The Philistine
                         A Periodical of Protest.

       _Why should a man whose blood is warm within, sit like his
            grandsire cut in alabaster?_—MERCHANT OF VENICE.

                     [Illustration: Vol. II. No. 3.]

                        Printed Every Little While
                    for The Society of The Philistines
                             and Published by
                       Them Monthly. Subscription,
                            One Dollar Yearly
                         Single Copies, 10 Cents.
                             February, 1896.




THE SOCIETY OF THE PHILISTINES.

(International.)


An association of Book Lovers and Folks who Write. Organized to further
Good-Fellowship among men and women who believe in allowing the widest
liberty to Individuality in Art.

ARTICLE XII. SEC. 2. The annual dues shall be one dollar. This shall
entitle the member to all the documents issued by the Society, together
with one copy of the PHILISTINE magazine, monthly, for one year.

Truthful manuscript seeking the Discerning Reader should be addressed to
the Scrivener (assistant to the Datary); funds, forwarded for the matter
of subscriptions, to the Bursar.

                         Address The Philistine,
                            East Aurora, N. Y.

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.




THE PHILISTINE.




CONTENTS FOR FEBRUARY, 1896.


    Victory,                       L. H. Bickford

    Poem,                           Stephen Crane

    Do Posters Post?                Carolyn Wells

    Why I am a Philistine,         Elbert Hubbard

    Chopin and George Sand,   Macpherson Wiltbank

    Two Fables,                John Bryan of Ohio

    Notes.

Subscriptions can begin with the current number only. A very limited
quantity of back numbers can be supplied. Vol. I, No. 1, 75 cents. Nos.
2, 3, 4 and 5 at 25 cents each.

Mr. Collin’s PHILISTINE poster in three printings will be mailed to
any address on receipt of 25 cents by the publishers. A few signed and
numbered copies on Japan vellum remain at $1.00 each.

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

_COPYRIGHT, 1896, by B. C. Hubbard._




A LIST OF BOOKS ISSUED IN CHOICE AND LIMITED EDITIONS BY THOMAS B. MOSHER
AT XXXVII EXCHANGE STREET, PORTLAND, MAINE. MDCCCXCV-VI.

A LARGER DESCRIPTIVE LIST WILL BE SENT ON APPLICATION.


_THE OLD WORLD SERIES._

THE OLD WORLD SERIES is in format, a narrow F cap, 8 vo., printed from
new type on a size of Van Gelder paper made for this edition only.
Original head bands and tail pieces have been freely used with the best
effects, and each issue has its special cover design. Bound in flexible
Japan vellum with silk ribbon marker, white parchment wrappers, gold
seals and in slide cases, an almost ideal volume is offered the book
lover. Price per volume, $1.00 net.

_I. Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam._

Rendered into English verse by Edward FitzGerald. This is not a mere
reprint of _The Bibelot_ edition, but has been edited with a view to
making FitzGerald’s wonderful version indispensable in its present OLD
WORLD shape.

_II. Aucassin and Nicolete._

Done into English by Andrew Lang. Of the four complete translations into
English of this exquisite old French love story, that by Andrew Lang is
unquestionably the finest.


_THE BIBELOT SERIES._

THE BIBELOT SERIES is modelled on an old style format, narrow 8vo., and
beautifully printed in italic on Van Gelder’s hand-made paper, uncut
edges, done up in flexible Japan vellum, with outside wrappers and
dainty gold seal. Each issue has besides an original cover design and is
strictly limited to 725 copies. Price per volume, $1.00 net.

_V. Sonnets of Michael Angelo._

Now for the first time translated into rhymed English by John Addington
Symonds. A portrait of Vittoria Colonna has been given in artotype from a
design by Michael Angelo, printed in Sepia on Japan vellum.

_VI. The Blessed Damozel._

A Book of Lyrics chosen from the works of Dante Gabriel Rosetti. This
edition has some MS. readings to the poem of JENNY that are not included
as yet in any of the collected editions.

_The Child in the House._

An imaginary portrait by Walter Pater. 425 copies have been printed on
Japan vellum, narrow 24 mo., done up in flexible covers, with sealed
outside wrappers and slide case. Price 75 cents net.

_THE BIBELOT.—1896._

Subscriptions for 1896 at the regular price, 50 cents in advance,
postpaid, are taken for the complete year only. After March 1, the rate
will be 75 cents, which will, on completion of Volume II, be advanced to
$1.00 net.

                       THOMAS B. MOSHER, Publisher,
                             PORTLAND, MAINE.




[Illustration: MODERN ART

Edited by J. M. BOWLES.]


Quarterly. Illustrated.

“If Europe be the home of Art, America can at least lay claim to the most
artistically compiled publication devoted to the subject that we know of.
This is _Modern Art_.”—_Galignani Messenger (Paris)._

“The most artistic of American art periodicals. A work of art
itself.”—_Chicago Tribune._

_Fifty Cents a Number. Two Dollars a Year. Single Copies (back numbers)
50 Cents in Stamps. Illustrated Sample Page Free._

Arthur W. Dow has designed a new poster for _Modern Art_. It is exquisite
in its quiet harmony and purely decorative character, with breadth and
simplicity in line and mass, and shows the capacity of pure landscape for
decorative purposes.—_The Boston Herald._

_Price, 25 Cents in Stamps, Sent Free to New Subscribers to Modern Art._

                     L. Prang & Company, Publishers.
                       286 ROXBURY STREET, BOSTON.




THE PHILISTINE.

             NO. 3.         February, 1896.         VOL. 2.




VICTORY: BEING A CHANT AFTER BATTLE.


    As we marched into the desert
    And sang unto the stars,
    The sky looked kindly on us
    And the pain of battle scars
    No longer seemed to rack us;
    While the folly of the fray
      Was burned upon us,
      Singed upon us,
    Branded by the day;
    Till crimson in that holy night
    Shone forth those deeds of Mars,
    As we marched into the desert
    And hymned unto the stars.

    And backward: trodden was the grass,
    And crimson were the lands,
    And crimson were the ghosts that rose,
    And crimson ran the sands.

    Yet we marched into the desert
    And chanted to the stars.

                           L. H. BICKFORD.




WHY I AM A PHILISTINE.


I have received a long and carefully written letter from an unknown
gentleman who signs himself “Retired Clergyman.”

The Great Obscure favor me quite often with anonymous epistles, but
life being short and the waste basket wide, I seldom reply. Yet now an
exception must be made and I answer “Retired Clergyman” for the sole and
simple reason that he has “retired,” and in retiring he has made the
world his debtor. Probably no one act of this man’s entire life was so
potent for good as this. He has set all clergymen without humor a most
precious precedent. In gratitude, hoping that his example will bear
fruit, I reply.

Did space permit I would be glad to print my correspondent’s letter
entire, but the gist of his scholarly argument is that The Society of the
Philistines is endeavoring to make free-thought universal and paganism
popular. He stoutly avers that the ancient Philistines were the enemies
of Jehovah, that they worshipped strange gods and that they were the
sworn foes of the Chosen People.

Now this is the sad part: he proves his case.

The gentleman explains that he would not have seen the PHILISTINE
MAGAZINE had not his daughter, “an unmarried lady of thirty-two,”
purchased several copies; but from this on, with his permission, no more
numbers of this “infidelic infernal machine” shall enter his house.

My heart goes out to all unmarried ladies of thirty-two. Especially so
when they have fathers who are irascible; only one worse fate can befall
a woman of thirty-two than to have an irascible father, and that is to
have a lover who is irate. Still I doubt not but that the daughter of
“Retired Clergyman” will find a way to read the PHILISTINE—booklets laugh
at locksmiths!

Yet, ignorance prevails, for is not “Retired Clergyman” living proof? And
so I will say: There lived in the Far East about three thousand years ago
a tribe of people known as Philistines. It is a hotly mooted question
among the theologians whether they were so-called because they lived in
Philistia or whether Philistia took its name on account of being peopled
by Philistines. I will not take sides in this issue, but hedge closely
and simply stand firm on the fact that a tribe called the Philistines
existed. Near them lived the Hivites, the Moabites, the Canaanites, the
Hittites, the Jebusites, the Perizzites, the Ammonites and the Gothamites.

Now among these tribes none were so strong, none so intelligent, none so
virtuous as the Philistines.

And it came to pass that the superior quality of moral fibre in the
Philistines caused the entire country to be known as Philistia; it was
the general name given to the whole valley of the Jordan. And the name
endures even unto this day.

Palestine means the Land of the Philistines.

And it seems that among them there was a rude sense of right and wrong.
For if a man owned a piece of ground and planted a vine on it, and then
watered and tended the vine, the grapes that grew on this vine were his,
and all of the people agreed to this, and the man and his neighbors knew
all this without a Dispensation.

These people planted vineyards, and had gardens, and fields of wheat and
of barley. They had barns with threshing floors, and they had carts,
plows and other implements. They builded houses and owned their homes;
and the men loved their wives and their children; and the women were the
comrades of the men—all taking part in the sports as well as in the work,
for they were a merry, happy people.

Now about thirteen centuries before Christ, while they were living in
peace and prosperity, there swooped down upon them a horde of escaped
slaves, called Israelites. These slaves had broken away from their
masters in Egypt. The country to which they travelled was only about
three hundred miles from Egypt, but as their average speed was less than
a mile a week it took them forty years to make the journey.

The man who led these slaves in their flight was one Moses, who had
killed a man in Egypt and fled. After many years of exile, during which
time he had been in Philistia and liked it, he returned and led the
exodus. When the Israelites left they took all the gold and silver
ornaments and utensils they could “borrow,” and melted them up. And they
were not ashamed of this act, for they have written it down in the third
chapter of a book called Exodus. The ancient Israelites never had any
clear ideas as to the rights of property. When they found grapes growing
on a vine they helped themselves and swore that the fruit was theirs by
Divine right.

In order to impress this ignorant, barbaric horde with the sense of
authority, Moses told the people that God directed him, and that Deity
told him what to do and say.

Moses used to go up on a mountain, clear above the clouds, beyond where
the mists hover, and when he came down the people asked him what he had
been up there for, and he told them he went up to see God. In no other
way could Moses control this restless mob except by saying God says so
and so.

And the fact that their leader was on such good terms with Elohim or
Yoveh, inflated these people so that they always spoke of themselves as
“the Chosen People of God.” The Jebusites, the Hittites and the Moabites
never referred to the Israelites as the Chosen People of God. No one
called them the Chosen People of God—only they themselves.

And I wish to say right here that the individual who does a great and
magnificent work _is_ on close and friendly terms with God. He _is_ the
Son of God, and it is necessary that he should feel this kinship in order
to do his work. From Moses, the called of God, on up to Socrates, who
listened to the Dæmon, to George Fox, who hearkened to the Voice, to
the Prophets of our own time, all lie low in the Lord’s hand and listen
closely ere they act. A man is strong only when he feels that he is
backed by a Power, not his own, that makes for Righteousness.

When I think of these brave souls, the Saviours of the World, who have
sought to lead men out of the captivity of evil—feeling and knowing that
they were the Sons of God—I stand uncovered. But a mass of people—a
crowd, a mob—that claims to be a “Chosen People” is a sight to make
angels weep. “You cannot indict a class” said Macaulay; corporations
have no souls, and a horde that claims to be inspired is only a howling
cowardly Thing. Great men are ever lonely and live apart, but birds of a
feather flock together because they fear to flock alone. They want warmth
and protection—they are afraid. A mob is the quintessence of cowardice—a
dirty, mad, hydra-headed monster, that one good valiant St. George can
thrust to the heart. When a mob speaks I say: Vox populi vox Devil!

At the time the Israelites tumbled in pell-mell onto the Philistines
Moses had long been dead. The mob was without a leader and quarrel was
rife amid its broken ranks. In a mad rush they stampeded the herds of
the Philistines, scattered their flocks, destroyed their gardens, and as
excuse they shouted: We are the Chosen People of God!! And one of their
Poets sang a song, two lines of which runs thus:

    _Moab is my wash-pot,_
    _Over Philistia will I cast my shoe._

This only made the Philistines laugh, and although the Israelites
outnumbered them, they went at it and scattered them. Finally after long
years of warfare, the fight was called a draw, and the Jews settled down
and following the good example of the Philistines made themselves homes.

Of course, as sane men and women, we of today do not suppose that the
great Universal Intelligence that holds the worlds in the hollow of His
hand had much interest in the fight. If this Intelligence were a Being,
I can imagine Him looking over the battlement of Heaven and turning with
a weary smile to Gabriel, saying, “Let ’em fight—what boots it! they will
all be dead tomorrow, anyway.”

It is a noteworthy fact that in the first chapter of the Gospel of St.
Matthew the Inspired Writer traces the genealogy of Jesus direct to the
Philistines. In the sixth verse we find “David begat Solomon of her who
had been the wife of Urias.” Back of this is Ruth the Moabitess, who was
the grandmother of David. There is no such thing as tracing a pure Jewish
lineage back to the time of Moses. The Jews went a courting as soon as
they arrived on the borders of Canaan; and the heathen quite fancied the
Israelitish women from the first. In the book of Ruth, first chapter
and fourth verse I see, “And they took them wives out of the country of
Moab.” The houses of Capulet and Montague have ever intermarried—it seems
a quiet way Nature has of playing a little joke.

And after a painstaking study of the matter I am fully convinced that the
sterling qualities in the Jew are derived from his Philistine ancestry.
No one doubts that Solomon was the wisest man that ever was. His mother
was a Philistine. Now no man is ever greater than his mother, and it is
very plain that the great wisdom of Solomon was derived from this pagan
woman whose body nourished him; in whose loving arms he was cradled; and
whose intellect first fired his aspiration. This is all made plainer yet
when we remember that David had many sons by Jewish women, and that all
of these sons were positively no good—and some of them very, very bad.
The facts are found in the Second Book of Samuel—a book, by the way,
which no respectable girl should allow her mother to read.

But if any captious critic arises and denies the Law of Heredity, for
argument’s sake, I’ll waive this matter of maternal transmission of
excellence and rest my case as to Solomon’s wisdom on the fact that
he married over four hundred Philistine women. And as stated by Sir
Walter Besant in a recent story, “a newly married woman always tells her
husband everything she knows,” I will feel safe in saying that Solomon’s
transcendent wisdom was derived from Philistinic sources.

Only one incident in the history of this people do I wish to set straight
before the world at this writing—that is the story of Goliath. According
to recently discovered cuneiform inscriptions it is found that the giant
lived long enough to attend the funeral of David, so it is hardly likely
that David slew him. David probably threw pebbles at the warrior, but
the giant of course paid no attention to the boys that followed him—going
along about his business just as any other dignified giant would have
done. But David went home and told that he had killed the man—and the
Israelites wishing to leave a proud record wrote the tale down as
history. This story was interpolated into the Bible during the fore part
of the Third Century.

In David’s case summer and autumn quite fulfilled the promise of spring.
That eleventh chapter of Second Samuel, showing how he stole Bath-Sheba
and then killed Uriah, her husband, reveals the quality of the man. But
it was left for his dying act to crown a craven career. With his last
lingering breath—with the rattle of death in his throat—he gasped to his
son, referring to a man who had never wronged him, “His hoar head bring
thou down to the grave in blood!” With the utterance of these frightful
words his soul passed out into the Unknown. In all that David wrote not
a word can I find that hints at his belief in a future life—he simply
never thought of it! and dying as a dog dies, he gnashed at Shimei, whose
offense was that thirty-five years before he had told David a little
wholesome truth. Shimei was a brave fellow and David dare not fight him,
so he made a truce with him and swore an oath that he would never molest
him, but dying he charged Solomon to search him out with a sword. This
is recorded by the Inspired Writer in the ninth verse of the second
chapter of First Kings.

With forty-one distinct crimes to David’s charge, the killing of nine
hundred thousand men and two hundred thousand women and children, the
houghing of thousands of horses, all of which is set down in infallible
Holy Writ, his record is very bluggy. In fact, his whole life’s pathway
is streaked with infamy.

David being a literary man of acknowledged merit, I have given him more
attention than I would a plain, every-day king. And I now brand him
as an all ’round rogue. I do this calmly, holding myself personally
responsible, and fully prepared to plead justification and prove my case
should the heirs or next-of-kin consider my language libellous.

So far as I can ascertain, Dagon was eminently respectable. I cannot find
a single stain on his record; while as for Jehovah, goodness me! If half
that His Chosen People tell about him is true, he surely wasn’t very nice.

And while I do not know anything about it for certain, it is my opinion
that at the Last Great Day the folks who stayed around home and pruned
their vines and tended their flocks and loved their wives and babies
will fare a deal better than those other men who made war on innocent
people and tried to render them homeless. Of course I may be wrong about
this, but I cannot help having an opinion.

Altogether, my sympathies are with the Philistines—who were so strong
in personality that they gave their name to the Holy Land—_Pelishton_,
_Pelesheth_, _Philistia_, Palestina, PALESTINE.


II.

Long years ago Professor Jowett called attention to the fact that the
word Philistia literally meant Land of Friendship: the term having the
same root as the Greek word Philos—Love. Max Muller has recently said:
“The dwellers in the Valley of the Jordan, in the fifteenth century
before Christ, recognizing the idea of Oneness or Fraternity, gave a name
that signified Love-Land to their country: thus embodying the modern
thought of the Brotherhood of Man.”

In view of these things it was rather a strange move—a man so scholarly
as Matthew Arnold applying the word “Philistine” as a term of reproach
toward those who did not think as he did! I can see though that he shaped
his language to fit the ears of his clientele. He sought to make clever
copy—and he did. The opinion being abroad that the Philistines were the
enemies of Light—how very funny to throw the word like a mud ball at any
and all who chanced to smile at his theories! Having small wit of their
own, the scribbling rabble took it up.

On reading certain books by a Late Critic, who now wears prison garb and
is doing the first honest work that ever his hands found to do, I see
that he is very fond of calling people who are outside of his particular
cult, “Philistines.”

But look you! Brave Taurus at the bull-fight is a deal more worthy of
respect than the picadores who for a price harry him without ruth to his
death. And as his virtue surpasses that of any in the silken, belaced
and perfumed throng who sit safe and with lily fingers applaud, so do we
accept your banderilla, recognizing from whence it comes, and wear it
jauntily as a badge of honor.

As the Cross for eighteen hundred years has been a sacred emblem, and
the gallows since John Brown glorious; and as the word Quaker, flung in
impudent and impotent wrath, now stands for gentleness, peace and truth,
so has the word Philistine become a synonym for manly independence.

In Literature he is a Philistine who seeks to express his personality in
his own way. A true Philistine is one who brooks no let nor hindrance
from the tipstaffs of letters, who creating nothing themselves yet are
willing for a consideration to show others how. These men strive hard
to reduce all life to a geometrical theorem and its manifestations to an
algebraic formula. But life is greater than a college professor, and so
far its mysteries, having given the slip to all the creeds, are still at
large. My individual hazard at truth is as legitimate as yours. The self
appointed beadles of letters demand that we shall neither smile nor sleep
while their Presiding Elders drone, but we plead in the World’s Assize
for the privilege of doing both.

In Art we ask for the widest, freest and fullest liberty for
Individuality—that’s all!

                                                           ELBERT HUBBARD.




CHOPIN AND GEORGE SAND.

THE LITTLE WHITE BLACK BIRD.


The game of tit for tat is rarely graceful or dignified. And yet the
man who “turns the other cheek” has not appealed strongly to the robust
sensibilities of any age. His behavior we cannot admire; it is too much
that of Sterne’s ass, who says meekly to his tormentor, “Please do not
hit me again—but if you will, you may.” Such a course surely no one of
us can be called upon to follow. Besides, the animal acted merely on
instinct, as one of a race of craven unfortunates, who while alive are
peculiarly seductive to stripes, and whose hides after death, as we all
know, are made into drums.

Perhaps the proper rule of conduct lies somewhere in between this
hypocritical or recreant meekness on the one hand, and on the other that
unchristian and vulgar manner of retaliation against which, it must have
been, that the precept of the Bible was directed.

The “lex talionis” in its literal meaning, “an eye for an eye,” and “a
tooth for a tooth,” is certainly barbarous; but surely if mine enemy has
plucked out one of my eyes, and so increased considerably the market
value of the one remaining, no dilettante in morals or the market would
deny my right to sell the other dearly, nor my privilege to write a book
upon my loss. Indeed, men’s enemies from the days of Solomon have never
asked for more than this.

It has been impossible to discover the exact cause which led to the
rupture between Chopin, the musician, and George Sand. However caused,
this rupture was final and was followed almost at once by the novelist’s
publication of her _Lucrezia Floriani_, in which, under the mask of
Prince Karol, she caricatured the sensitive Chopin, holding him up
to ridicule and contempt, and wounded him deeply. As we know, the
excitement following this event and the mental distress and mortification
connected with it threw the musician once more upon the sick bed,
where he lingered a long time, really dangerously ill. We know too that
he recovered. It was then that he wrote and distributed among the old
friends of the “Nohant days,” and among the world of arts and letters in
Paris, with which he and George Sand were so closely associated, a story
called the “Little White Black Bird,” known to us of the present day, by
tradition only.

And it is because this tradition, at least as far as I have learned, has
reached but few people, that I have taken it upon myself to tell simply,
as I have heard it, this story of the “Little White Black Bird,” which,
as an act of retaliation, was, we must confess, a dignified and just
one, and which apart from this, forms an allegory that is beautiful and
perhaps instructive.

       *       *       *       *       *

There was once a little white bird that lived in such a beautiful forest
that one might think no creature with such a home and such a playground
could fail to be happy. But in truth this little bird was far from happy,
because of his loneliness, for in all that wood there seemed to be no
white bird but himself. There were many other birds there, but they were
all black; these had their mates and their nests where they rested at
night, and whence early in the morning they would fly away together,
making the silent woods echo with their song, peeping at the little
elves, one of whom lives hidden away in each beautiful flower and plant,
and sharing with each other all that they learned of the wonderful world
about them. All this the white bird knew they did, for in his loneliness
he watched them closely, following them often a long distance in their
flights, grateful for even this companionship. And always he looked about
him for that little white object, which vaguely, in his dreams perhaps,
he felt he might one day find in this mysterious forest, and which might
prove to be his mate.

And one bright happy day this happened: he found another little white
bird who seemed to have suffered for companionship just as he had done,
and they built their home upon a lofty tree and there they lived, and
life seemed to him a wonderful thing and full of joy. For many days this
lasted.

But at last there came a dark morning; all day the rain poured steadily
down and the two little birds stood, huddled, side by side upon the tree,
their feathers draggled and their bodies cold with the damp and wind.
Since early morning the little white bird had been sad, and his heart
full of misgivings, yet it was a great comfort to him through all the
storm, to turn from time to time and look at the little figure at his
side, and know that his precious companion was near him. But once as he
looked, he seemed to see a wonderful change coming over the little bird.
Could the dark light of the forest, he wondered, be misleading him: yet
as he watched and watched he saw it all too clearly: his companion was
becoming jet black, like the other birds he had seen about him in the
forest. Soon the rain washed away the last little speck of white covering
and then with an angry cry, knowing that she had been found out, she flew
away, and doubtless joined her real companions in the wood. So thus he
saw how he had been deceived, and that all along this had been merely
a little black bird, painted white, who had at first, through the days
of sunshine, played her part well, but who, at the coming of the first
storm, had been shown forth in her true color.

The little “white black bird” and Chopin met but once again. The former
in _Ma Vie_ gives this laconic account of the meeting “Je serrai sa main
tremblante et glacée. Je voulu lui parler, il s’echappa.”

                                                      MACPHERSON WILTBANK.




DO POSTERS POST?


    Do posters post? although they sprawl
    In loud profusion at each stall;
      Gibson’s pretentious black-and-whites,
      Nankivell’s freaks and Bradley’s frights,
    And Rhead’s red maidens, lean and tall.

    Although we know each artist’s scrawl,
    _The book they note_ we can’t recall;
      And though their wild effect delights,
              Do posters post?

    Their lines and forms our eyes enthrall,
    Their color schemes our tastes appall,
      The keen collector glibly cites
      Beardsley and all his satellites,
    They’re works of art, but after all,
              Do posters post?

                              CAROLYN WELLS.




TWO FABLES.


THE HORSE AND THE ELK.

An Elk was one day browsing on the twigs in a dingy Forest, when he was
accosted by a Horse who called over a neighboring Fence:

“You look Hungry, Old Man.”

“I am both Hungry and Lonesome,” replied the Elk.

“Well, it’s what you deserve; why don’t you come over into this Pasture
and be Civilized?”

“I prefer the Freedom of the Forest,” replied the Elk.

“But if you joined our Society and submitted to our Rules you might even
associate with me—as it is I’m quite Ashamed to be seen talking to you!”

“To change the subject,” said the Elk, “I just saw two men over in
the edge of the woods coming this way with a Halter, and from their
Conversation I think one of them has Bought a Horse.”

“Oh! oh! oh!” cried the Horse in Consternation, “I do not know who will
be my master nor where my home shall be!”

“I may be uncivilized, but nobody Owns Me,” said the Elk as he dashed
away into the Forest.


THE LUXURIOUS CATS.

A Man living on the Avenue in a Stylish House bought a pair of Cats, as
the place had become infested with Rats.

When this became known to the Rats they were much Concerned and
straightway called a Convention.

When the meeting was called to order a certain Rat that had been a
Commercial Traveller arose and said:

“Be not Alarmed my friends—I know these Cats; they are very slow, being
well fed and proud and prosperous, they are very Lazy.”

Then an old Pessimist Rat arose and said:

“Aye, there may be no immediate Danger, but I have noticed that when
there is a Thomas Cat and a Tabby Cat living on good terms kittens soon
appear. Ah, me! I fear we are Undone.”

Then the Rat that had been On the Road remarked:

“Mr. Chairman, I said that this was a proud, prosperous and stylish pair
of Cats—such Cats, Sir, do not have kittens. Is there any other Business
before the House?”

                                                       JOHN BRYAN of Ohio.




[Illustration]

Mr. Bumball will tutor a few more literary aspirants at low rates.
Address with stamp Mr. BUMBALL, care Campbellite Press, Chicago.
References, Libbie, McNeil & Libbie.

       *       *       *       *       *

USE HAM GARLAND’S NERVINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

Professor Flinders Flanders, of Harvard, will deliver his celebrated
lecture, “How to Run the World,” before Woman’s Clubs for one half gross
receipts. For dates address with stamp MRS. FLINDERS FLANDERS, 44 Appian
Way, Cambridge, Mass.

       *       *       *       *       *

Reward—$500—Prize.

I will pay five hundred dollars to the person who sends to me within six
weeks a better “Note” than I myself can write. A further prize of five
hundred dollars for a better “Sketch” than I have written or can write.
All articles submitted will be judged by me—after a precedent established
by those who offer prizes for similar work. Address all communications
Editor The Philistine.




    “What says the sea, little shell?
    “What says the sea?
    “Long has our brother been silent to us,
    “Kept his message for the ships,
    “Awkward ships, stupid ships.”

    “The sea bids you mourn, oh, pines,
    “Sing low in the moonlight.
    “He sends tale of the land of doom,
    “Of place where endless falls
    “A rain of women’s tears.
    “And men in grey robes—
    “Men in grey robes—
    “Chant the unknown pain.”

    “What says the sea, little shell?
    “What says the sea?
    “Long has our brother been silent to us,
    “Kept his message for the ships,
    “Puny ships, silly ships.”

    “The sea bids you teach, oh, pines,
    “Sing low in the moonlight,
    “Teach the gold of patience,
    “Cry gospel of gentle hands,
    “Cry a brotherhood of hearts,
    “The sea bids you teach, oh, pines.”

    “And where is the reward, little shell?
    “What says the sea?
    “Long has our brother been silent to us,
    “Kept his message for the ships,
    “Puny ships, silly ships.”

    “No word says the sea, oh, pines,
    “No word says the sea.
    “Long will your brother be silent to you,
    “Keep his message for the ships,
    “Oh, puny pines, silly pines.”

                               STEPHEN CRANE.




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


Mr. Laurence Hutton, who writes book advertisements for _Harper’s_,
says—but goodness gracious! who cares what Laurence Hutton says?

       *       *       *       *       *

Two rather remarkable communications have occupied desk room in the
office of John Badenoch, Chicago’s chief of police.

The letters arrived at a grievous moment, for John, who is a Scotchman,
was stinging under a national complication which arose in Milwaukee when
a Teutonic jury decided, with much frothing at the mouth, that a bagpipe
was not a musical instrument, but a doodle sack.

Figure then this mighty chief of blues coming down early to be confronted
with a double decker in a literary way quite beyond his unco’ snod temper.

One began, “Dear Badenoch: See to _this_ will you and oblige——?”

“This” was a tumultuous flutter of philology disturbed to fathomless
import, and it wound up with a tremulous avowal of anticipated success
likely to hail a gathering of the violet-crowned and bulging foreheads
of Chicago’s ham-strung literati, which clan had engaged to frisk anon
at a naughty vaudeville performance. But success is invariably attained
under violent intimidations in Chicago, and the sprinting fawns of
magazine genius who were giving the entertainment grew frightened of its
lofty promises and penned “this” for protection:

    “What I wish you would do, father, is to see Badenoch and beg
    him to put on a special detail of policemen to handle the crowd
    which will inevitably pack the street leading to our rooms
    the night of the show. You can understand that so many of the
    celebrated authors and poets of Chicago convening at once will
    be of the most tremendous public interest, and there will
    surely gather there an unruly mob come to catch a glimpse of
    the celebrities. The officer on this beat can never handle the
    herd alone, we are certain. Fix things.”

It was one of those gentle precautions imperative in the garnering of
prairie brain-sheaves before they are ripe. It was dulcet and hospitable
to see that the Jovian locks of Ham Garland were not pulled out by the
roots by vulgar _menu-people_ who look upon him as the man who invented
a profitless base burner of coal eating propensity; it was thoughtful,
indeed, to prevent the clamor of huzzas when the editor should announce,
“Mr. Cudahy has came,” (the unhappy word editor used in its ancient
horse sense of course). Imagine this author of a symphony in pig skin
bristling with humor bristles which alone have been quoted worth the
price of his book—imagine Cudahy the bovox, anointed, full of his own
bristles, elbowing his luminous way to the vaudeville through hollow
squares of Women Who Wished They Had, and panting Ladies Who Would Like
to Know How! The impressionistic picture conjured up in the excited
mind of the pale but defiant entertainer was that Chicago, startled
out of its rawhide boots at this threat of brain-waves rampant, would
stampede the sacred apartments of the undefiled and snatch the prairie
literati bald-headed. There had arrived a moment when the blushing, the
palpitating host could not tip his laurel at a wise guy angle over his
eye and say “shoo” real loud at rabid possibilities in a suppositious
mob. The squall for assistance was prettily timed and cautiously secret,
but chiefs of police are difficult upon occasion. Mr. Badenoch has been
persistently engaged in convincing the public of Chicago that gambling
was a thing of the past in that pellucid city of oatmeal porridge and
Christian conversation, and his inveterate denials shaped themselves
into a stereotyped response reverberative to the letters. Quoth solemn
John, the chief, who keeps a hay store off days when he is not chasing
the elusive Chicago tin horn gambler and gallant distributor of emerald
merchandise:

    “There must be some mistake about the danger in a convention of
    these Chicago literary people. My agents have given me every
    assurance that no confidence games or persons obtaining money
    under false pretenses have been discovered within the city
    limits. I never heard of any of these literatis myself and do
    not think there need be any scare about a mob looking for them.

    “(Signed)

                            “J. J. BADENOCH,
                            “Police Sup’t. and Feed Store, Chicago.”

It was a calm, still night when the modest vaudeville twinkled and
stragglers in the field of newspaper art and magazine advertising, even
unto Hobo Chatty-Chatfield Tea, crept noiselessly up a deserted avenue
to be welcomed by the disappointed but relieved young hosts who blinked
in hesitating peace at the empty street and the strangely unattended
luminaries who climbed up stairs without interruption or acclaim.

       *       *       *       *       *

The railroad reporter of the Buffalo _Express_ is a lightning calculator.
He figured out the time made by the Empire State Express on its famous
run the other day and said, “This is at the rate of less than a mile a
minute.” Father has an old cow out in the pasture, and when she gets real
scared she can run less than a mile a minute, and she doesn’t seem to be
going so fast either.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Editor of the _Chip-Munk_, dead beat out, brain-tired and on the
verge of hysteria, acknowledges that he can no longer keep up with the
procession. So he advertises for men to write his “Notes,” and offers
a prize of five dollars to the fellow who sends in the best one, and a
booby prize of fifty cents for the worst. Earl & Wilson’s hands are at
it sharp, and we may soon expect something choice. Now is the time to
subscribe.

       *       *       *       *       *

We understand that the principle of writing “according to one’s lights”
is an admirable one and worthy of all Philistinical endorsement. This is
undoubtedly true, but we learn on excellent authority that William Winter
writes according to his liver—a physiological aberration from the true
principle.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is probable that the custodian of the Talleyrand Memoirs little knew
what he was doing for American letters when he gave those precious
chestnuts to the _Century_ magazine four or five years ago. We have
had little but Napoleon since. The Little Corporal has been done up on
a dozen presses in as many different ways as a residuary turkey after
Thanksgiving, and now that he has got down to wishbone soup we are
getting Lincoln in a similar variety of _rechauffés_. I wonder what
graveyard will be dug up next?

       *       *       *       *       *

Under the thrilling caption of “Three Hundred Dollars for a Girl,” I read
that “an Italian sold his daughter to a man at Dunbar, Pennsylvania.”
That is outrageous. No such sale should be allowed under a million
dollars.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Cudahy is sending a curious circular to his friends and his enemies,
offering to supply his autograph, made with a rubber stamp, to all who
apply. The circular has the somewhat startling headline, “The World is my
Meat!” The closing paragraph of this address is as follows:

“Whether you have bought my book or borrowed it cuts no figure. As to
paying a dollar to the Fresh Air Fund, that is all in a pig’s eye!
Seventeen girls and a Forelady are constantly employed sending out my
autographs. Should the rush continue, if necessary, I’ll put on a night
gang—working double shift. Autograph Fiends should direct: Cudio of Mr.
Studahy, Caxton Building, Chicago; thus avoiding the delay incident to
the mail that goes _via_ the Abattoir.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Some jokes are funny because they are not humorous. Richard Mansfield is
to renounce the stage for the lecture platform.

       *       *       *       *       *

By whom the offence cometh, let him heed the words of the Forecaster,
for it is written in the twenty-sixth verse of the fourteenth chapter of
Second Samuel:

    “And when he polled his head, for it was at every year’s end
    that he polled his head; because the hair was heavy on him,
    therefore he polled it, he weighed the hair of his head at two
    hundred shekels.”

       *       *       *       *       *

His name is John Bryan of Ohio. Whoever says otherwise is a rogue and a
varlet.

       *       *       *       *       *

A feature of the forthcoming _Boklet_ will be “How I Chase My Ink,” by
the editor of _Monthly’s_.

       *       *       *       *       *

I hereby warn the public against a certain heretical book called _Fables
and Essays_ by Hon. John Bryan, Member of Congress. The two fables in
this issue are taken from this volume.

       *       *       *       *       *

The cabinet of Living Documents, I understand, contains a series which
will make known to the world the attractions of a gentleman who has
wrought literature by the barrel and is yet largely a creditor to fame.
The pictures will be labelled in the usual per annum way—“Mr. Inkling at
Nine Months,”—“Mr. Inkling as Othello, _etat_ 34,”—“Mr. Inkling at 50,
etc.” Of course we all know that the well of English undefiled is the ink
well, but it took the magazine that prints a million a month (references
in Ann street) to point out by example and advertising the genius that
flows from the molasses and glue roller. It used to be imagined that
cerebration had something to do with literature, but we have changed all
that. It’s just a question of tons of ink. Gray matter is not in it with
dead black. _Vide_ _Munsey’s_ if you doubt it.

       *       *       *       *       *

An unknown correspondent writes me from New Medford, Massachusetts,
stating that faint glimmering recollections of a former Philistinic
existence flit across her mind as she contemplates Tenet Number Thirty
Nine of our Creed: “This earth is Hell and we are now being punished for
sins committed in a former existence.” Then she says that Dagon must
be very merciful, otherwise he would not provide so many good laughs,
supplied by his Inspired Servants the editors of THE PHILISTINE.

Thank you Unknown Fair One—(Subscription rates one dollar per year,
payable to the Bursar).

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Cæsar Lombroso of the University of Tureen has fallen into the soup.
Having found something he admired in another man’s book he pinched it.
The other man, whose name is Jamin, brought suit and the godfather of
Max Nordau was fined twenty-five hundred francs and costs. I have just
figured out that had a man I know been fined this amount for taking his
own wherever he found it, “he and some other fellows” would be in debt to
the sum of sixty-three million piastres, with an alternative of a hundred
and eighty years in gaol. Thank God! we live in a free country.

       *       *       *       *       *

A new woman has just written me that C. Lombroso, having told all he knew
about the Female Offender, is now writing his autobiography.

       *       *       *       *       *

One of my most valued correspondents criticises my proofreading and
alleges that she could do it better herself. She says, “The next time
I pass through East Aurora I’ll stop off.” How can she pass through
and still stop off? The gods give us joy! I fancy the sight of such an
attempted feat would give me a new thrill.

       *       *       *       *       *

A whole half column of heavy criticism is leveled at the Philistines by
the New York _Tribune_ because, as alleged, they “lauded Stephen Crane
to the Skies” at the recent Square Meal. I don’t think it’s necessary to
defend Mr. Crane against the Serious Critic, but one thing may be said in
his favor by way of contrast: he knows a joke at sight.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some years ago, when Mrs. Dr. Barrows changed the name of her paper from
_The Fireside Friend_ to _The Christian Register_, in a desire to be up
to date, she was harshly criticised. But the _Register_ is hot stuff,
just the same, although not orthodox.

       *       *       *       *       *

Judge Tourgee’s _Basin_ has a new cover. Now, if it could get a new
inside, how nice it would be!

       *       *       *       *       *

It is time Bliss Carman came from Behind the Arras and told us about it.




WAY & WILLIAMS, Publishers, Chicago.


RUSSIAN FAIRY TALES: Translated by R. Nisbit Bain. Illustrated by C. M.
Gere. 8vo., Ornamental Cloth, gilt top, $1.50.

OLD ENGLISH FAIRY TALES: By S. Baring Gould. With illustrations by F. D.
Bedford. Octavo. Cloth, $2.00. London: Methuen & Co.

SHELLEY’S TRANSLATION OF THE BANQUET OF PLATO: A dainty reprint of
Shelley’s little-known translation of “The Banquet of Plato,” prefaced
by the poet’s fragmentary note on “The Symposium.” Title-page and
decorations by Mr. Bruce Rogers. 16mo., $1.50. Seventy-five copies on
hand-made paper, $3.00 net.

HAND AND SOUL: By Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Printed by Mr. William Morris
at the Kelmscott Press.

This book is printed in the “Golden” type, with a specially designed
title-page and border, and in special binding. “Hand and Soul” first
appeared in “The Germ,” the short-lived magazine of the Pre-Raphælite
Brotherhood. A few copies also on Vellum.

_For sale by all booksellers, or mailed postpaid by the publishers, on
receipt of price._

                             WAY & WILLIAMS,
                        Monadnock Block. Chicago.




Little Journeys

SERIES FOR 1896

Little Journeys to the Homes of American Authors.


The papers below specified were, with the exception of that contributed
by the editor, Mr. Hubbard, originally issued by the late G. P. Putnam,
in 1853, in a book entitled _Homes of American Authors_. It is now
nearly half a century since this series (which won for itself at the
time a very noteworthy prestige) was brought before the public; and the
present publishers feel that no apology is needed in presenting to a new
generation of American readers papers of such distinctive biographical
interest and literary value.

    No. 1, Emerson, by Geo. W. Curtis.
     ”  2, Bryant, by Caroline M. Kirkland.
     ”  3, Prescott, by Geo. S. Hillard.
     ”  4, Lowell, by Charles F. Briggs.
     ”  5, Simms, by Wm. Cullen Bryant.
     ”  6, Walt Whitman, by Elbert Hubbard.
     ”  7, Hawthorne, by Geo. Wm. Curtis.
     ”  8, Audubon, by Parke Godwin.
     ”  9, Irving, by H. T. Tuckerman.
     ” 10, Longfellow, by Geo. Wm. Curtis.
     ” 11, Everett, by Geo. S. Hillard.
     ” 12, Bancroft, by Geo. W. Greene.

The above papers will form the series of _Little Journeys_ for the year
1896.

They will be issued monthly, beginning January, 1896, in the same general
style as the series of 1895, at 50 cents a year, and single copies will
be sold for 5 cents, postage paid.

                           G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS,
                           NEW YORK AND LONDON




A SHELF OF BOOKS.


LITTLE JOURNEYS

To the Homes of Good Men and Great.

By Elbert Hubbard. Series 1895, handsomely bound. Illustrated with twelve
portraits, etched and in photogravure. 16mo., printed on deckle-edge
paper, gilt top. $1.75.


THE ELIA SERIES.

A Selection of Famous Books, offered as specimens of the best literature
and of artistic typography and bookmaking. Printed on deckle-edge paper,
bound in full ooze calf, with gilt tops, 16mo., (6½ × 4½ inches), each
volume (in box), $2.25.

⁂ There are three different colors of binding—_dark green, garnet and
umber_.

First group: The Essays of Elia, 2 vols. The Discourses of Epictetus.
Sesame and Lilies. Autobiography of Franklin. Thoughts of Marcus Aurelius.


NO ENEMY: BUT HIMSELF.

The Romance of a Tramp. By Elbert Hubbard. Twenty-eight full-page
illustrations. Second edition. Bound in ornamental cloth, $1.50.


EYES LIKE THE SEA.

By Maurus Jokai. (The great Hungarian Novelist.) An Autobiographical
Romance. Translated from the Hungarian by Nisbet Bain. $1.00.

                           G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS,
                           NEW YORK AND LONDON.




THE CONSERVATOR.


PHILADELPHIA.

All communications intended for the Editor should be addressed to HORACE
L. TRAUBEL, CAMDEN, NEW JERSEY.

    Per Year,                       $1.00.
    Single Copies,               10 Cents.

    HORACE L. TRAUBEL              Editor.
    W. THORNTON INNES,
    EDWARD K. INNES,    Business Managers.




FOOTLIGHTS.


_Footlights_, that weekly paper published in Philadelphia, is a clean
(moderately so) paper, chock full of such uninteresting topics as
interviews with actors, book gossip, news from London and Paris, short
stories, woman’s chatter, verse and lots more of idiocy that only spoils
white paper. It has a big circulation, and people read it, but no one can
tell why.

“It has a disagreeable habit of speaking its own mind.”—_Philadelphia
Press._

Do you want to see the absurd thing? If you do A POSTAL BRINGS A SAMPLE
COPY.

                               FOOTLIGHTS,
                            Philadelphia, Pa.




The Roycroft Printing Shop announces for immediate publication 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.

The book is printed by hand, with rubricated initials and title page, on
Ruisdael 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 antique boards, have been made and
are offered for sale at two dollars each, net. There are also twelve
copies printed on Japan vellum throughout, but which are all 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.