The Philistine
                         A Periodical of Protest.

          _Let there be gall enough in thy ink._—TWELFTH NIGHT.

                     [Illustration: Vol. II. No. 5.]

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




THE PHILISTINE.




CONTENTS FOR APRIL, 1896.


    To a Friend in Time of Trouble,      Louise Imogen Guiney

    The Gold that Glitters,                             Ouida

    Moods,                                   Clinton Scollard

    A Song of Solomon,                           H. C. Bunner

    After Dark,                                 Kenneth Brown

    A Fable,                               John Bryan of Ohio

    Thoughts,                            Charles P. Nettleton

    The Passing of Clangingharp,               Frank W. Noxon

    Death the Doorway,                      Alexander Jeffrey

    Lines,                                      Stephen Crane

    Side Talks.

Subscriptions can begin with the current number only. A very limited
quantity of back numbers can be supplied. Vol. 1, 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._




ONLY A VERY FEW COPIES OF THAT NOBLE BOOK, THE SONG OF SONGS: WHICH IS
SOLOMON’S, REMAIN UNSOLD. THE PRICE FOR THESE IS NOW FIVE DOLLARS EACH.
THE ROYCROFT PRINTING SHOP, EAST AURORA, N. Y.




THE CONSERVATOR


Printed Monthly in Philadelphia.

HORACE L. TRAUBEL, Editor.

ANNUAL SUBSCRIPTION PRICE ONE DOLLAR.

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

The attention of persons interested in Walt Whitman is directed to _The
Conservator_, in which, along with the presentation of other views,
affecting freedom, democracy, ethics, solidarity, there appear special
studies treating of the significance of Walt Whitman’s appearance in
history, written in part by men whose personal relations to Whitman,
often whose genius, give their utterances great importance and offer
special reasons why readers of books and lovers of man cannot afford to
ignore or neglect their contributions.

Grouped here following are some names of recent writers aiding in this
synthesis.

    John Burroughs,
    Miss Helen A. Clarke,
    Richard Maurice Bucke,
    Miss Helena Born,
    Oscar Lovell Triggs,
    Edward Payson Jackson,
    Hamlin Garland,
    Edgar Fawcett,
    Daniel G. Brinton,
    Laurens Maynard,
    Thomas B. Harned,
    Francis Howard Williams,
    Kelley Miller,
    William Sloane Kennedy,
    Isaac Hull Platt,
    John Herbert Clifford,
    Miss Charlotte Porter,
    Wayland Hyatt Smith,
    Horace L. Traubel.




_The Bibelot._


MDCCCXCVI

Those authors and subjects that many readers are glad to come at in a
brief way, (and who may be thereby quickened to direct their studies anew
to the sometimes surface hidden beauties of literature,) will continue to
find ample presentation in _The Bibelot_ for 1896.

The typework that has made so many friends among bookmen, will also
be fully sustained; in a word, _The Bibelot_ still proposes to remain
something quite by itself, and out of the highway and beaten track of
every-day book-making.

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.

It is desirable that RENEWALS FOR 1896 should be forwarded Mr. Mosher
_early_ that no vexatious delays may occur in mailing. All subscriptions
must begin with January and end with December of each year.

                       THOMAS B. MOSHER, Publisher.
                             Portland, Maine.




THE LOTOS.


A High Class Monthly Magazine of Art and Letters.

Cover and Poster by Arthur W. Dow.

CONTENTS FOR MARCH.

    The Nature of Fine Art,            Ernest Francisco Frenollosa.
    As to Stephen Crane,               Elbert Hubbard.
    O Sada San, the Bride,             Mary McNeil Scott.
    A Patron of Art,                   Diana Archer.
    Hawthorne, a character sketch,     May Alden Ward.
    Altruism,                          Emily S. Hamblen.
    Etc., Etc.

Fifteen Cents a Number. One Dollar a Year.

                                THE LOTOS.
                     No. 156 Fifth Avenue, New York.




_MEDITATIONS IN MOTLEY._

By WALTER BLACKBURN HARTE


Meditations in Motley reveals a new American essayist, honest and
whimsical, with a good deal of decorative plain speaking. An occasional
carelessness of style is redeemed by unfailing insight.—I. Zangwill in
_The Pall Mall Magazine_ for April, 1895.

Philip Hale, the well known and brilliant literary and musical critic,
writes: “Walter Blackburn Harte is beyond doubt and peradventure, the
leading essayist in Boston to-day. For Boston, perhaps you had better
read “The United States.” His matter is” original and brave, his style is
clear, polished when effect is to be gained thereby, blunt when the blow
should fall, and at times delightfully whimsical, rambling, paradoxical,
fantastical.”

Mr. Harte is not always so good in the piece as in the pattern, but
he is a pleasant companion, and I have met with no volume of essays
from America since Miss Agnes Repplier’s so good as his Meditations in
Motley.—RICHARD LE GALLIENNE, in the London _Review_.

PRICE, CLOTH, $1.00.

                         Address THE PHILISTINE,
                            East Aurora, N. Y.




Why Not Win One of These Wheels?


[Illustration]

“LA DELICATESSE” COMPANY, EXCLUSIVE MAKERS OF “LA DELICATESSE,” A
“CONFECTION IN CHEESE,”

OFFER EITHER THE “SWELL NEWPORT” OR THE “NEWPORT BELLE,” $100 “S. & F.”
WHEELS, TO THE PERSON WHO SHALL COIN THE GREATEST NUMBER OF ENGLISH WORDS
FROM THE WORD “DELICATESSE.”...

Enclose stamp for conditions and booklet describing the wheels. Please
mention the Philistine.

                        “LA DELICATESSE” COMPANY,
                             Herkimer, N. Y.




ANNOUNCEMENT.


The Society of the Philistines has made an arrangement with Mr. Walter
Blackburn Harte, the Editor and Publisher of The Fly Leaf, Boston,
Massachusetts, to acquire and incorporate The Fly Leaf with The
Philistine.

Under this arrangement the services of Mr. Harte will be retained by the
Society, and he will henceforth devote his time and efforts to furthering
the interests of The Philistine and The Roycroft Printing Shop.

After April 1st Mr. Harte’s address will be East Aurora, N. Y.

All unexpired subscriptions to The Fly Leaf will be filled by

                             THE PHILISTINE,
                               East Aurora,
                                New York.




THE PHILISTINE.

                NO. 5.        April, 1896.        VOL. 2.




TO A FRIEND IN TIME OF TROUBLE.


    Believe the word our gentle augur spake:
    Sweet are the uses of adversity.
    Sweet ever, and in naught so sweet as this:
    That tho’ the heavens be barred, if we but hold
    An equal, tranquil, will-illumined mind,
    Such greatness in us, laborless, must earn
    Great answers; cheer from all created things,
    And interchange of love by natural right
    With the high few; a kinship not of clan.
    Be these thy present comfort. Like a man
    Who tends a watchlight on the hills alone,
    At Childermas, (and thro’ a night so cold
    The red dots of the rowan-berry twirl,
    Incorporate with a small, stiff cone of ice,
    And the wind breaks his flail and swineherds hear
    Outside the pine-boles crack with frost in the heart,)
    Thou shalt, ere long, upon a distant peak
    Descry a doubted smoke, a likelier spark,
    A shadow shot across a glare, and then
    A spurt of flame that bares the under sea;
    And climb by much and more of certitude
    To praising God some other even as thou
    Beneath his natal star himself maintains,
    And in salute of souls co-ordinate,
    There, till he perish, guards his lineal fire.

                                    LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY.




THE GOLD THAT GLITTERS.


There lived once in the East, a great king; he dwelt far away, amongst
the fragrant fields of roses, and in the light of suns that never set.

He was young, he was beloved, he was fair of face and form; and the
people, as they hewed stone, or brought water, said amongst themselves,
“Verily, this man is as a god; he goes where he lists, and he lies still
or rises up as he pleases; and all fruits of all lands are called for
him; and his nights are nights of gladness, and his days, when they dawn,
are all his to sleep through or spend as he will.”

But the people were wrong. For this king was weary of his life.

His buckler was sown with gems, but his heart beneath it was sore. For he
had been long bitterly harassed by foes who descended on him as wolves
from the hills in their hunger, and he had been long plagued with heavy
wars and with bad harvests, and with many troubles to his nation that
kept it very poor, and forbade him to finish the building of new marble
palaces, and the making of fresh gardens of delight, on which his heart
was set. So he, being weary of a barren land and of an empty treasury,
with all his might prayed to the gods that all he touched might turn to
gold, even as he had heard had happened to some magician long before in
other ages. And the gods gave him the thing he craved; and his treasury
overflowed. No king had ever been so rich as this king now became in the
short space of a single summer day.

But it was bought with a price.

When he stretched out his hand to gather the rose that blossomed in his
path, a golden flower scentless and stiff was all he grasped. When he
called to him the carrier-dove that sped with a scroll of love-words
across the mountains, the bird sank on his breast a carven piece of
metal. When he was athirst and called to his cupbearer for drink, the
red wine ran a stream of molten gold. When he would fain have eaten, the
pulse and the pomegranate grew alike to gold between his teeth. And lo!
at eventide, when he sought the silent chambers of his home, saying,
“Here at least I shall find rest,” and bent his steps to the couch
whereon his beloved was sleeping, a statue of gold was all he drew into
his eager arms, and cold shut lips of sculptured gold was all that met
his own.

That night the great king slew himself, unable any more to bear this
agony; since all around him was desolation, even though all around him
was wealth.

Now the world is like that king, and in its greed of gold will barter its
life away.

Look you—this thing is certain—I say that the world will perish even
as that king perished, slain as he was slain, by the curse of its own
fulfilled desire.

The future of the world is written. For God has granted their prayer to
men. He has made them rich, and their riches shall kill them.

When all green places have been destroyed in the builder’s lust of gain;
when all the lands are but mountains of bricks, and piles of wood and
iron; when there is no moisture anywhere, and no rain ever falls; when
the sky is a vault of smoke, and all the rivers reek with poison; when
forest and stream, the moor and meadow, and all the old green wayside
beauty are things vanished and forgotten; when every gentle timid thing
of brake and bush, of air and water, has been killed because it robbed
them of a berry or a fruit; when the earth is one vast city, whose young
children behold neither the green of the field nor the blue of the sky,
and hear no song but the hiss of the steam, and know no music but the
roar of the furnace; when the old sweet silence of the country-side, and
the old sweet sounds of waking birds, and the old sweet fall of summer
showers, and the grace of a hedgerow bough, and the glow of the purple
heather, and the note of the cuckoo and cushat, and the freedom of waste
and of woodland, are all things dead, and remembered of no man; then
the world, like the Eastern king, will perish miserably of famine and of
drought, with gold in its stiffened hands, and gold in its withered lips,
and gold everywhere; gold that the people can neither eat nor drink, gold
that cares nothing for them, but mocks them horribly; gold for which
their fathers sold peace and health, and holiness and beauty; gold that
is one vast grave.

                                                                    OUIDA.




MOODS.


    To give my aching spirit ease
      Yestreen I wandered out alone;
    The mourner wind among the trees
      Made its reiterant moan.

    I hailed him. “Brother mine,” I said,
      “Near kinsman in distress and dole,
    Thou art, in all thy drearihood,
      The echo of my soul.”

    Then sudden from the boughs broke forth
      Mad mirth as though from pipes at play;
    Meseemed that East and West and North
      Were out for holiday.

    And laughter bubbled up behind
      My dolefulness and over-ran;
    As shifting as the freaksome wind
      The many moods of man!

                            CLINTON SCOLLARD.




A SONG OF SOLOMON.


    Love, I have wandered a weary way,
      A weary way for thee,
    The East is wan with the smile of the day,
      Open thy door to me.
    My hair is wet with the dew of the night,
      That falls from the cedar tree,
    The shadows are dark, but the East is light,
      Open thy door to me.

    The stones of the road have bruised my feet,
      The hours till morn are three,
    Thou that hast spikenard, precious, sweet,
      Open thy door to me.
    Stay not thy hand upon the lock,
      Nor thy fingers on the key,
    In the breeze before morn the tree tops rock,
      Open thy door to me.

    My love is the fairest, the only one,
      The choice of her house is she,
    The height of the heav’n hath seen the sun,
      Open thy door to me.
    The holy kiss of my lips and thine
    Shall the sun have the grace to shine,
    The hours foregone of the night are mine,
      Open thy door to me.

                                    H. C. BUNNER.

[This dainty poem first published in _Scribner’s_ has been set to music
by that brilliant woman, Mary Knight Wood. The Oliver Ditson Company are
the publishers.]




AFTER DARK.


Central Park on Saturday afternoon and the Tenderloin district on
Saturday night give one different ideas of New York. Rather different
ideas, too, of New York society, if one happens on a night when any of
the Four Hundred bring up in the Thirtieth Street Police Station. Then
you see him whom tailors do not bully as they do ordinary men, but bow
down to as one whose whims are to set fashions, brought in, covered
with mud, by some cab-driver who has failed to get his due from the
drink-befuddled brain and the drink-emptied pocket.

Those who come into the station of their own accord act differently. They
take off their hats and tiptoe across the room to ask if they may go
upstairs to the sleeping room; and if it is full they tiptoe meekly out
again. Misery is very unostentatious.

Worst of all are the old women, with their repulsiveness which almost
prevents one from pitying them. I wondered, the other day, what became of
all the pretty girls who walk Broadway and Sixth Avenue at night. I think
I saw in the police station what became of some of them.

With the proud scions of aristocracy there is no humbleness. In some
stages there is jocularity and affability; in some, haughtiness; but the
end of both is the same. When the scion understands that he is to spend
a night in jail the horror of it appears to him something the gods cannot
allow. He remonstrates with the police captain; he mentions his pride
of birth and the shame that incarceration would be to such as he; he
appeals to all the police captain’s higher feelings one after the other;
he speaks to him as one gentleman to another. His ignorance of the vulgar
world leads him into strange mistakes. And the policeman laughs and
encourages him to talk, if the night has been dull, and finally putting
him into a cell, examines the inside cover of his watch to see if he has
given his right name.

       *       *       *       *       *

About an hour after midnight Detective Dugan brought in a pretty,
fair-haired girl.

“What is your name?” asked the sergeant.

The girl leaned forward and her lips moved, but they trembled so she
could not answer for a moment. “Fanny Kellogg,” she said faintly at last.

“Kelly?” asked the sergeant.

“No; Kel—Kel—”

“Kellogg,” said the detective for her.

“What’s your age, Fanny?” asked the sergeant.

“Twenty-five.” She did not look more than twenty; so I suppose she spoke
the truth.

“Your occupation?”

There were two or three reporters near her. She looked straight ahead and
did not answer at all. The sergeant waited a minute; then he asked:

“The same old thing?”

She nodded, still looking straight before her.

“Married?”

Her eyes filled with tears. She shook her head.

“That’s too bad, Fanny, you ought to get married.” He finished writing in
his book, and then rang for the matron. The bell was out of order, so he
sent a messenger. While waiting he said to the girl jokingly:

“Couldn’t you see that Dugan was a copper?”

She turned and looked at the detective, smiling. She looked at him from
top to toe, as if to see whether her judgment had been at fault, or
whether she had merely had a case of hard luck. Dugan began to blush and
Fanny smiled still more. She had a pleasant face, but in the smile one
could see things that the face in repose did not reveal.

There was some delay before the matron came. After the little joke on the
detective had passed, Fanny’s eyes again filled with tears, which she
furtively wiped away with the tips of her fingers. Then the little plump
matron appeared in the doorway, beckoned to Fannie with a stiff little
finger of rectitude, and they went out of the room together.

“It’s a pity she shouldn’t marry; she’s a nice girl,” said the sergeant.

“She’s pretty, too,” said a reporter.

“Her figure isn’t good enough for me,” said another.

“Oh, I guess you’d take her fast enough,” answered the sergeant.

The talk was slipping down very rapidly. Few men consider chivalry a
thing to be worn all the time.

                                                            KENNETH BROWN.




THE MONK.


A Monk who belonged to a very Wealthy Order went forth to beg, pleading
great poverty and distress to those from whom he asked alms. He met a
Butcher and a Baker to whom he said he had eaten nothing for many days,
and that he was almost starved.

“How is it thou art so fat?” said they as they drove on their wagons.

He met a Tradesman and said he had not had any money for years, even from
his youth, as he had long been a Monk.

“I have no money to give thee,” said the Tradesman, at the same time
jingling a handful of gold coins in his pocket.

“I pray Jesus to forgive thee that lie,” said the Monk, “for I hear the
coins jingling in thy pockets.”

“If thou hast seen so little money in thy life,” said the Tradesman, “how
dost thou so well know its jingle?”

He met a Fishmonger carrying a basket of fish, coming from attending his
nets, to whom he said: “I and my brothers are perishing for want of fish.
Pray give us thy basket of fish and go thou and catch others.”

“Go and catch thy own fish,” said the Fishmonger, “the waters of the
earth are as free for thee to fish in as for me.”

He met a Woman at her door, to whom he bowed low and made the sign of the
cross:

“Kind Madam,” said he, “I and my brothers are perishing for want of food
and money. I pray you give unto us according as the Lord hath prospered
thee.”

“Come in, poor Monk,” said she, “we have not much except my husband’s
wages, but to share with thee is to give unto the Lord.”

So saying she gave him half her savings, and when he made ready to depart
she craved his blessing.

“You may kiss my Big Toe,” said he. Which being done he departed, and
with a shrug of his shoulders said to himself:

“Ah, if Women were not so easily beguiled, we should be compelled to
work.”

                                                       JOHN BRYAN OF OHIO.




THOUGHTS.


    FREEDOM.

    “No bonds at all! Give me sweet freedom,” cried the youth,
    But freedom dwells in naught save bondage to the truth.

    SUFFICIENCY.

    With self and God, a cave may still be Paradise;
    With God and self unknown, the world cannot suffice.

    UNSELFISHNESS.

    Work thou for self alone, and life shall die at death;
    For others live, and lo! death shall be God’s own breath.

    PRAISE.

    The praise of some is manna from on high,
    But when all praise, ’tis time for one to die.

                                         CHARLES P. NETTLETON.




THE PASSING OF CLANGINGHARP.


And so old Clangingharp passed out. He did not die, and his case was
not like Elijah’s or Enoch’s. Enoch left a spoor, while Clangingharp
calmly and peacefully passed away, without striking a discord. Nobody
had any idea where Clangingharp was. Frostembight had seen him the night
before and they had drunk and been drunk; but where Clangingharp was
Frostembight could not or would not say.

The Knittenpin woman, of course, acted like an idiot and went around to
Frostembight’s house in the morning and threatened to kill Frostembight.
Nothing prevented her but Frostembight. She afterwards told Shiningstar
and Shiningstar’s little girl Eva, that Frostembight was not safe for
dependence, even as a victim. Eva leered proudly and said she guessed it
made very little difference anyway.

Eva was one of those frail, delicate little girls, happy for their years,
who grow up into frail, delicate women, wretched for theirs. Sometimes
they have blue eyes, sometimes black. Eva’s were green. Championoar liked
green-eyed women, and half promised to wait till Eva was old enough to be
married to him, when he could get her off the stage. Shiningstar was his
stepdaughter’s stepfather.

By the second night after Clangingharp had passed away the editor of _The
Evening Coat_ had gone back into society again, and was the center of a
jostling cluster at the Opera. Madame Frustra, the prima donna, seemed
to incline toward the editor, and when his flowers reached her in her
dressing room she was heard to murmur, “Poor Clangingharp!” That was
really all there was to connect _The Evening Coat_ with the affair, and,
indeed, Frustra wrote the editor a note saying that nowadays a successful
actress had to forego wine suppers and skip to her hotel directly after
the opera. She got out of town with her luggage before the stranding was
discovered.

Charmingbland, the hotel clerk, got himself into a devil of a fix, it
was said, for hinting foul play and collusion between Little Eva and
Uncle Tom. Uncle Tom was a good enough fellow, though pale at times, and
made a dramatic exit when the Chinaman lost his cue. Of course there
was a tremendous sensation, and speculation of all sorts over what
Clangingharp’s son would have done if Clangingharp had had one. That led
Padmarx, dramatic editor of _The Evening Coat_, to put on a copy and go
behind the scenes to interview Ellen Squigs.

“Say, Squigsy,” he wheedled, “where’s Clangingharp?”

Squigsy went right on frizzing her hair with a curling-iron, and said
she wasn’t no slouch and wasn’t going to be bluffed by Championoar nor
any other dude. That made Padmarx curious, and he asked Squigsy if she
really thought she could act. Squigsy rushed at Padmarx and ran the hot
curling-iron all over his dress shirt, making long, irregular scorches on
the bosom. Padmarx buttoned up his ulster and went out after the ball.
Late that night a stranger walked up to Charmingbland, pulled off a false
mustache and said furtively:

“There, you idiot—dyuh recognize meh now?”

“Strings Clangingharp, by Gawd,” remarked Charmingbland, “where you been?”

Clangingharp put his mustache on crooked, and they sat down at a table
in the bar-room from which Charmingbland could see anybody that tried to
steal the silver card-platters off the desk. Clangingharp drank eleven
cocktails before he said a word, then he put his finger to his mustache
to enjoin maudlin secrecy upon Charmingbland and said:

“Shay, ol’ man. Want t’ know w’er I been? Been zh’ gol’ cure, ol’ man.
Zhay wouldn’ take me. Gimme some pepper there!”

And he spread himself, like a green bay tree.

                                                           FRANK W. NOXON.




    TO THE MAIDEN
    THE SEA WAS BLUE MEADOW
    ALIVE WITH LITTLE FROTH-PEOPLE
    SINGING.

    TO THE SAILOR, WRECKED,
    THE SEA WAS DEAD GREY WALLS
    SUPERLATIVE IN VACANCY
    UPON WHICH NEVERTHELESS AT FATEFUL TIME,
    WAS WRITTEN
    THE GRIM HATRED OF NATURE.

                              STEPHEN CRANE.




DEATH THE DOORWAY.


    Let not your soul be saddened by dread of darksome death;
    Immortal life depends not upon the mortal breath.
    Behold this worm; no creature more helpless can be found,
    Yet this, too, has a future, by death upraised, unbound.
    It crawls its brief existence till Summer’s sun has fled;
    Then lies in cocoon shrouded and, as a worm, is dead.
    But when the warmth of Spring-time breaks through its silent tomb,
    On radiant wings it floats on air, and sips the flower’s perfume.
    And yet the self-same spirit that moved the creeping thing,
    Now flutters in this moth’s light form and on its rainbow-wing.
    ...
    Out of the acorn’s foulness that now lies here decayed,
    Shall rise the giant oak-tree, with broadly spreading shade:
    And every seed that’s buried and seems to rot away,
    But proves that death is doorway unto a higher day;
    But proves that death is needful to loose the spirit’s wings,
    And that all life is only the germ of better things.

                                                    ALEXANDER JEFFREY.




SIDE TALKS WITH THE PHILISTINES: BEING SOUL EASEMENT AND WISDOM
INCIDENTALLY.


I observe that the New Woman still sharpens her lead pencil with the
scissors.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Chicago _Times-Herald_, realizing that owing to emanations from the
Stock Yards, the Pierian Spring might need a drainage canal, is making an
effort to dam the obnoxious flow, by offering prizes for the very best
machine-made prose and verse. The literary editor who was selected to
do the damning has recently, in a marked manner, proved his competency
for the “job.” He awarded the prize for the best original poem on the
romantic subject, “Chicago,” to a young lady from Indianapolis who sent
him a copy of B. F. Taylor’s _Fort Dearborn_, which was an original and
a favorite twenty years ago. When the editor’s attention was called to
the prehistoric flavor of the prize poem, he treated the matter with
fine scorn, admitting that it was true, that there had been a “writer
of some local reputation named Taylor who had originally written the
poem.” He then intimated that any plumber’s daughter from Indianapolis,
who would thus attempt to deceive a guileless Chicago editor, ought
to be well spanked. And straightway he impaled her on the turnspit of
public opinion and “roasted” her like an articled literary chef, and in
fact the girl deserved it for wasting her time in copying poetry when
she could have employed it more profitably in making out her father’s
bills. The literary editor handled this matter so diplomatically that the
proprietors of the journal rewarded him with an order on McClurg for a
copy of B. F. Taylor’s _Old Time Pictures_ which contains the poem.

       *       *       *       *       *

In China there is no copyright law. An author’s reward consists in the
thought that he has expressed his idea and thereby benefitted mankind. My
reward so far for good work has been the pure Chinese article.

       *       *       *       *       *

Walter Blackburn Harte has engaged board at the Widow Blannerhassett’s,
second door east of the blacksmith shop. At Johnson’s grocery last night
Harte beat old Si Emery three straight games at checkers—and that is no
small matter.

       *       *       *       *       *

Aunt Polly, of the old school, lives with a niece who is a modern of the
moderns. Hearing the expression “decadent” used in connection with sundry
articles in _The Yellow Book_ and _The Chip-Munk_, she looked into the
matter herself when left alone after dinner and the young folks had gone
to see and hear _The Scarlet Letter_.

She read until her spectacles began to quiver and her cap strings heaved
upon her breast like signals of distress in a brooding tempest.

The books suddenly fell with a dull thud.

“Decayed! well, I should say so!” groaned Aunt Polly, as she began
rocking in her chair at the rate of a mile in two forty. What could she
have been reading?

       *       *       *       *       *

It’s a curious comment on our civilization that a priest in the Catholic
Church should (or could) make himself obnoxious to a very large number
of his townsmen by advocating total abstinence from strong drink. Yet
this is exactly what the Rev. Father George Zurcher of Buffalo has done.
It seems some merry brewers have been playing pranks on the good Father
by sending him cases of bottled lager with four-horse teams, brass bands
and decorated vehicles. It was awfully funny to see the big wagons rattle
up to the little house that stands beside the church and then behold fat
men with faces like full moons and noses like glowing oriflammes lug in
the lager and deposit it on the priestly steps. Then other jokers took
the matter in hand and sent hurry-up telephone orders for wet goods
to be delivered at the Rectory. But Father George is a bit of a joker
himself and at the same time is dead in earnest as the true humorist
always is. And now when invoices of “Old Tom,” or “Triple XXX,” or
“Monongahela” arrive Father George walks out in sight of the people who
have gathered to see the fun, solemnly crosses himself, murmurs a prayer
and proceeds to slam the bottles against the side of the pretty brick
church. Slap-dash, spang, bang, zipp they go! Corks fly, red moisture
flows and glass covers the sidewalk like hail after a Kansas blizzard.
Some of the assembled citizens laugh, some cheer, others look solemn and
deprecate the waste of valuable goods that might be sold and the proceeds
given to the poor. Still others, sadder still, with sensitive spirits,
deem it sacrilege to throw things at a sacred edifice, and ask for Bible
justification.

But Father George, being a most unreasonable man, and a perverse, says
that the best use a church can be put to is that of a barricade on which
to smash bottles of Extra Triple XXX. In fact, he earnestly declares
that his church was built with this special idea in mind and that the
foundation is so deep and the walls so solid that if all the demijohns in
Buffalo were banged plumb against it, it would still stand secure.

And the upstart of it all is that over a hundred bicycle tires have been
punctured in that block during the last month and no wheelman feels safe
from broken glass within a mile limit in any direction of St. Joseph’s
church. So the police have notified the Father that he must smash no more
bottles in the street on penalty. And furthermore, on the statute books
of the State of New York is a law known as “The Bottlers’ Protective
Act.” This law makes it a misdemeanor to wilfully break a beer bottle
in the great Empire State. The Beer Bottlers’ Association, in order to
uphold its dignity, is about to bring action against Father George under
this law, all as legally provided, and the end is not yet.

       *       *       *       *       *

We now have the _Lotus_, the _Lotos_ and the _Lettuce_. The latest is
_The Prairie Dog_. Its hole is in Lawrence, Kansas, and it is patterned
after the _Chip Munk_. Verily, like begets like.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Drumtochty folks are both good and witty. And it looks a bit as if
that old idea that a joke cannot be gotten into the head of a Scotsman
without trepanning is a mistake. Some say, though, that there is no such
place as Drumtochty; yet the same remark has been made about East Aurora.
But Dodd, Rott & Company declare that Drumtochty exists, and in their
last Price List they insert this poem, which they say fitly describes the
Land of parritch:

    Land of chivalry and freedom,
      Land of old traditional fame,
    May thy noble sons and daughters
      Long uphold thy honored name.

    Land of simple-hearted kindness,
      Land of patriotic worth,
    May thy virtues ever flourish,
      Hardy clansman of the north.

No Scot has arisen so far to deny the allegations set forth; but an
Englishman has, and he winds up with this:

    Land of ancient bloody tyrants,
      Sneaking traitors, deep and sly,
    Land of thieving “Heelen teevils,”
      Kilted rogues and stolen kye.

    Land o’ canny carefu bodies,
      Foes to a’ ungodly fun,
    Those who sum up man’s whole duty,
      Heaven, hell and number one.

And now Mr. H. O. Mac Arthur, who edits _The Bookman_, has offered a
reward of seven dollars and fifty cents for the name and address of the
Englishman aforesaid.

       *       *       *       *       *

If Rider Haggard had been Lew Wallace what would _She_ have been?

       *       *       *       *       *

Conan Doyle used to print good things before he made a success; but now
that he has found a market, what’s the use!

       *       *       *       *       *

I have wrestled patiently and mightily with a volume called _A Study of
Death_, by H. M. Alden, and have been worsted. Any man who will chase Mr.
Alden into a corner and get a plain simple answer to anything shall be
crowned with honor.

       *       *       *       *       *

“You may talk of all subjects save one, namely, your maladies,” said
Emerson. Yet in each issue of the _Cosmopolitan_ Andrew Lang takes the
public into his confidence concerning his bodily ills.

       *       *       *       *       *

The tendency to play flim-flam with their names is a penchant of the
Inklings. No sooner does a mortal have a bit of manuscript accepted than
he gives himself a middle name if he hasn’t one, and drops it out if he
has. Some in fact petition the legislature for brand new handles and have
themselves rechrisumed by a priest, as recently was the case in Boston;
the man’s age being thirty-six. Others add a hyphen and join two names
with a philological integument that makes one think of the Siamese twins.

The queerest freak of this kind perhaps is the case of the
Gilder-Family-Robinson. The name as it first appears on the Parochial
Register is Gildersleeve. But when Judge Gildersleeve shot in the
American Rifle Team and made a bad score at Wimbledon, the sleeve was cut
off in certain instances. In other words, the name was raveled and worn
with short sleeves—or no sleeves at all, like a bodice or stomacher.

Now that William Watson has been knighted we see it is spelled
_Watson-Guilder_. But the latest development in this peculiar evolution
is a letter from Sir William Watson disclaiming all relationship with
the Watsons of America. The closing paragraph of this epistle is worthy
of note: “It is true that I was caught and knighted by the Queen, as a
certain flippant American paper has put it; but any American who hopes to
add lustre to his name by claiming kinship with me should be caught and
knouted.”

       *       *       *       *       *

_The London Graphic_ thinks that Judge Grant is not so great a man as his
father, the General. That’s a matter of opinion.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Frederick A. Stokes Company has issued a pretty book, written by Mrs.
Walford, entitled _A Bubble_. I will prick it in my next number.

       *       *       *       *       *

If literature does not pay, we can still beg—if to dig we are ashamed!

       *       *       *       *       *

_Union Down_ by Mr. Scott Campbell is not an imitation of _Thistle Down_,
as has been sometimes stated. And furthermore is the Boston Library right
in classing _Thistle Down_ as light literature?

       *       *       *       *       *

The Lynx-Eyed being yet on a journey the _Chip-Munk_ spells it
“Carlysle.” Or is it only a pricking of conscience for quoting in dead
earnest from the works of Carlisle, who now is only spoken of by scholars
in connection with Imogen Such, Abe Slupsky, Thomas Collins and Wigelow
Vorse?

       *       *       *       *       *

William Marion Reedy, who holds _The St. Louis Mirror_ up to Nature, is
one of the strongest writers that this glorious Republic contains. He
has wit and better still he has humor. He writes with a pen that does
not scratch; and in his ink there is a goodly dash of Attic salt but no
vitriol. Yet when Reedy declined the Ph. D. offered him by the Chicago
University, and said in his letter “I hardly consider myself worthy to be
so honored by Chicago’s great institution of learning,” was it tincture
of iron or what? Anyway, Rockefeller’s mad.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Boston paper describes Mr. Hornaday’s book, _The Man Who Became a
Savage_, as “an artistic romance, penned by a man who believes in art for
art’s sake.” From other sources I hear it spoken of as “a novel with a
purpose, written by a crank with a tandem hobby.” _The National Brewer’s
Gazette_ calls it “a musty piece of bombastic fustian, written by a
ranting Methodist preacher.”

       *       *       *       *       *

I understand that a movement is on foot in Chicago to treat divorce as
a sacrament. And as a straw that tells which way the wind blows in the
Windy City, please note that Judge Gibbons has recently issued an order
that a certain man shall be paid twenty-five dollars per week alimony by
his former wife.

       *       *       *       *       *

Last week all of the Boston papers contained a large picture of J.
Stilman Smith, secretary to Dr. Edward Everett Hale. It was explained
that Dr. Hale is the author of etc., etc., etc., and the reason that
Smith is shown to the world is because he had a severe attack of
influenza coupled with poster-mania, and was cured by taking two boxes of
Dr. Muckyroot’s pills. Great is Dr. Hale! Great is Dr. Muckyroot! Great
is Smith!

       *       *       *       *       *

I warn the public against a book called _Youth: A Poem of Soul and
Sense_, by Mr. Michael Monahan. It is dedicated to “The True and the
Chaste,” which evidently was an attempt to flatter me. But I’m not for
sale. Still, I read the book—read it to Her—read it through, and we two
voted that it could not be safely recommended: for many people on reading
it would be very much shocked and the dear public shall not be shocked
if I can help it. Portions of the book are addressed to the poet’s wife,
and several of the poems (the best) I believe were written by her. Now a
man who is not enough of a man to do his work without calling in his wife
to help him is not much of a man after all—that’s just what I mean and I
don’t care who knows it!

       *       *       *       *       *

And here comes from Emma Eggleson, Sumner, Iowa, something that is too
choice even for my Waste Basket:

    Hail to thee, Neith Boyce! Suffering makes a sisterhood and I
    embrace thee.

    The desire to “edit” every article printed in its columns is
    often a ruling force in the career of the Presiding Elder of
    a Newspaper. Especially is this illustrated in the walk and
    conversation of sundry publications that pour out chronic
    sweetness at stated periods on the classic air of the Hub.

    It is meat and drink to the modest Literary Aspirant to see
    himself in type, even if his “effort” is served with a few
    modifications in style, but when he beholds the offspring
    of his genius scalped on the crown, shorn on each side, and
    whittled down to a sickly wedge of small talk at the close, the
    swift flow of interesting narrative converted to a sluggish
    bayou with the cream ideas carefully skimmed from its surface
    and discarded, he stares helplessly at the title and signature,
    which are all the recognizable features left, and resolves to
    become—a kicker.

    Yet this is Boston, that sits upon her throne of Baked Beans
    sandwiched between hills of Brown Bread, and discourses to
    hungry souls on the occult sciences of philosophical research,
    and the inscrutable never-the-less-ness of the More-over.

    Boston, the mystic sea-kine, wearing horns of pearl, a ring
    in her nose whereby Wisdom leads her, and a board before her
    placid countenance on which is printed “Inquire Within,” so
    that even the ships in the harbor may read the sign and profit
    thereby!

    Farewell, thou Press of a traditional city! Smitten on
    both cheeks by the blade of thy pruning knife, I withdraw
    my MS. from thy sanctum and seek for it a field where its
    individuality is not thrown aside like a worthless banana-peel.
    The world is wide, and if a publisher offends in this manner,
    though he may have been like one’s right hand, he should be
    cut off and cast away entirely. The blue pencil has many
    privileges, but when it rides too high on the wave of editorial
    presumption, a halt must be called. Better the comforting
    printed slip that offers thanks to the obliging contributor for
    submitting unavailable matter for consideration and announces
    it “returned herewith,” (probably unread).

       *       *       *       *       *

I welcome David B. Hill to the ranks of the Philistines. There are some
things about the more or less disingenuous David that I don’t like, but
when he slings a pebble at the gluttony that calls itself public life
in Washington, he strikes twelve. It was Emerson who spoke of “the riot
of the senses to be seen in American Hotels,” and when Mr. Hill stands
in the gilded bar-room of the Ebbitt House and asks “Are we a Christian
people?” the question is in order.

       *       *       *       *       *

My brother Anthony’s little girl calls all medicine Nasty Stuff. The
little girl much resembles her uncle. Not many grown-ups know as much
as she. She is very smart, which surely is better than to be big, for
instance like Conan Doyle, who was described by that Barnum of Art, James
B. Pond, in his catalogue as “a large man, weighing full two hundred and
twenty pounds.” Now the distinguished Veterinary, just named, besides
lecturing, also writes on medical topics, putting his theses in form of
novels. He just grovels in pathology and wallows in therapeutics. He is
ever administering boluses to his heroes and emetics to his heroines—and
readers. In that story of a box-stall, _The Stark-Monroe Letters_, he
displays vials, bottles, droppers, corks, iodoform gauze, trepanning
tools, silver treacheas, catgut thread, antiseptic cotton and scalpels.
The man who can read two of the _Stark-Monroe Letters_ without being
salivated shall have THE PHILISTINE gratis for a year. I beg of Dr. Doyle
that he will read _Science and Health_ by Mrs. Mary Baker G. Eddy, and
forever eschew Nasty Stuff in literature.

       *       *       *       *       *

Brander Matthews’ little tinkle is heard again in _Harper’s_ this month.
He arrives with a belated Vignette, in which he tells as usual all about
Many Things. The Maverick’s plan is simple. It doesn’t tax the inventive
powers and at the same time it is capable of almost infinite extension,
for it consists merely in describing the places of amusement and the
familiar parks and street corners of the metropolis. Slight variations
in the attenuated love story are necessary and care must be taken to
work in something appropriate to the season or that has a newspaper
vogue, but all the rest is purely topographical. There is absolutely no
end to it, for the hero can be made to have his emotion of triumphant
or disappointed love at the football game, at the opening night at the
opera, at a chrysanthemum show, at St. Thomas church or at the Duke’s
wedding, and in each case there is material for a separate story. It is a
limitless sausage with link added to link so it can go clear around the
world, and the Maverick’s world is small, anyway. The scheme is glorious;
it is limitless. All up and down Fifth Avenue bits of romance can be
woven into every block. A case of disappointed affection at Washington
Square for story No. 1; true love at the Brevoort House for No. 2;
hopeless longing at the corner of Tenth street for No. 3, and so on up
to Harlem. Call these _Vignettes of Fifth Avenue_. They would be the
first of _The Avenue Series_, which when completed, would be followed by
_The Side Street Series_, and this in turn by a set of sketches arranged
according to wards or voting precincts in the lower part of the city.
Then take up all the parks in order, the theaters, the hotels, the music
halls.

You see, the breezy Brander is doing in fiction what has so often been
done with success in our recent drama. His description of Carmencita’s
dancing, of a Broadway cable car, or Macy’s by moonlight, corresponds
exactly to the introduction on the stage of a live baby, or a really
and truly fire engine, or a genuine puddle of water into which one of
the characters falls with a bona fide splash, to the great delight of
the galleries. The reader’s simple heart rejoices at the recognition of
familiar lamp posts and L stations as the hero walks through Twenty-third
street and takes the Sixth avenue car to Herald Square. He loves to hear
how the electric lights flicker and sputter, how the clock on the Herald
Building strikes nine and how the cabs drive up and down, for sakes
alive! he has seen these very things with his own eyes.

He is clever—is the unbranded Maverick—to have hit on this method. It
is a mine that can be worked without effort. To twaddle lucratively and
prattle with profit, ah! that is an art worth knowing! It brings the
Harper smiles and the soft sinecures of literature.




Of this issue there have been printed, in addition to the regular
edition, one hundred copies of The Philistine on Ruisdael hand-made
paper, with the advertising pages on Japanese Vellum. These numbers are
stitched with silk, have extra wide margins and are bound in a special
Holland paper, purposely imported by John Dickinson & Company, Limited,
for this issue. Each copy will be numbered and signed by one of the
editors. The price of these de luxe numbers is one dollar each. Address

                             THE PHILISTINE,
                               East Aurora,
                                New York.




THE AMERICAN.


The Leading Exponent of Bimetallism and Protection in the United States.

A national weekly journal, Truthful, Fearless and Aggressive in the
discussion of Public Affairs and other events of general interest, in
which those who are literary, as well as those who desire to be fully
informed on current events of Public Importance will find what they want.

                                                   WHARTON BARKER, Editor.

_The American_ is fighting the battle of the masses against those who
would fix the gold standard permanently upon the country; holding that
the supreme duty of the American People is to conserve, protect and
fortify the interests of the United States. $2.00 per annum. Sample
copies free.

$3.00 for $2.00.

JUST THINK OF IT! For $2, the regular price of subscription, we will send
_The American_ and any one of these well-known periodicals:

    To Date.
    Munsey’s.
    Cosmopolitan.
    The Black Cat.
    McClure’s.
    Peterson’s.
    Book Buyer.
    Godey’s.
    Romance.
    American Sentinel.
    Farm Journal.
    American Agriculturist.
    Rural New Yorker.
    Art in Advertising.
    Ladies’ Home Journal.
    Sunday School Times.
    American Gardening.
    National Temperance Advocate.
    American Woman’s Magazine.

The name of the subscriber must be one not now on our list. Mention this
advertisement.

                              THE AMERICAN,
                 No. 119 SOUTH FOURTH St., PHILADELPHIA.




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




[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.




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.




1. 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.

The following are special features that as a whole can only be found in
THE OLD WORLD edition:

    I. An entirely new biographical sketch of Edward FitzGerald by
    Mr. W. Irving Way of Chicago.

    II. Parallel texts of the First and Fourth editions, printed
    the one in Italic and the other in Roman type on opposite
    pages, the better to distinguish them.

    III. Variorum readings giving all textual changes occurring in
    the Second, Third and Fourth editions.

    IV. The omitted quatrains of the rare Second Edition of 1868.
    To the student of literature these cancelled readings are of
    the greatest interest and value.

    V. A bibliography of all English versions and editions revised
    to date.

    VI. Finally, three poems upon Omar and FitzGerald, not
    generally known, are here given, just as in The Bibelot
    Edition, two poems were there reprinted as fitting foreword and
    finale.

    _925 copies on Van Gelder’s hand-made paper at_       _$1.00 net._
    _100   ”    ”  Japan Vellum (numbered) at_            _$2.50  ”_

                        Address THOMAS B. MOSHER,
                             Portland, Maine.




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 x 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.




_FOOTLIGHTS_,


that weekly illustrated paper published in Philadelphia (pity, isn’t
it?), is a clean (moderately so) paper, chock full of such uninteresting
topics as interviews with actor and actress (bless ’em); book gossip,
news from Paris and London, (dear, old Lunnon), woman’s chatter, verse
and lots more of idiocy that only spoils white paper. It sells for five
cents a copy, or $2.00 a year.

VERY SPECIAL: Send two dollars and _Footlights_ and THE PHILISTINE will
be sent you for one year. Address

                             THE PHILISTINE,
                            East Aurora, N. Y.




THE ROYCROFT PRINTING SHOP at this time desires to announce a sister book
to the Song of Songs: which is Solomon’s. It is the Journal of Koheleth:
being a Reprint of the Book of Ecclesiastes with an Essay by Mr. Elbert
Hubbard. The same Romanesque types are used that served so faithfully
and well in the Songs, but the initials, colophon and rubricated borders
art special designs. After seven hundred and twelve copies are printed
the types will be distributed and the title page, colophon and borders
destroyed.

In preparation of the text Mr. Hubbard has had the scholarly assistance
of his friend, Dr. Frederic W. Sanders, of Columbia University. The
worthy pressman has also been helpfully counseled by several Eminent
Bibliophiles.

_The seven hundred copies that are printed on Holland hand-made paper
are offered at two dollars each, and the twelve copies on Japan Vellum
at five dollars. Every book will be numbered and signed by Mr. Hubbard.
Orders are now being recorded, but Book Lovers are requested not to send
remittances until the volume is in their hands._

                       THE ROYCROFT PRINTING SHOP,
                          East Aurora, New York.




CATHOLICITY IN ART.


    All’s one, all’s one! the critic learns,
      Though hostile tastes be frowning;
    That poets’ flame where Bobby burns,
      Where, too, is Robert, browning.

                      WALTER STORRS BIGELOW.

[Illustration]