The Philistine
Date: 2023-05-05T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: American literature -- Periodicals; American periodicals; Society of the Philistines (East Aurora; N.Y.) -- Periodicals

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Title: The Philistine
a periodical of protest (Vol. II, No. 3, February 1896)

Author: Various

Editor: Elbert Hubbard

Release date: May 5, 2023 [eBook #70706]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: The Society of the Philistines, 1895

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/70706

Credits: hekula03 and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PHILISTINE ***

The Philistine
A Periodical of Protest.

Why should a man whose blood is warm within, sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?—Merchant of Venice.

Printed Every Little While for The Society of The Philistines and Published by Them Monthly. Subscription, One Dollar Yearly

Single Copies, 10 Cents. February, 1896.

THE SOCIETY OF THE PHILISTINES.

(International.)

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

Article xii. Sec. 2. The annual dues shall be one dollar. This shall entitle the member to all the documents issued by the Society, together with one copy of the Philistine magazine, monthly, for one year.

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

Address The Philistine,
East Aurora, N. Y.

The Philistine is published monthly at $1 a year, 10 cents a single copy. Subscriptions may be left with newsdealers or sent direct to the publishers. The trade supplied by the American News Company and its branches. Foreign agencies, Brentano’s, 37 Avenue de l’Opera, Paris; G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 24 Bedford street, Strand, London.

THE PHILISTINE.

CONTENTS FOR FEBRUARY, 1896.

Victory, | L. H. Bickford
Poem, | Stephen Crane
Do Posters Post? | Carolyn Wells
Why I am a Philistine, | Elbert Hubbard
Chopin and George Sand, | Macpherson Wiltbank
Two Fables, | John Bryan of Ohio
Notes. |

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

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

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

COPYRIGHT, 1896, by B. C. Hubbard.

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

A LARGER DESCRIPTIVE LIST WILL BE SENT ON APPLICATION.

THE OLD WORLD SERIES.

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

I. Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.

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

II. Aucassin and Nicolete.

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

THE BIBELOT SERIES.

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

V. Sonnets of Michael Angelo.

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

VI. The Blessed Damozel.

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

The Child in the House.

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

THE BIBELOT.—1896.

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

THOMAS B. MOSHER, Publisher,
PORTLAND, MAINE.

Quarterly. Illustrated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE PHILISTINE.

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

VICTORY:
BEING A CHANT AFTER BATTLE.

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

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

Yet we marched into the desert

And chanted to the stars.

L. H. Bickford.

WHY I AM A PHILISTINE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Palestine means the Land of the Philistines.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moab is my wash-pot,

Over Philistia will I cast my shoe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

II.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elbert Hubbard.

CHOPIN AND GEORGE SAND.

THE LITTLE WHITE BLACK BIRD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Macpherson Wiltbank.

DO POSTERS POST?

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

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

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

Carolyn Wells.

TWO FABLES.

THE HORSE AND THE ELK.

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

“You look Hungry, Old Man.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE LUXURIOUS CATS.

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

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

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

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

Then an old Pessimist Rat arose and said:

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

Then the Rat that had been On the Road remarked:

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

John Bryan of Ohio.

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

USE
HAM GARLAND’S
NERVINE.

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

Reward—$500—Prize.

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

Editor The Philistine.

“What says the sea, little shell?

“What says the sea?

“Long has our brother been silent to us,

“Kept his message for the ships,

“Awkward ships, stupid ships.”

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

“What says the sea, little shell?

“What says the sea?

“Long has our brother been silent to us,

“Kept his message for the ships,

“Puny ships, silly ships.”

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

“And where is the reward, little shell?

“What says the sea?

“Long has our brother been silent to us,

“Kept his message for the ships,

“Puny ships, silly ships.”

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

STEPHEN CRANE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“(Signed)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A feature of the forthcoming Boklet will be “How I Chase My Ink,” by the editor of Monthly’s.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WAY & WILLIAMS,
Monadnock Block. Chicago.

Little Journeys

SERIES FOR 1896

Little Journeys to the Homes of American Authors.

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

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

The above papers will form the series of Little Journeys for the year 1896.

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

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

A SHELF OF BOOKS.

LITTLE JOURNEYS

To the Homes of Good Men and Great.

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

THE ELIA SERIES.

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

⁂ There are three different colors of binding—dark green, garnet and umber.

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

NO ENEMY: BUT HIMSELF.

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

EYES LIKE THE SEA.

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

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

THE CONSERVATOR.

PHILADELPHIA.

All communications intended for the Editor should be addressed to Horace L. Traubel, Camden, New Jersey.

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

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

FOOTLIGHTS.

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

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

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

FOOTLIGHTS,
Philadelphia, Pa.

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

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

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

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

THE ROYCROFT PRINTING SHOP,
East Aurora, New York.

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Table of Contents

- THE PHILISTINE.

- CONTENTS FOR FEBRUARY, 1896.

- THE PHILISTINE.

- VICTORY: BEING A CHANT AFTER BATTLE.

- WHY I AM A PHILISTINE.

- II.

- CHOPIN AND GEORGE SAND.

- THE LITTLE WHITE BLACK BIRD.

- DO POSTERS POST?

- TWO FABLES.

- THE HORSE AND THE ELK.

- THE LUXURIOUS CATS.

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

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

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE