The Philistine
                         A Periodical of Protest.

       _Let me take you a buttonhole lower._—LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST.

                     [Illustration: Vol III. 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.
                              August, 1896.




THE PHILISTINE.




CONTENTS FOR AUGUST.


    Miserere,                              Hiram Dryer McCaskey.

    An Hour with Maecenas,                        G. W. Stevens.

    Sunrise Over the City,                  William James Baker.

    The Captives,                                         Ouida.

    If Love Were All,                                Edith Neil.

    The Man on a Bicycle,                  Harvey Lewis Wickham.

    The Steward,                                        C. P. N.

    Let There Be Gall Enough in Thy Ink,          Adeline Knapp.

    The Worshippers,                       Charles P. Nettleton.

    Side Talks with the Philistines.
      Conducted by the East Aurora School of Philosophy.

Have you seen the Roycroft Quarterly? The “Stephen Crane” number is
attracting much attention and we believe it will interest you. 25 cents a
copy.

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

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




NOTICE TO

Collectors of Artistic Posters.


On receipt of 10 cents we will send to any address, a copy of our largely
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“The Echo” is the pioneer in fostering the poster in America. It began
its department of Poster-Lore in August, 1895, and has printed it
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Each issue of “The Echo” bears a poster design, in two or more colors,
on its cover. During the past year seven of these covers were by Will H.
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“The Echo” is $2.00 a year, 10 cents a number. NEW YORK, 130 Fulton
Street.

LOOK OUT for the second and popular edition of “Cape of Storms,” price 25
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_THE LOTUS._


_A Miniature Magazine of Art and Literature Uniquely Printed and
Illustrated._

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Each bi-weekly visit brings a charming surprise.—EVERYBODY.

THE LOTUS _seeks to be novel, unconventional and entertaining without
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THE LOTUS _is published every two weeks and is supplied to subscribers
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The Roycroft Quarterly:


Being a Goodly collection of Literary Curiosities obtained from Sources
not easily accessible to the average Book-Lover. Offered to the
Discerning every three months for 25c. per number or one dollar per year.

Contents for May:

I. Glints of Wit and Wisdom: Being replies from sundry Great Men who
missed a Good Thing.

II. Some Historical Documents by W. Irving Way, Phillip Hale and Livy S.
Richard.

III. As to Stephen Crane. E. H. A preachment by an admiring friend.

IV. Seven poems by Stephen Crane.

    1—The Chatter of a Death Demon.
    2—A Lantern Song.
    3—A Slant of Sun on Dull Brown Walls.
    4—I have heard the Sunset Song of the Birches.
    5—What Says the Sea?
    6—To the Maiden the Sea was Blue Meadow.
    7—Fast Rode the Knight.

V. A Great Mistake. Stephen Crane. Recording the venial sin of a mortal
under sore temptation.

VI. A Prologue. Stephen Crane.




THE PHILISTINE.

               NO. 3.         August, 1896.         VOL. 3.




MISERERE.


    Joy and sorrow, mirth and tears,
    Darkness, sunshine, kind words, jeers,
    The flitting moments, halting years—
          Strange contrasts these!

    Today the youth, tomorrow age;
    We read, and then we turn the page;
    The fool we honour, not the sage—
          Sad travesties!

    The dancers gay, the open grave—
    From foot-lights’ flare to solemn wave
    The sale of souls Christ came to save—
          Life’s tragedies!

                    —HIRAM DRYER MCCASKEY.




AN HOUR WITH MAECENAS.


One, two, three—five men that call themselves my friends, all wishful
to borrow money! Statilius, you will please to make a note of these
five gentlemen, and give orders that on no account are they to pass my
vestibule again. The settlement of society under our Prince has done much
to stamp out the dangerous classes, but we have not yet got rid of the
borrowers. I think it a little hard that after I have neglected my estate
for half my life to expel roguery by the front door that it should creep
in at the back.

Did you inquire, Statilius, why my cook served white sauce with quails
last night? Very well; I have made it a rule to deal with my people in
person: send for him. It is not possible to maintain a household well
regulated, unless the servants come personally into touch with the master.

Plato, you served me last night a dish which, had any of my friends been
present, would have shamed me forever. As it was, my dinner was ruined.
It is incompetence such as yours whose ill effects Rome has struggled
these eight lustrums to efface. You will be sold in the market tomorrow.
Go.

You see now, Statilius, the wisdom of my rule to permit no freedman in
my household: all my servants are my own property. You will buy me the
best cook in Rome in three hours. What, sir? You are a free man, and
I employed you only to work at my pedigree and my library? True: I am
satisfied with you. But understand that if I bid you litter my horses you
will do it, or I sell you up tomorrow. Now, sir, the best cook in Rome
is Iulus Antonius’s Dama: buy him. Antonius is a rich man? Very true,
but I think we need not be afraid of that. We can tempt him, I imagine,
Statilius. At any price whatever: do you understand? And not a penny more
than he will sell at: understand that also. If he is stubborn, hint at my
influence with the Prince; that will be sufficient. Go.

Iulus knows that he is whispered against, and he looks to me to prop
him up. I shall not do so. Again and again I have urged on Octavian the
necessity of putting these malcontents out of the way. His father’s son
cannot but be a danger to a settled State, however soundly disposed
himself. It appears to me that Octavian is losing his aptitude for
politics, and Agrippa exercises the worst possible influence upon him.
This stupid, expensive system of banishment: it should never have had my
voice had I remained in politics.

Thucydides, I have told you once already I am not to be disturbed in
meditation. The poet Horace is in attendance? Horatius, I think you mean;
avoid these vulgarisms, Thucydides. Bid Horatius wait. Indeed, I doubt
not whether Octavian had at any time any real grasp of the principles of
government. I was deceived by the facility with which he lent himself
to my views. He is a man incapable of understanding any system between
militarism and license. Of the finer arts of statecraft I am afraid he
knows very little. How often have I explained to that man how the law of
treason might be developed into an infallible engine of sound government!
Yes: I was wise to leave politics, though Octavian is ungrateful to his
Mentor. Well, I will see Horatius. He, at least, with all his faults, is
a faithful soul. A man I have made.

Good-day, Horatius. I hope you are well and keeping sober. Have you
brought the work I commissioned? Very well; let me see it. There has been
a very great improvement in your manner of writing, Horatius, since I
took you up: the large P’s are very much bolder than they were. But what
is this? This is not the Epistle Dedicatory I ordered. That comes second?
Ah! yes, here it is; you should have given it to me first.

    Maecenas, born of grandsire kings—

Quite right: “grandsire kings” is very good. It is not, of course,
literally correct, but one may, in poetry, fairly write the particular
term “grandsire” for the general “ancestor”—

    O my defense and proud delight!

“Proud delight.” Now I think I shall correct that to “dear delight.” I
think the alliteration is well worth securing, and you may allow yourself
a familiarity in literature, Horatius, where all men are equal, which,
as I have no doubt you felt in writing, would be highly unbecoming in
society. “Proud delight” does you credit as a man, my good Horatius; as
a poet I permit—nay, I invite you to write “dear.”

    To hug the post with wheels afire

The piece gets a little tame in the middle, Horatius, ... ah! what is
this?

    But deign me so to canonize,
    O’er highest heaven my fame will rise.

Yes, very happy. A very good ode, Horatius. You have distinctly added
to your reputation. I am very glad to note that you disavow that most
dangerous tendency, which I am sorry to see is growing among some of my
poets, to defer to the popular judgment. Even poor Virgil is tainted by
it in this last epic, as he calls it, published in one of those measly
magazinelets. I am afraid Virgil is coming to think more of the so-called
glories of Rome than of his truest friends. Such defection on your part,
I warn you candidly, I should feel very deeply. Now what is this other? I
hope none of that Epicurean stuff which is such a handicap, if I may so
phrase it, upon your best powers for good....

    Ah, Postumus, how fleet, how fleet,
      The years slip by no prayers may stay
      Since beldame Age knows not delay,
    Since Death pursues with ruthless feet—

I think you might have found a fitter name than Postumus; but it is very
passable. I suppose you have verified all these mythological allusions
in the Greek; it is not your industry I need ever distrust.

    Your land, your house, your yielding wife
      Renounce; and of these trees you trim;
      None follows, save the cypress grim,
    The lordling of the little life.

Yes, the tone of the work is quite good.... And then—really Horatius, you
are too annoying—then you must spoil all again in the last stanza. I have
warned you a thousand times against that, Horatius. Listen, sir, to what
you say here—

    He breaks your seals, the worthier heir,
      He sweeps your bins, the worthier lord,
      Dashing imperial winds abroad,
    While Pontiffs envy and despair.

Now, understand once and for all, Horatius, that I will not have such
pernicious and disloyal trash as this put out to pollute the State. You
say you meant nothing impious? Well, then I will ask you, Horatius, who
is Chief Pontiff? The prince; so I had thought. And then you say you
had no intention of disloyalty? In that case I will merely answer that
you have expressed yourself very badly. You will agree, I suppose—even
you who were out with Brutus, when I understand you threw away your
shield—that what we must all work for in Rome, is a settled social order?
And I suppose that you are not incapable of perceiving that this is
impossible without the maintenance of religion? And perhaps you may have
heard that His Highness is supreme head of our religion? And then, do you
tell me, sir, that you did not see that this last stanza—this Pontiff’s
ambition, or whatever it is—is pernicious in the highest degree? Now this
is what I shall do. I shall make you, Horatius, write an ode of fourteen
stanzas in praise of His Highness as Chief Pontiff. Take your tablets and
write down the heads of the poem, as I dictate them.

First: The deplorable desuetude.

I beg your pardon: I think I was asking you to take down the heads of
the ode. What! I? You say that I gave you the subjects of this one? Very
possibly, though I do not remember: with the ode as a whole I am very
well satisfied. You say I gave the hint of the Pontiff? Very true; I
recollect it quite well, but it was not to be used, or wasted, in the
spirit in which you have used it here. Perhaps, however, you meant it to
refer to the Pontiffs of the old regime, whose unworthy excesses I may
have doubtless mentioned to you at some time? I could wish, Horatius,
that your execution were on a level with your intention: you lay yourself
open to a great deal of misconstruction. I think we must substitute
“late” for “while.”

What is that you are sputtering about Minucius? I told you to glance at
Minucius? Well, in one respect you are quite right. I do not remember
that I ever spoke of him to you, but the extravagance of Minucius not
only makes him a man impossible to be seen abroad with, but constitutes
a great scandal on the pontificate. And I tell you, sir, I tell you that
that man’s insolence to his betters is more than any well-ordered State
could endure. He has got the Prince’s ear, and presumes upon it. Yes,
you may jab at Minucius whenever you can, and as hard as you can. I am
very glad I suggested that, and you have taken up the hint very cleverly.
Sit down, my good Horatius; you must be tired of standing, and we men of
letters are all equal, whatever our social position. I will read you a
chapter of my own history that I threw off last night. You will remember,
of course, what happened while I was Urban Prefect.

                                                            G. W. STEVENS.




SUNRISE OVER THE CITY.


    With restless searching are the nightwinds spent,
        A solitary bird pipes lovenotes lorn,
        Portent of life new wakening with the morn;
    Long lines of flaring lamps still burn their stent,
    With gloom upon the city’s bosom blent;
        But ’bove the dark threat of a cloud low drawn,
        White as a wraith, pale glows God’s holy dawn,
    The morning star her brightest ornament.
    As gathering splendor floods the world with light,
        The whilom watcher sleeps, forgetting grief;
        And though ’neath fuming smoke, ’mid roll of wheels,
    The sordid city wakes her giant might
        Lustful of gain, her deepest heart yet feels
        The benediction of that vision brief.

                                        WILLIAM JAMES BAKER.




THE CAPTIVES.


Amongst them there was one colossal form, on which the sun poured with
its full radiance.

This was the form of a man grinding at a mill-stone; the majestic,
symmetrical, supple form of a man who was also a god.

In his naked limbs there was a supreme power; in his glance there was a
divine command; his head was lifted as though no yoke could ever lie on
that proud neck; his foot seemed to spurn the earth as though no mortal
tie had ever bound him to the sod that human steps bestrode: yet at the
corn-mill he laboured, grinding wheat like the patient blinded oxen that
toiled beside him.

It was the great Apollo in Pherae.

The hand which awoke the music of the spheres had been blood stained with
murder; the beauty which had the light and lustre of the sun had been
darkened with passion and with crime; the will which no other on earth or
in heaven could withstand had been bent under the chastisement of Zeus.

He whose glances had made the black and barren slopes of Delos to laugh
with fruitfulness and gladness—he whose prophetic sight beheld all things
past, present, and to come, the fate of all unborn races, the doom of all
unspent ages—he, the Far-Striking King, laboured here beneath the curse
of crime, greatest of all the gods, and yet a slave.

In all the hills and vales of Greece his Io paean sounded still.

Upon his holy mountains there still arose the smoke of fires of sacrifice.

With dance and song the Delian maidens still hailed the divinity of
Leto’s son.

The waves of the pure Ionian air still rang forever with the name of
Delphinios.

At Pytho and at Clarus, in Lycia and in Phodis, his oracles still
breathed forth upon their fiat terror or hope into the lives of men; and
still in all the virgin forests of the world the wild beasts honored him
wheresoever they wandered; and the lion and the bear came at his bidding
from the deserts to bend their necks and their wills of fire meekly to
bear his yoke in Thessaly.

Yet he labored here at the corn-mill of Admetus; and watching him at
his bondage stood the slender, slight, wing-footed Hermes, with a slow,
mocking smile upon his knavish lips, and a jeering scorn in his keen
eyes, even as though he cried:

“O brother, who would be greater than I! For what hast thou bartered to
me the golden rod of thy wealth and thy dominion over the flocks and the
herds? For seven chords strung on a shell—for a melody not even thine
own! For a lyre outshone by my syrinx hast thou sold all thine empire to
me. Will human ears give heed to thy song now thy sceptre has passed to
my hands? Immortal music only is left thee, and the vision foreseeing the
future. O god! O hero! O fool! what shall these profit thee now?”

Thus to the artist by whom they had been begotten the dim white shapes
of the deities sometimes speak. Thus he sees them, thus he hears, whilst
the pale and watery sunlight lights up the form of the toiler in Pherae.
For even as it was with the divinity of Delos, so is it likewise with
the genius of a man, which, being born of a god, yet is bound as a slave
to the grind-stone. Since even as Hermes mocked the Lord of the Unerring
Bow, so is genius mocked of the world, when it has bartered the herds,
and the grain, and the rod that metes wealth, for the seven chords that
no ear, dully mortal, can hear.

He can bend great thoughts to take the shapes that he choose, as the
chained god in Pherae bound the strong kings of the desert and forest to
carry his yoke; yet, like the god, he likewise stands fettered to the
mill to grind for bread.

                                                                    OUIDA.




“IF LOVE WERE ALL.”

(PRISONER OF ZENDA.)


    “If love were all!” Can love be less than all
    Here in the world the God of Love hath made?
    If love _were_ all—and love were unafraid,
    And knew not death’s corrupting funeral pall!

    Oh Princess, with thy soul by heavenly call
    In love’s divinest panoply arrayed,
    Hath thy soul-sight thy love-sight so betrayed
    That love from his supremest place should fall?

    Yet wert thou right. Thy woman’s heart divined
    The soul of love’s transcendent perfectness:
    For like a star within a mist confined
    And burning thro’ love’s soul is righteousness.

    Thus love _is_ all—tho’, as on Calvary,
    Renunciation love’s fulfillment be!

                                        EDITH NEIL.




THE MAN ON A BICYCLE.


The man on a bicycle came panting up a hill at the beginning of a large
town.

“Hello! Knickerbockers,” cried the man on foot; “do you call that the
gait for a scorcher? Why, it aint more’n a pair uv bars.”

“That’s all right, little boy,” returned he of the wheel.

“Little boy, yourself! Didn’t you know it was five dollars fine for
ridin’ on the sidewalk?”

“Is it? All right? I’ll pay when I come back;” and the man on a bicycle,
encountering a level piece of road, put an end to further conversation by
a sudden spurt.

But the cyclometer was not to make a steady advance that evening. A
surface crossing lay ahead, blocked by a belated freight train. The
engineer knew his business and meddled continually with the throttle.
After going about two car-lengths in one direction, the train would stop,
remember something left behind, and back up. That is the way to keep a
crowd pacific. Give them plenty to hope for and they forget to fight.

The wheelman rode in slow circles for a while, but finding the slush and
snow too deep for this exercise, was forced to a humiliating dismount.

“Misder!” shouted a dirty urchin with a cold, “did yer know yer ’adn’d
god no lighd? Fibe dollars fine an’ the cop’s in the deepo.”

“O, break away, break away!” snarled the wheelman.

“Young man,” lisped a willy boy, “I thought those things weah called in,
you know.”

“I wish some one would call _that_ thing in.”

This retort was pointed at the willy boy, and raised a laugh.

“How long are they going to keep us waiting here in the cold?” muttered a
querulous old gentleman. “It’s against the law, and the company ought to
be prosecuted.”

“The present company?” ventured a bashful young man, who was dressed as
if going somewhere.

“No, the present company is always excepted,” came from obscurity.

The man with a bicycle snapped his bell uneasily. He was in a hurry, of
course; if you live much on a wheel, hurry becomes chronic, engendered
perhaps by the accustomed sense of rapid motion; but, like many of his
class, he had that fellow feeling for petty law breakers, which comes by
taking chances against city ordinances.

The fellow at the valve was taking his chances too, with excellent
success. The patience of an American crowd approaches the miraculous.
Fifty engagements were being broken and ten times as many toes were
freezing, all because one railroader was too lazy to draw a coupling-pin.
Yet so long as the cars continued to move, no one felt called upon to
interfere.

“How many minutes may a crossing legally be blocked?” demanded the
querulous old gentleman, pulling out his watch.

“Ten, I believe,” answered the flagman, soothingly.

“Ten? Why, we’ve been here most fifteen now!”

“S’posin’ that train on the down track ud move up just as this un was
movin’ away, which ud you have ’rested then?”

The querulous old gentleman looked at the newsboy reprovingly, but said
nothing.

“Might try and have the president pulled,” suggested some one.

“What of? The Road? Wopey dick! He’s got a pull himself.”

The newsboy smiled approvingly upon his mot, during a silence that might
be felt. It was a relief when the wind picked up the tones of a brass
band, playing in front of the theatre, and wafted them in that direction.

“Sub ud oughd to pud runners on thad bike, see?” volunteered the dirty
urchin with a cold.

This aroused the newsboy to a stroke of business.

“New Yawk Evening Sun or Worl! One cent! Sunorworl?”

Here the bashful young man who was dressed as if going somewhere,
separated himself, and cried:

“Conductor, cut this train in two, or I will have you arrested.”

“There, you’re done!”

“Cut it short!”

“Go, take a walk!”

were expressions which greeted this sally.

The bashful young man took up the thread of his private life where it had
broken off, and wished he had separated himself further.

A touch on the sleeve aroused the man with a bicycle. There stood the man
on foot.

“Hello! Knickerbockers. Horse tied, eh? Thought I’d ketch up to you.
Where is your century run? Didn’t I say that there was no scorchin’
gait?”

The man with a bicycle said something that commenced with “damn,” and
then, seeing a pale frightened-looking girl near by, wished he hadn’t. In
the forgetfulness of his remorse he smirched the newsboy with his machine.

“You most certainly want to get done hittin’ me with that there last
year’s safety,” began the latter, speaking loud enough to be heard by
all—but his philippic was cut short by the arrival of train orders, and
the clearing of the road. The man with a bicycle did a handsome pedal
mount and spun skillfully through the surging mob, catching cries of “See
that burning safety!” “Gimmie a ride, boss?” and the like, from those
left behind. But the man on a wheel continued to ride.

The man on foot continued to walk.

And the band played on.

                                                     HARVEY LEWIS WICKHAM.




THE STEWARD.

A BALLAD OF DEATH.


    A Beggar wandered forth to beg.
      (_A soul may dwell in Heaven or Hell._)
    At night he groaned aloud, when passed
    One bearing stores the King wished last.

    “Now give me food, for the dear Christ’s sake,”
      (_Or Heaven or Hell—O, choose ye well._)
    Moaned he the weak, stretching his hand.
    I trow men fear the final strand.

    The Steward stopped, and smiled, and bowed.
      (_One ward may tell of Heaven or Hell._)
    Softly he spoke: “A fitting thing,
    To give you food and rob the King!”

    The one moved on, the one moved not.
      (_A soul may dwell in Heaven or Hell._)
    The Steward sold one half the bread.
    Next morning the Beggar was dead.

    The jester told the King the tale.
      (_A soul shall dwell in Heaven or Hell._)
    A woman gazing at the King,
    Shrieked—to his knees she did not cling.

    The King’s sword pushed the Steward on,
      (_Who can foretell the depths of Hell?_)
    And the King smiled as on the band
    Outside a door he laid his hand.

                                       C. P. N.




LET THERE BE GALL ENOUGH IN THY INK.

                                                         —_Twelfth Night._


’Tis an odd old world, this of ours that is round like an orange, and
slightly flattened at the poles. It drives not well, and it hath but
moderate fondness for gall. Why, then, seek to drive it? Why harass it
with the hurtful attrition of gall-dippen pens? For in truth, its small
love for gall is yet greater than its use therefor. It needs not that
we should make it smart. ’Tis smart enough, and clever enough, already,
towering the hearts of the angels, and affording a spectacle for the
little fishes. Application of gall will not help it. Rightly used, a
little may ease thy own jaundice, but in thy ink it erodes the pen that
uses it.

Are we vexed at the follies of the round old world? Is our taste offended
by the unripe things written and painted and sung by those who are not
perfect as we are? We ought to consider the words of the gentle stoic:
“For it is natural that these things should be done by such persons. It
is a matter of necessity, and if a man will not have it so he will not
allow the fig-tree to have juice.”

To what end do we Philistines write? Is it not because we are seeking
after the truth? Is it not for the expression of that which to us seems
beautiful and helpful and desirable to be in the world?

And for what, let us suppose, do the armies of the aliens put pen to
paper? Is it not for the same end? And if they see not purely, do we then
hope to clarify their vision with gall? Rather we ought not to thwart
them in the pursuit of that which seems to them excellent and worthy
of effort. It is unphilosophic, and in contravention to the scientific
spirit, to deny others the right which we claim for ourselves. We ought
rather to do the thing which to us seems lovely, and let that protest,
for us, against unloveliness, by its life and realty—the only effectual
protest this world has ever known. Already there is too much of strife,
too much of denial in the world. Nature argues the questioning life in
the affirmative, for well she knows, the ancient wise one, that denial is
deadly. “I believe” is the password into the secret places of good.

The single vision, that sees truest, the simple heart, that loves it; the
direct thought that sends it forth to bless—the world needs these more
than that we should camp upon its trail with gall in our ink and our pens
tipped with bitterness.

Gall can never fill a vacuum. “If you don’t want a boy to do that,” said
a wise teacher (putting thumb to nose), “teach him something prettier.”

This, then, must we do for this hulking schoolboy world of ours; the
half-grown, growing world, that knows enough to recognize that gall is
neither good nor beautiful, yet sees not that the thing it does is, as
well, unlovely.

Let us strive to look out on life with open vision and simple soul,
seeing that it is fair; that no plant cometh forth to face the winter’s
blight, but when the winter is over then green, tender things of beauty
push upwards to meet the sunshine—first the blade, then the ear, and
after that the full corn in the ear. Then cometh the insect, with his
drop of gall, and ugliness and excrescence follow.

That which gives heat and light and blessing; that which generates force,
and yields beauty in the burning wood that cheers our hearth, is the warm
brightness of the sun’s rays that, in the process of liberating oxygen
into the outer air, were stored up in the growing tree. If these had not
been actually caught and incorporated in the wood by Nature’s subtle
chemistry, do you think the fire would warm us, sitting by it?

And that in our literature, and in our art, that shall make them real,
and able to offer coming ages anything in the warmth and light of this,
must be what we shall manage to incorporate with their growth of the pure
and wholesome, the life-making forces of our time. Negation is not life.
Disease is not power. Abnormality is not truth. These are forces that
make for death; and life, in its scientific ultimate, is the sum-total of
the forces that resist death. So, I say again, that work of ours which is
to carry life forward, which is to warm and light the ages, must be what
we can perpetuate of the life-giving, growing elements of this one. Let
there be gall enough in thy ink. To what purpose? Gall is not a promoter
of growth. It is a result of hurt, and where it touches it leaves even a
bad thing worse than it found it.

                                                            ADELINE KNAPP.




THE WORSHIPPERS.


Now it came to pass in the still night watches, when my body was asleep,
that my soul dreamed a dream.

And in my dream I heard a voice say, “Unstop his ears that he may hear.”

And I became aware of the presence of an Angel, and he touched mine ears,
saying, “When thou hearest a sound, a great sound, as of many mighty
waters rushing headlong, listen, and fear nothing.”

Then, verily, did burst on my hearing a mighty noise, a most discordant
frush, and I stretched out my hand to the Angel, who said, “Fear not! Now
tell me what thou hearest.”

After pondering a long time I turned me to the Angel and said, “This
discordant sound is that of many and diverse petitions, of which some
are directed to the Eternal but more to the Spirit of Evil. I further
perceive that well-nigh each and every voice thinks its own tone the
right and the only right tone, and some few voices there be which desire
all the others destroyed. Yet, I hear faintly a few that are as pure and
sweet as the voices of the morning stars when they sing together.”

And the Angel said, “These are all the voices of the religions, the
sects, the churches, and the individual hearts, upon your planet.
They are many in number. They are wondrously many in number. Yet, the
understanding of your little heart is darkened: none of these petitions
are directed to the Spirit of Evil, though only God and we know the heart
of man, and the love of only God is great enough to forgive your many
strange desires. Those few and sweet voices—ah! those few sweet voices
redeem—redeem the world!”

As I listened again to the strange murmur I wept, and cried saying,
“Would that these voices were as one!”

And the Angel answered and said, “They will be when in that state you
call ‘Heaven.’”

Then did my soul face eagerly the face of the Angel and say to him, “They
will verily attain Heaven, then—all these many jangling voices?”

Bending on me a wondering look he answered, “They will. All who strive
for Right and Light shall be happy. Worship they not all as truly and
deeply as they know? Strive they not all to love—to be unselfish,
although some half-heartedly? From the north and the south, from the east
and the west shall they be gathered, and there shall carilloux harmonious
ascend to The Eternal, as from one sweet and glorified tongue.”

And as I listened again I sighed and said, “God is very patient.”

“God is very patient. He is Love, and his ways are past finding out,”
murmured the Angel.

Again he touched mine ears, saying, “Have you learned? Go, return to
earth, and live in the spirit of Love. Love, and judge not. Love, and be
very charitable, for you yourself jar on Heaven’s peace.”

And I awoke, and beheld the impartial sun.

                                                     CHARLES P. NETTLETON.




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


The Sons of Melchizedek are a most peculiar people.

So far as I know the Society for Psychic Research has not yet taken up
the subject of these men who are without beginning of days or end of
time. Yet surely it is a most vital theme. These beings who were never
born and cannot die form a tribe that obeys no natural edict—they are a
law unto themselves. They appear and disappear, like Clangingharp, to
reappear again. Like vagrant comets, their orbit cannot be determined.

They are visible only under peculiar and extraordinary conditions. They
materialize at will and disappear without explanation. After a lecture I
have seen one of them rush forward and greet the speaker with a glow that
must have gladdened the orator’s heart for months. In fact, your son of
Melchizedek is an orator himself and therefore knows the orator’s need
for a fervent word of appreciation after his “effort.”

Once at a Methodist love feast, when there was a lull in the program and
the minister asked “And is there not just one more who is willing to
add a word of testimony?” I felt a slight cold feeling go over me and
knew at once that the Unknown was rising to his feet behind. I heard him
clear his throat and begin with “My friends, I have been thinking while
sitting here,” in a low, musical voice—a voice all a-tremble with fervor.
He spoke for fully fifteen minutes—spoke with ease, and to the point. At
first there was a craning of necks and whispered questions as to who he
was; but this was soon lost in admiration. After the service he shook
hands with many, then disappeared, none knew where.

This mysterious being often helps to carry in the piano, and in crowded
street cars he has been known to supply the necessary nickle when ladies
could not find their pockets. When old gentlemen fall in a fit on the
street, he is on hand. Should a woman faint in church, he gently carries
her out. He opens the windows in cars, and looks after the ventilator at
all times, and at barbecues and outdoor public meetings he calls up the
stranger to the feast, introducing shy countrymen to others still more
shy, thus thawing the social ice and making all secure.

When church debts are to be raised he sometimes arises in his seat and
subscribes a large amount. At mass meetings where volunteers are called
for to pass the hat he always responds. He greets you cordially on the
railway train, shaking hands as he passes; asks after the wife and babies
and shames you into smirking idiocy because you cannot call him by name,
and as he departs he waves his hand and charges you thus: “Take care
yourself, old man!”

He is always large, usually stout, and the true type has a dun colored
chin whisker. At least he should have.

He carries a glow of good nature that warms like wine; he is never cast
down, nor is his heart dismayed. At country funerals he often appears,
consoles the friends, takes care of the flowers, and arranges the chairs
in a column circle against the wall. At the churchyard he walks with
uncovered head by the side of the clergyman, fetches the reins from the
nearest team to lower the coffin, and handles the shovel with an unction
that savors of joy.

Surely, the Sons of Melchizedek, although not Philistines, are Peculiar
Persons.

       *       *       *       *       *

SHE—“Don’t you think him rather thick-headed?”

HE—(Who has lately been presented with a book of Familiar Quotations)
“Yes, indeed: his head is as thick as leaves in Vallombrosa.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The most biting bit of irony that passes as a current coin is that
reference to Boston as a city of culture—or it would be, were it not for
the insight shown in _Paragraphs_.

       *       *       *       *       *

There were two Ballestiers. The good one, beloved of the gods (and men),
died young; but the one that resides near Brattleboro will probably
live to be a hundred. Rudyard benefitted the man and as a sure result
got his enmity. He is just literary enough in his instincts to read his
brother-in-law’s books for gibes and jeers at himself. He imagines that
every villain in the Kipling books is a black attempt to paint a Beatty
Ballestier portrait: not knowing that an author (like Diety) creates
in his own image. So the Ballestier reads and rages and cuts hickory
clubs and lies in wait for Mowgli, who dares not venture out of sight of
the bungalow except after dark. Has Rudyard Kipling written the best he
ever will? is a question that the bad Ballestier proposes to answer by
sending the soul of Kipling to join that of Tomlinson. Some folks are
saying “Good hunting to you, Kaa Ballestier,” but Kipling in the meantime
has had the rogue elephant put under bonds to keep the peace, this as
preliminary to the killing, should the rogue continue to fool around the
’rickshaw.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the story of “Kate Carnegie,” now running in _The Bookman_, Ian
Maclaren uses the exclamation “Dod!” about three times to a page. This is
understood to be a little advertising scheme suggested by Mr. MacArthur.
Your Scot is a very thrifty person.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Percival Pollard who fights in the Commissariat, and once received
a red badge, by being bumbasted with a pie (although he swears ’twas
a tart) is uttering rank heresy in the _New York Journal_ concerning
Stephen Crane. The statement is made that Crane is only a producer
of “Bloomingdale symbolistic hash.” But now behold Mr. Pollard has
discovered Nankivell “King of Colorists and Past Master of all living
Draughtsmen”—bless my soul! when up pops a writer in the _Art Amateur_
and declares that the only fit man to illustrate The _Black Riders_ is
this same Nankivell.

       *       *       *       *       *

They do say that ’Enery James has resolved to write a novel with an
incident. Gosh!

       *       *       *       *       *

Is it true that a folio periodical issued in Philadelphia is to have a
serial story entitled, “People Who Have Bored Me,” and that the first
chapters will be written by Mr. Howells, with comments on Scott, Dickens,
Thackeray, Dumas, Shakespeare, Moses, Phidias, the critics of the daily
papers and Henry Clay?

       *       *       *       *       *

“Algernon wondered vaguely if he had done right in leaving the
handkerchief where she had dropped it, on the center table. If only it
had been the arm chair, now, what a different complexion it would have
put upon this dilemma—if it was a dilemma—no, hardly a dilemma, rather
a quandary, or even a question. And she—did she, too, brood upon the
handkerchief? Did she justify herself in dropping it, in the way she did?
He arose, wearily. ‘I dunno,’ he said, defiantly, yet hopelessly, and sat
down.”—_Advance sheets from H. James._

       *       *       *       *       *

That the Stage has fallen into a very bad way none dispute, and under
present conditions I cannot do better than to commend this ordinance,
passed in London in 1642, to the earnest consideration of His Honor, the
Mayor, and the Honorable Common Council of the City of New York:

    Whereas the Acts of Stage-Plays, Interludes and Common Plays,
    Condemned by Ancient Heathens, and much less to be tolerated
    amongst Professors of the Christian Religion, is the occasion
    of many and sundry great vices and disorders, tending to the
    high provocation of God’s wrath and displeasure, and to the
    disturbance of the peace:

    Therefore, for the better suppression of the said Stage-Plays,
    Interludes, and Common Plays, It is Ordered and Ordained by the
    Lords and Commons in this present Parliament Assembled, and by
    Authority of the same, That all Stage-Players, and Players of
    Interludes, and common Plays, are hereby declared to be Rogues,
    and punishable, within the Statutes of the thirty-ninth year
    of the Reign of Queen Elizabeth, and the seventh year of the
    Reign of King James, and liable unto the pains and penalties
    therein contained, and proscribed against according to the said
    Statutes.

    And it is further Ordered and Ordained by the Authority
    aforesaid, That the Lord Mayor, Justices of the peace, and
    Sheriffs of the City of London and Westminster, and of the
    Counties of Middlesex and Surrey, or any two or more of them,
    shall, and may, and are hereby, Authorized and required to
    pull down and demolish, or cause or procure to be pulled down
    and demolished all Stage Galleries, Seats, and Boxes, erected
    or used, or which shall be erected and used for the acting
    or playing, or seeing acted or played, such Stage-Plays,
    Interludes, and Plays aforesaid, within the said City of London
    and Libertis thereof, and other places within their respective
    jurisdictions; and all such common Players, and Actors of such
    Plays and Interludes, or any one of them, or by Oath of two
    Witnesses shall be proved before them to have acted or played
    such Plays and Interludes as aforesaid at any time thereafter,
    by their Warrant or Warrants under their hands and seals, to
    cause to be apprehended, and openly and publicly given forty
    lashes on the bare back, during the time of the said Market,
    and also to cause such Offenders to enter into Recognizance
    with two sufficient Sureties never to act or play any Plays or
    Interludes any more, and shall return in the said Recognizance,
    or Recognizances, into the Sizes or Sessions to be then next
    holden for the said Counties and Cities respectively. And
    in case any such person or persons so convicted of the said
    offense, shall after again offend in the same kind, that then
    the said person or persons offending, shall be and is hereby
    declared to be, and be taken as an Incorrigible Rogue, and
    shall be punished and dealt with as an Incorrigible Rogue ought
    to be. And it is hereby further Ordered and Ordained, That all
    and every sum and sums of Money gathered, Collected, and taken
    by any person or persons, of such persons as shall come to see,
    and be Spectators of the said Stage-Plays, and Interludes,
    shall be forfeited and paid unto the Church-Wardens of the
    Church of the Parish.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _presciences_ of the Seventeenth Century often held morning
_conversazioni_, receiving their callers in bed. Like cyclones, fashions
have a spiral movement; and now the good old custom of the _presciences_
has returned, and like the cyclone, manifests itself in the West: a
Chicago woman giving a weekly “Thursday Morning.” The bed on which the
hostess languishes is a Louis the Fourteen Times—a gigantic four poster,
with curtains partially drawn. When each caller is announced a thin
blue-veined hand is held out from behind the curtains, and visions of a
snowy lace-trimmed, Marchale Field night gown swim before his eyes as the
thin hand is reverently kissed. The room is dimly lighted, the air is
heavy with strange mysterious perfumes and all the conversation is held
in undertone. It may not be amiss to state also that the coverlet of the
bed is a very modern crazy quilt that has been duly certified to by a
commission de lunatico enquirendo.

       *       *       *       *       *

Certainly the people of Boston are a generous folk: in their walk and
conversation they even add an R to “banana,” and spell “law” with four
letters when three suffice—for hoi polloi.

       *       *       *       *       *

The pink tea for Authors was a pretty failure. A Fictionist standing
behind a teacup with a pink tidy on his chest and pink bows on his legs
is a depressive sight, everywhere but in Philadelphia. But while five
o’clock tea does not work, eleven o’clock beer is a roaring success.




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




The ROYCROFT Printing Shop has in preparation GLYNNE’S WIFE, a story in
verse by Mrs. Julia Ditto Young.


Mrs. Young is a Poet who has written much but published little. This,
her latest and believed by her friends to be her best work, is the
product of a mind and heart singularly gifted by Nature, and ripened by
a long apprenticeship to Art. As a specimen of the pure “lyric cry,”
illustrating the melody possible in the English tongue, the volume seems
to stand alone among all books written by modern versifiers. The delicacy
of touch, the faultless rhythm, the splendid vocabulary and the gentle
tho’ sure insight into the human heart, make a combination of qualities
very, very seldom seen. The author _knows_, and knowing blames not: a
sustained sympathy being the keynote of it all.

The publishers have endeavored to give the story a typographical setting
in keeping with the richness of the lines. Five hundred and ninety copies
are being printed on smooth Holland hand-made paper, and twenty-five on
Tokio Vellum. The copies on Holland paper will be bound in boards covered
with antique watered silk; the Vellum copies are bound in like manner
save that each will bear on the cover a special water-color design done
by the hand of the author.

The price of the five hundred and ninety copies is two dollars each; the
Vellum copies five dollars each. Every copy will be numbered and signed
by Mrs. Young. Orders are now being recorded and will be delivered on
September 1st, numbered in the order received.

                       THE ROYCROFT PRINTING SHOP,
                          East Aurora, New York.




[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.




We make a specialty of Dekel Edge Papers and carry the largest stock and
best variety in the country. Fine Hand-made Papers in great variety.
Exclusive Western Agents for L. L. Brown Paper Company’s Hand-mades.

                          GEO. H. TAYLOR & CO.,
                          207-209 Monroe Street,
                              Chicago, Ill.




_Have you seen the Roycroft Quarterly? The May issue is a “Stephen Crane
Number.” 25c. a copy or one dollar a year._

                       The Roycroft Printing Shop,
                               East Aurora,
                                New York.




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 are
special designs. After seven hundred and twelve copies were printed the
types were 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.

_Bound in buckram and antique boards. The seven hundred copies that are
printed on Holland hand-made paper are offered at two dollars each, but
the twelve copies on Japan Vellum at five dollars are all sold. Every
book will be numbered and signed by Mr. Hubbard._

                       The Roycroft Printing Shop,
                            East Aurora, N. Y.




THE RIDE.


    Heigh-ho, the world is green today
      (_Steady, my boy, stand still!_)
    Old Fool-Heart sings his roundelay
    Rides not his Love a-down yon way?
      (_Steady, my boy, stand still,_
      _And you shall have your will!_)

    You see him do you Open-Eyed,
      (_Steady, my boy, stand still!_)
    You beckon him unto your side,
    In with the spur then, after ride!
      (_Faster, my lad, oh still,_
      _Catch Her a-top the hill!_)

                       —JOHN MACK, JR.

[Illustration]