BRENTANO’S, 37 Avenue de l’Opera, Paris; G.
P. PUTNAM’S SONS, 24 Bedford street, Strand, London.

Business communications should be addressed to THE PHILISTINE, East
Aurora, New York. Matter intended for publication may be sent to the same
address or to Box 6, Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Subscriptions can begin with the current number only. A very limited
quantity of back numbers can be supplied at 25 cents each.

THE PHILISTINE and _Little Journeys_ will be sent to any address one year
for $1.

_Entered at the Postoffice at East Aurora, New York, for transmission as
mail matter of the second class._

_COPYRIGHT, 1895, by H. P. Taber._

       *       *       *       *       *

=George P. Humphrey=, Old Books, Catalogues issued, 25 Exchange street,
Rochester, N. Y.




THE PHILISTINE.

             NO. 6.         November, 1895.         VOL. 1.




A SONNET OF DESPAIR.


    My captain calls to me to join the fray,
      Fame holds her fillet ready for my brow,
      Love stands with aching, open arms, and Thou,
    O God, to whom I impotently pray,
    Art ever ready to receive me—yea,
      Dost yearn for my poor prisoned soul—then how
      Becomes it that I linger in this slough
    Of idle, unclean days, till I grow gray?

    Bound am I to a corpse, face unto face,
      Of old iniquities, and dead desire,
    Which, fair and young, of old did I embrace.
      Now chains of habit, forged in Passion’s fire,
    Hold me forever in this durance base:
      Struggling to rise, I wallow in the mire.

                             CLAUDE FAYETTE BRAGDON.




THE COMBINED PRESS.


It is all settled. There was no other way. Art was held down by the
Jews, who demanded that she come to their terms. So she has given up,
not, perhaps, without a bit of a gurgle in her choked throat, but like
the new woman she has become, she manfully faced the music with no bit
of compromise. She gave all, asking nothing but that she be placed on a
basis of “commercial independence.” I quote from the announcement which
the factory officials make to her old time friends—those who believed
that Art should exist because she _was_ Art, and that she should not be
compelled to sell her very soul for the dollars she could earn by working
overtime in their sweat shops:

    “The Combined Press is a literary syndicate formed for the
    purpose of obtaining for writers commercial independence and
    liberal remuneration for high class work.”

This starts out well, and hereafter all writers who belong shall be given
a rating in _Bradstreet’s_.

    “All contributors, whether stockholders or otherwise, will be
    given the privilege of receiving in payment the entire cash
    returns derived from their published matter, less actual cost
    of service.”

This is encouraging, for writers may feel secure in getting some return
for their labor; but hopes are dashed in the next paragraph:

    “Under no circumstances, however, will inferior contributions
    be accepted from any one, and merit will in every case be given
    preference regardless either of authorship or membership.”

The superintendent of the factory will, of course be the judge as to
merit. Regarding the Plan the Sad Tale continues as follows:

    “One thousand shares of stock will be issued to writers of
    established merit at $15.00 per share, paid up value. A payment
    of one-third of this amount will secure each share of the
    stock, but no certificates will be issued until stock becomes
    fully paid up, either by assessment or by accumulation of
    undivided profits.”

This is where the trail of the serpent shows. Mark you: it costs sums
of money to be an Artist. The days when Genius burned the tallow dip at
midnight in the garret are forever gone, for now, when everybody will
have a commercial standing, the Artists’ Labor Union will permit of no
more than eight hours labor each day. Here follows a choice bit:

    “No stock will be issued to other than writers of marked
    literary ability, and applicants for membership will be
    required to give as reference the names of one or more
    high-class publications to which they have contributed.
    Applications for stock will be referred to a committee on
    membership, and no stock will be transferable, except to such
    as are deemed entitled to membership by this committee.”

_What_ is “marked literary ability,” and who does the marking?

The factory, as it is now conducted, will consist of six departments.
Following is a list of the Foremen and Forewomen to whom all complaints
and applications for positions must be made:

    “Fiction, Ruth McEnery Stuart; Humor, R. K. Munkittrick;
    Washington, A. H. Lewis (Dan Quin); Juvenile, John Kendrick
    Bangs; Woman, Frances Bacon Paine; Agricultural, James Knapp
    Reeve.”

The following paragraph did not seem to me to be quite complete, so I
have filled out the things which were apparently forgotten in the hurry
of getting this remarkable circular before the public:

    “Striking articles of adventure (true or false), discovery,
    achievement and special news are desired; also dramatic short
    stories, with or without action and not less than five per
    cent human interest, for young and old, especially the old;
    anecdotes, quaint, humorous and pathetic; novelettes, poems,
    jingles, verselets, squibs, squabs, jokes—everything, in fact,
    that will interest, comfort, amuse, harass or annoy the modern
    or ancient reader, thoroughly artistic in execution, will be
    available.

    “Too much emphasis cannot be placed on the statement that only
    high-class matter, especially prepared for the Combined Press,
    will be used at $150 a column, net. We solicit and will pay the
    highest cash prices for hides, tallow, horns and pelts. Also
    for sale, cement, wool (wild from the West), hair (Le Gallienne
    and Ibsen brands), bricks (with or without straw) and material
    for building a modern periodical.

    “The stock books will be closed on November fifteenth, in order
    to complete the organization and make contracts for the coming
    year, stock remaining unsold November fifteenth having been
    already arranged for by parties in New York City.

    “Address all communications to The Combined Press, 1128-1129
    American Tract Building, New York.

    “Directors—John Kendrick Bangs, President; Ruth McEnery Stuart,
    Vice President; R. K. Munkittrick, Secretary; Albert B. Paine,
    Treasurer; A. H. Lewis (Dan Quin), Washington; James Knapp
    Reeve, Chief Geezer.”

Following is the form for use of those who want positions:

    Form 427                                                   300 M

                           THE COMBINED PRESS.

                       APPLICATION FOR EMPLOYMENT.

                                                       ________ 189_

    To James Knapp Reeve, Head Geezer, American Tract Building, New
    York:

    I (Name in full, three names if possible)

    ________ do hereby apply for a position as ________ and
    if employed do agree to faithfully observe all rules and
    regulations of the Combined Press, to maintain strict integrity
    of character, to abstain from the use of intoxicating liquors
    and profane swearing, not to assign my wages, and that I will
    perform my duties to the best of my ability.

    I was born the ____ day of ____ year of ____ in County of ____
    State of ____ My height is ____ feet ____ inches; weight ____
    pounds.

    Married or single. (If married, give full name and address of
    wife or husband, and how you like it.)

    Name and address of parents, if living. If dead, state so, and
    why.

    Names of those wholly dependent upon and supported by me. (This
    must be answered in full.)

    Divorced? (If not, why not?)

    Full name and address of last employer and occupation.

    Names of all editors by whom employed, with bill of particulars
    giving times and places.

    Cause of leaving (in each case).

    Names of “high-class publications referred to who will endorse
    the applicant as a reliable, industrious and competent person
    of marked literary ability.”

                   _Witnesses_: ____X____ _Mark here._

                                _________

                                _________


FACTORY NOTES.

    James Knapp Reeve has been engaged as night watchman.

    Last Tuesday Munkittrick, who has charge of the automatic
    double-chisel mortising machine, while getting out his
    second batch of verselets for the day and talking with
    Frankie Paine at the same time, accidentally lost a thumb.
    You must be more careful, Munk.

    Dan Quin is laid off for a week for sassing the foreman.

    Ruth Stuart is pasting labels on boxes on the sixth floor.

    Jimmy Reeve is captain of the Combined Press Base Ball Club,
    which will play against the Mule Spinners from Cohoes on
    Thursday.

    Johnnie Bangs had the misfortune to lose his pay envelope
    last Saturday night. It contained $4.65. The finder will
    please send it to him at Yonkers.

    The Albert Bigelow Paine Chowder Club will give one of their
    delightful assemblies at Milligan’s Hall at the Hydraulics
    next Saturday. Gents, 35c. Ladies, free.

And do my PHILISTINE readers think this is all good fooling? Do they
think that no such circular was ever issued? I hope they do. It is
pleasant to retain our old fashioned belief that men write because they
have something to say: because like Charles Reade they have a purpose to
accomplish; because like Thackeray they can dazzle us with the satire of
a master, or because like Stevenson they can take us to Treasure Island
or on that Inland Voyage where were days of such delight as come rarely
to men.

This circular, however, is a stubborn reality printed in muddy black
and gory red, and the word Combined is evidently pronounced Combin-ed.
It will be sent to poor devils who imagine that by subscribing to a
fifteen-dollar share of stock, their wares may be marketed like peaches
in September, by men whose names are known because they are signed to
“verselets, squibs and jokes” in Harper’s Drawer. Thus may the salaries
of the officers be paid. It’s a lovely plan, and could originate in no
better place than Franklin, Ohio. Then, too, “American Tract Building”
sounds good. Surely nothing else than sincerity could issue from a Tract
Building, and a guarantee of “commercial independence” is worth something.

But it’s none the less pathetic, for all that. Many shares of stock will
be taken, and many weary days will be spent waiting for the promised halo
which, after all, wouldn’t fit if it came. It was the father of Jules
St. Ange, if I remember correctly, who made “the so best sugah in New
Orleans,” And he died and never sold a barrel of it. He was happy because
he knew it was the best, though the commercial men told him it was not.
So, too, as all the World’s Louis has said, “He who has meant good work
has done good work, though he has not the time to sign his name.”

I knew a man once, though, who worked many weary hours one Christmas
time, and made a holiday story for a morning paper. It was a story of
such truth as moved men to give to a hospital in a great city such money
as supported it for half a year, and sick children were made well because
of it. But he was not a man of “marked literary ability” and he never
knew what he had done. He was not an Adam Smith, and he knew little and
cared less about the wealth of nations. He simply wrote the truth from a
heart that knew its own. Such men do not need to be told if their work be
good or bad. They give us the best there is in them, and we are comforted
because they have told us the things we knew before, only we didn’t know
how to put them on paper.

                                                              H. P. TABER.




TO ROBERT HERRICK.


    Jocund Herrick tho’ this age
    Leaves uncut thy merry page,
    Leaves thy song, thy robust jest
    For Quixotic modern quest;

    Thinks that all poetic bliss
    Is summed in soul-analysis;
    Swinburne’s strange erratic flight,
    Weird desire and wild delight;

    Pleasures in the paltry host—
    Starveling muse’s meager ghost
    Dribbling song in purblind flow—
    Poesy has sunk so low.

    I would see beside the rill
    Decked with Lawn and Daffodil
    Sweetly thro’ the morning air—
    Corinna going to the fair!

    I would hear the birds and bees
    Sung of in Hesperides;
    Would that I were with you there,
    Drunken with the dewy air.

    And Julia, paragon of grace,
    I would look upon her face;
    Then might I inspired be,
    Fit to join thy company.

    Ah! Herrick, softly on thy mound
    I would still bestrew the ground—
    Daffodil and rosemary
    Tokens for thy memory.

                     EUGENE R. WHITE.




A THRIFTLESS BENEFIT.


He was a man of humble dress and humble mien, and when he entered the
parlor of the rich manufacturer he was obviously dazed by the upholstery
and the pictures—especially the upholstery. He had to wait ten minutes
before the lord of the mansion appeared—a pompous man with an expanse
of shirt, waistcoat and watchchain that were imposing, and a couple of
whiskers that bristled in uncompromising pride. He looked at the meek
figure seated on the edge of the least expensive chair, with a slight
expression of scorn and irritation, and grunted, “Well, sir?”

“You must excuse me for coming,” said the diffident one, “but I wish
to speak to you on a matter that is of the most vital importance to
yourself.”

“What! Are the hands going to strike again? D—n them!”

“Oh, sir, please do not use such language. I have recently been
discouraged from using it myself, and it does hurt my feelings so! I beg
that you will not employ those terms, at least, in my presence.”

“What in the devil”——

“There you are again, sir, if you please. Don’t, I beg of you.”

“Well, go on.”

The visitor sank his voice to a thrilling undertone: “I am told that you
have wine on your table.”

“Of course I have. What of it?”

“Beware of it, sir. There is death in the glass.”

“Those infernal, beg your pardon, mill hands, I’ll bet.”

“No, sir, not that. It is the wine itself. Keep to water. It isn’t very
good just now, but you can filter it, or use it for tea.”

“Bah!”

“Oh, do not bah at it, sir. I’m pleading for your good. Again, I am
informed that you smoke. Stop it, please, at once.”

“What! Even my cigars poisoned? This is horrible.”

“Tobacco is itself a poison, sir. Again, you were not at church last
Sunday. Nor at prayer meeting on Friday night. I am told that you made no
contribution last month for foreign missions. I am credibly informed that
you have had no Bible readings in your house for years. There is a rumor
that you belong to a club, and that you once played poker there.”

The millionaire, who had been growing crimson, now turned purple; his
waistcoat inflated, his whiskers were like quills on the porcupine. He
glared and sputtered, but could find no words.

“Then, too,” resumed the visitor in a meek tone, “I hear that you
patronize theaters, and have even been to the opera; that you permit
your family to spend large sums on trivial entertainments and personal
adornment; that the amount you wasted on dinners last winter would have
repaired the alms-house; that you never visit the hospitals and jails;
that if you keep on in this selfish and wasteful course you are likely to
become a nuisance to the neighborhood and a burden on the public; that”——

The rich man found his voice in a roar: “You audacious scoundrel! Get out
of this, or I’ll kill you. How dare you come here and lecture me in my
own house?” And overcome by wrath he fell into an arm chair and hissed.

“It’s strange that it doesn’t work both ways,” continued the meek one,
reflectively, “Your wife and daughter called on me yesterday in the
interests of the East Side Charitable Interference Society, of which
you are president. They made me see the error of my course, and I was
actuated only by a hope of accomplishing your moral improvement by coming
here. For is not wine worse than beer? Are not perfectos more injurious
to the health than pipes? Is not poker more expensive than pinocle? Is
not your club more luxurious than the Peter H. Milligan Association,
of which I used to be floor manager? Isn’t it as bad for you to go to
theaters and stay away from prayers as it is for me? Oh, brother, let
me plead with you to have more faith—to exercise more the gifts of the
spirit. Let me”——

At this point the millionaire struggled out of an impending fit of
apoplexy and threw a chair at the meek man, who escaped. And the East
Side Charitable Interference Society never called on him again. It gave
him up as a hopeless case.

                                                       CHARLES M. SKINNER.




A QUESTION OF FORM.


             “LET ME NOT MUCH COMPLAIN.”

    Let me not much complain of life, in age;
      Life is not faulty, life is well enough,
      For those who love their daily round of doing,
      And take things rounded, never in the rough,
    Turning from day to day the same old page,
      And their old knowledge ever more renewing.
      I have known many such; through life they went
      With moderate use of moderate heritage,
    Giving and spending, saving as they spent,
      These are wise men, though never counted sage;
      They looked for little, easy men to please;
    But I, more deeply drunk of life’s full cup,
      Feel, as my lips come nearer to the lees,
      I dived for pearls, and brought but pebbles up.

            —Thomas William Parsons, in the _Century_.

By title the above lines commend themselves as “well enough” wisdom, yet
will I “much complain” of them.

Here are fourteen lines.

At glance the eye anticipates a sonnet, following one of the fixed orders
of sonnet rhymes. The end of the third line yielding no recurrent sound,
the ear is disappointed and infers blank verse, while expectation is
frustrated by the fourth line rhyming with the second.

Did we read aright? Perhaps the first and third lines do conform to the
Shakspearean order now suggested! Go back. “Age,”—“doing,” no! and we
reach “page” at the end of line fifth with the suspicion that we have
stumbled on a nondescript.

Well, give it another chance, and begin again!

This time we ask: what is it in the third and fourth lines that gives the
ear a sensation as if something was struck with a hammer?

Yes, “round” and its iterate “rounded.”

Such sforzando does not occur in a good sonnet unless there is an idea to
be emphasized, to which the mind is pointed by the ear.

But we conclude that this is not a sonnet, and apatheticly scan didactic
platitudes through eleven lines till sobriety is startled by the all too
frank confession of the twelfth.

We read it twice, to see if it is not a lapse of grammar, or a squeeze of
“have drank” to meet the exigencies of rhythm, and come up from the dive
of the last line thirsty to know just what image Mr. Parsons had in his
mind.

Was his conception analogous to that of the reporter’s who described
the pretty actress as “standing on the brink of the rushing torrent of
Niagara and drinking it all in with shining eyes”?

Was “life’s full cup” so immense that Mr. Parsons dove therein for
pearls? A pretty large cup to drink to the lees, that? Is there, as a
rule, any reasonable expectation of discovering pearls or pebbles, or,
for that matter, lees, in a wine cup? Was the condition so awkwardly
characterized in the twelfth line—but no! there is simply an unconsidered
mixing of metaphors in this short poem, that starts with the book of
life, and in the last three lines introduces the cup of life, and the
sea of life. The last line, by the way, is mixed upon itself. Pearls
and pebbles are not found mingled, and at the bottom of the sea,
notwithstanding Robert Browning’s Divers in _Pan and Luna_.

Who dive for pearls do not so on pebbly bottoms. No doubt, by unluck,
they often bring up valueless shells.

The orders of rhythms and rhymes in a sonnet are supposed to be known to
all poetasters—or one can consult the Century Dictionary.

These forms should be kept in sacred reserve. Therein the poet may mold
some holy sentiment or feeling—not with wandering thought: rising through
the personal to the universal, or perhaps veiling the universal in the
personal. If one reproduces such trite didactic thought, why not bestow
enough labor to shape a pure form?

By so doing the platitudes even might be polished and made to shine like
new, with new metaphor.

I have not been able to resist the temptation of trying a prentice hand
on the metaphors in Mr. Parsons’s lines. Perhaps with more spleen against
the “well enough,” more enthusiasm for the intoxication not of the wine,
and more sympathy for the luckless diver.

                          FAILURE.

    Too long I’ve lingered inland fruitlessly,
      Strolling with moonlit loves through narrow vales,
      Where to rapt hearts rave love-tranced nightingales!
    I so said, thrilling to the far off sea,
    Whose deep voiced tides and storms were calling me:
      Leave dalliance, and breast my wholesome gales,
      The world is known not in thy timid dales;
    My winds ’twixt nations waft my lovers free.
      But when I came unto the thundrous shore,
    Long enervating habit balked intent;
      My ventured wealth returned less than before,
    I dove for pearls, found only empty shells:
      Yet learned I then what love and peace have meant,
    Though not why famed ambitions strike their knells.

                                   WILLIAM JAMES BAKER.




HAPPINESS.


    The happiest thing
    The freest thing
    That man may hope to see
    Is a sun-bonnet-mite
    Of a country child
    In the top
    Of an apple tree.

                 MARY DAWSON.




A PLEA FOR INEBRIETY.


Is that ancient and honorable institution, the New York Chamber of
Commerce, becoming frisky and convivial in its old age? Will it in its
ripe judgment recommend that the proper course for one to pursue is to
tread the perfumed paths of Bacchus? Does the Chamber, as a body, indorse
the able and thoughtful article in the October _Forum_, by Mr. Louis
Windmuller, one of its honored members, in which that gentleman makes a
strong plea for inebriety and drunkenness? Mr. Windmuller is certain that
the policy of Mr. Roosevelt toward the liquor interests in New York will
sap the lifeblood of our institutions, and he sends up a cry of alarm. It
may be gathered from Mr. Windmuller’s well considered paper that there
can be no true happiness in this life without strong drink, and plenty of
it. Contentment and peace of mind will slink under the bed unless there
be a flagon on the table. Domestic felicity will be a hollow mockery, a
failure and a fraud if there be not a keg in the cellar and a case of
Culmbacher on the ice.

Our gifted author does not say it in so many words, but it is clearly his
view that man’s faculties are at their best only when the gentle glow of
intoxication steals over the brain and articulation thickens and halts by
the way. He goes even further. He firmly believes that ours is a land to
hastening ills a prey, unless we speedily go to Bavaria for our excise
laws and fling Roosevelt over the Battery wall.

Only a lack of space prevented Mr. Windmuller from giving the Sunday
schools a side wipe, and he comes very near it as it is. Evidently he
looks upon them as a blot or something equally unpleasant. They have no
bars, and, moreover, their teaching is all the other way. This makes our
author a prey to melancholy and his brow is sicklied o’er with the pale
cast of thought.

But what the Philistines are anxious to know is, does the ancient and
honorable New York Chamber of Commerce believe that man reaches his best
estate only when he has a jag on?

                                                           R. W. CRISWELL.




SIDE TALKS WITH THE PHILISTINES: BEING SUNDRY BITS OF WISDOM WHICH HAVE
BEEN HERETOFORE SECRETED, AND ARE NOW SET FORTH IN PRINT.


I suppose no one was much surprised that John Oliver Hobbes wanted a
legal release from the man who called himself her husband, but when the
mother of Fauntleroy and the author of the _Quick or the Dead_ followed
in the category of misfits I doubt not Mona Caird lifted up her voice in
the wilderness and there was joy in the camp of the Claflin-Woodhulls.
But the marrying and giving in marriage go right along, for this isn’t
heaven; and the multitude that don’t complain put the literary folks
who do to a kind of proof not easy to face. Since nature made men and
women to marry, the wire-drawn literary folks who can’t stay married
have the floor for an explanation. There are bitter critics who cry “I
told you so,” and maybe they did—when it is announced that Amelie Rives
can no longer endure her Chanler. Perhaps he is only common tallow after
all—half a dozen to the pound. The maids and manlings who read _According
to St. John_ and believed Miss Rives’s emphasized statement that “Love
is the fulfilling of the law” must wonder if she meant the law she has
just invoked to give her liberty. It is a choice of the quick or the dead
now—the dead love or the quick release—and there is something more than
tragic in the appeal through a prosaic court to “deliver me from the body
of this death.” No, there is no discredit to any one in the pleadings of
the impulsive young Southerner for her liberty. Nobody has broken any
law. They can’t live together—that’s all, and all the amatory fury of
the novel that gave her fame is a dead waste. It was honest when it was
written, no doubt, but the pitch was too high. The happy (more or less)
millions who don’t run to the public with a transcript of their strongest
emotions or to a court for release from their vows must have learned a
secret unknown to the Hobbeses and the Riveses and the Bashkirtseffs.
They have found the happy middle line between the neurotic extreme that
holds the master emotion to be a matter of physiology or of pathology—the
Zolas and the Helgardeners respectively.

       *       *       *       *       *

I read with unfeigned regret that the repairs which lately have been
going forward in the New York postoffice will have to be abandoned
until more funds accumulate in the United States Treasury. This is bad.
It will leave the new elevator suspended between Heaven and earth in
an unfinished condition for the Lord only knows how long. Patrons of
the Federal building on Manhattan Island will therefore be obliged to
patronize the two antedeluvian other on the Park Row side. And this is
always attended with the keenest disappointments. For example: You go to
the Broadway “lift” and find it placarded, “Not running; try the other.”
You journey around to Park Row, only to be confronted with this, “Out of
order; try Broadway.” Then you mount the stairs, which you ought to have
done in the first place, for the reason that the man who takes passage
in one of the New York postoffice elevators can have no possible idea
when he will see his family again. It is said that the regular patrons
of these elevators take their luncheons with them; but this imputes to
them a sprightliness of motion which they do not possess. The gentleman
who made the ascent to the moon by way of the horns of the Darby ram went
up in January and didn’t come down till June. Persons have been known
to enter these national “lifts” on the up trip in December and not get
back till the Fourth of July. The several elevators in the East Aurora
postoffice are of the rapid transit variety, and never stop, except when
clogged with the PHILISTINE’S mail.

       *       *       *       *       *

A woman who knows my weakness for potato salad on Sunday evenings asked
me to lunch with her a few days ago. She has some boys—I don’t remember
how many, and it doesn’t really matter—who make curious and totally
irrelevant remarks, one to the other. Then they let drive biscuits
through the air and accompany the sailing food with whoops, great and
terrible. They are good boys—as children go—but wanting to know more
about such matters, I bought Mr. Pater’s _Child in the House_ to present
it to my cousin Anthony, who has a very new boy—his first—just to let him
see what he has ahead of him. And then it wasn’t about that kind of a boy
at all. I wonder why nobody except Mr. Aldrich has written a story of a
really truly boy.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is comforting to know that when a man loses his job being president
he can do such things as this for the man who made Philadelphia and the
_Home Journal_ and all that in them is:

    “In a series of popular articles ex-President Benjamin Harrison
    will aim to explain clearly just what this Government means
    and how it is conducted. He will explain the Constitution, its
    origin and meaning; outline the different legislative bodies;
    our foreign relations; the power of the President; how the
    House and Senate legislate, and touch upon and explain the
    great National questions.”

Mr. Harrison will also devote several numbers to a detailed description
of the scrap between Colonel William Patterson and the Unknown,
endeavoring to explain that Colonel Patterson inflicted his own wounds in
order to gain notoriety—just like Dr. Parkhurst.

       *       *       *       *       *

From a magazine with four million subscribers I clip this choice bit from
The Woman’s Corner. The advice is given by Mrs. Rorer:

    “Cleaning a chicken is beautiful work. It is a deal easier than
    boiling potatoes and not half so messy as painting and modeling.

    “For brain-workers the red meats are most sustaining. Bread and
    potatoes should be avoided as much as possible. Brain-workers
    should avoid warmed-over meats—the dainty entrees of which
    people are so fond are simply hash, and no matter how good the
    food tastes it is not wholesome.”

Ho! ye poets, no wonder your verse is rank; you probably live on “simply
hash;” and “warmed-over” meats only give you warmed-over ideas. Long have
I told you to eschew sack and low company. Now do as Mrs. Rorer says and
avoid bread and potatoes, and get comfort out of the thought that Mrs.
Rorer does not forbid you looking upon the meat when it is red!

       *       *       *       *       *

The price is five cents, but is too much. The only thing about the
periodical that is pretty is the picture on the cover, which represents a
nice young lady in the act of crowning a black tom-cat with a wreath of
burdock. Then why a black cat? Why not a maltese, or a tortoise shell or
a plain grey blanket? But Tom is an inky black, and looks as if he could
not keep proper hours even if he tried. However, that marvellous cover is
a bit of symbolism. I am told that the young lady represents one of the
Mewses and the cheeky cat is Max Pemberton, who is perfectly willing to
be crowned.

       *       *       *       *       *

I wish to notify the public that I have known Frank A. Munsey for
twenty-nine years, come Michaelmas, and will vouch that any picture he
prints is pretty.

       *       *       *       *       *

Possibly it is as well to confess that the Universalists got listed with
the Evangelical denominations in the summary of the last census on a
fluke. May they do St. Peter with equal ease! Mr. Wright didn’t know any
better, but having put them there and electrotyped the plates, he could
not change the record without considerable expense. He therefore turned
to and proved that after all Universalists were Evangelistic and had been
since the days of Constantine, and now he offers to caper in an argument
on the question against all comers for a thousand dollars. Darwin says we
feel a thing is true first and prove it afterward; but Mr. Wright prints
it first, accidentally discovers it, then knowing he has to prove it,
claims it as truth and dares any one to tread on the tail of his coat.

       *       *       *       *       *

I notice that a famous globe-trotter is scheduled for a series of
articles for a “literary” syndicate of some pretensions. Among her
announced themes is Etiquette, both general and particular, and lest
there be some misapprehensions I hasten to say that this is not Mr.
Bok’s social kindergarten and has no connection with the _Missus’ Home
Journal_, A department of this subject is thus set forth in the circular:

    +-----------------------------------------+
    |        EXTRAORDINARY ETIQUETTE.         |
    |                                         |
    | HOW TO MEET SOCIAL EMERGENCIES THAT ARE |
    |     THE OUTGROWTH OF MODERN LIFE:       |
    |                                         |
    |     DIVORCE ETIQUETTE.                  |
    |     THE FASHIONABLE FUNERAL.            |
    |     ENDORSING SOCIAL ASPIRANTS.         |
    |     IN CASES OF FINANCIAL FAILURE.      |
    +-----------------------------------------+

It is so nice to be informed what to do when you are divorced and how to
treat your friends, if you have any, “in cases of financial failure.”
So important, too, seeing that these social emergencies are “the
outgrowth of modern life,” and of course it’s legitimate outgrowth—for no
illegitimate outgrowth would for a moment engage the virtuous attention
of the rival of Nellie Bly. Other chapters tell women how to behave
“when dispensing millions,” a valuable thing for every one to know, and
also the how and whereas of “the womanly woman” in public life—such
occupations being specified as “street cleaning, road making and
regulating schools and saloons.” Abundant illustrations are promised, and
I have no doubt the newest thing in milk shakes and the jerking of beer
will come within their scope. The new woman grows newer every day.

       *       *       *       *       *

And is Judge Grant right when he says a man cannot be healthy, virtuous
or wise unless his income is ten thousand a year?

       *       *       *       *       *

In _Harper’s_ for October Mr. Brander Matthews explains that
story-tellers “are of three kinds.” Startling, thrice startling, is this
frightful truth which the Second-Prize-Taker sets forth! Three kinds?
Gadzooks, and here the world has staggered along for six thousand years
believing there were only two—the good and bad.

And then the breezy Brander says: “Mr. Du Maurier has the gift of story
telling. No doubt Mr. Du Maurier has also other qualities, for instance
the gift of pleasant humor and broad sympathy.” Will the Philistines
please note that Professor Brander Matthews of Columbia College considers
that a man may be a successful novelist and still not have “pleasant
humor” and “broad sympathy;” or should we be charitable and take it that
he is writing in self defense?

But a bright woman at my elbow says she knows what Brander Matthews wrote
that article for—he wrote it for _Fifty Dollars_.

Then what does Brander Matthews mean when he declares that “Miss Austen
was the grandmother of Mr. Howells”? Accidentally I once coupled Mr.
Howells with Mr. Bok, for which I duly apologized to Mr. Howells, but
I never gave him such a dig as Brander Matthews does in the October
_Harper’s_.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Washington _Capital_ says: That baby Goliath, THE PHILISTINE, is
trying hard to make something choice in the way of a Bok bier: but what’s
the use? The Tin God is immortal.

       *       *       *       *       *

When in 1892 Mr. Ham Garland prophesied that Chicago would soon be the
literary center of America, the Ink-Stained of the East said “Shoo!” But
the prophecy is fast coming true. The first edition of Mr. Thomas W.
Mudgett’s book was sold in a week; and the good people of the Windy City
are taking a justifiable pride in the achievement of their best known
citizen. “H. H. Holmes” is Mr. Mudgett’s _nom de plume_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Cudahy recommends Bovox for novel readers.

       *       *       *       *       *

In that bundle of choice things entitled _In This Our World_, by
Charlotte Perkins Stetson, is a poem called “Mr. Rockefeller’s Prayer.”
Preceding the poem is this note of explanation: “The wealthy Mr.
Rockefeller is reported to have said that his income is so much in excess
of his power to spend it that he has to kneel down every day and ask for
Divine guidance in getting rid of it.” It may here be stated for the
benefit of the unenlightened that Mr. Rockefeller be not a Philistine, he
be a Baptist, a Close Communion Baptist, and therefore a firm believer
in the efficacy of prayer. Now while I have no wish to quibble with Mrs.
Stetson, I am of the opinion that she has been misled as to the facts.
Mr. Rockefeller considers the Lord too much his debtor to get down on
his knees to Him, and if he ever did it was to ask Him how to get rid of
Professor Bemis and not how to get rid of his wealth.

       *       *       *       *       *

And after all, has Rockefeller got rid of Bemis?

       *       *       *       *       *

I am sorry that Anthony Hope has married off the Princess Osra. She was
a delightful old maid, and now that she’s the Countess of Mittenheim
her story’s done. For Anthony Hope is a romanticist, not a veritist,
and therefore tells the truth about the most vital thing in life, which
is the soul of romance. That most vital fact is that there is virtue
in true lovers and marriage is not a failure with people who are good
enough for chivalry. So there will be no more adventures for the charming
princess who has so strong a mind and so warm a heart that she might
stand as the type of the new woman. She has found the port and happy
haven of her life. Thanks to the breezy narrator of her voyages. But
how we shall miss the bluff monarch who has that rare accompaniment of
power—a sense of humor. Let us petition the court chronicler of Zenda for
a partial remission of sentence. Let us have the merry Rudolf and his
boys for awhile, though the star of his kingdom has gone out.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sixty-nine applications for stock have reached the Combined Press from
Cluett, Coon & Company’s employees alone.

       *       *       *       *       *

To gentlemen about to make presents to bookish ladies I commend that most
charming thing, _The Female Offender_, by my esteemed co-worker in the
vineyard, C. Lombroso.

       *       *       *       *       *

I don’t know whether the following headlines, taken from a recent number
of _Footlights_, are ironical or sarcastic, but to a man whose memory
extends back to the thirties they seem curious: THE NEW WOMAN—Fay
Templeton.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Every Man His Own Nordau” is the theme of the word-builder in the
_Scribner’s_ foreground study this month. “Degeneration While You
Wait” is the motto of the retrospectives who read Grant _et al_ in the
Buddhist’s Own.

       *       *       *       *       *

Possibly Mr. Pullman is _not_ a praying man, and perhaps he merely
accepted “the Universalist compromise with Infidelity,” as that staunch
Calvinist, Russell Sage, who gives $25,000 yearly to Foreign Missions,
avers; yet Mr. Pullman has not lost all sense of piety, for he “lifts the
collection” religiously in five thousand Palace Cars every morning.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Richmond, Virginia, publishing house is out with a history of the
United States, and from the advance notices it ought to have a good sale
in the land of reconstruction. All the notices are from the land of
cotton. The Houston _Post_ says it sets forth the heroic struggles “for
self government and the sovereignty of the States.” I haven’t seen any
reviews from north of Mason and Dixon’s line, but the New York _Tribune_
ought to give the book a handsome send off, and if the _Tribune_ neglects
it, why there’s the Cleveland _Leader_ or La Monte G. Raymond’s Allegany
_Republican_.

       *       *       *       *       *

_McClure’s_ pillory will present Abraham Lincoln next. Mr. Lincoln, being
dead, can not say a word.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Sons of the House of Putnam (_vide_ _Chip Munk, May 15_), are
bringing out a serial, one part every twelve months. Quilp says that if
the Sons would make it once in twelve years it would suit him as well.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is in England a flourishing sect that believes we are now being
punished for sins committed in a former life: the chief tenet of the
creed being that this earth is Hell. The London _Echo_ seriously explains
that the PHILISTINE is the organ of this peculiar religious denomination;
but the _Echo_ is mistaken—the PHILISTINE is strictly non-sectarian. It
believes there are hells which exist on earth, but fortunately only in
isolated places—and further that the head devils in most of them are
managing editors of daily alleged newspapers.

       *       *       *       *       *

Advance announcements of the November _Scribner’s_ emphasize the good
news that “The final part of Robert Grant’s _Art of Living_ appears in
this number.” The December _Scribner’s_ ought to be pretty good.

       *       *       *       *       *

Why Bliss Carman and Stephen Crane do not write for _Lippincott’s_ has
long been a mystery to me. Some of their verse is bad enough. But the
secret is out. They have only two names apiece.

       *       *       *       *       *

Here endeth the First Volume.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE NEW GODIVA.]

New dames that “in the flying of a wheel cry down the past” take pride
or shame in this: If she who raised the tax from Coventry scorched
through the town this noon, no Peering Tom would risk his eyes—sated with
stranger sights, in these swift days.