SIDE TALKS WITH THE PHILISTINES: BEING SUNDRY BITS OF WISDOM WHICH HAVE BEEN HERETOFORE SECRETED, AND ARE NOW SET FORTH IN PRINT.
Reading edition
If I had seen it announcing a special feature in the World or Herald for a coming Sunday, I would not have been surprised, but to find the following paragraph in the editorial columns of The Land of Sunshine fills me with wonder:
Up to date The Land of Sunshine is the only periodical in the world whose cover is embellished with drawings by the Almighty.
It would be interesting to know what the Recording Angel thinks of Mr. Lummis’s coupling of the High Court of Heaven and Aubrey Beardsley. Now if Mr. Lummis could only get his editorials from the same source——
When Shem Rock, Ham Garland and Japhet Bumball conspired to spring on an unsuspecting world that three-cornered story entitled The Land of the Straddle Bug, they bought two whole bushels of hyphens. In one chapter, by actual count, forty-seven compound words are used. They have even hyphenated such words as dod-rot, dodd-mead, slap-jack, goll-darn, do-tell and gee-whiz. Ham’s own pet “yeh” is used in the story sixty-four times, which does not include four plain “you’s” and three “ye’s,” where the Only Original Lynx-eyed Proof-reader nodded.
It is published that the Post contemplated a change in the appearance and make-up of the paper, but gave up the scheme lest it shock the readers of Mr. Godkin’s Evening Grandmother. What would shock the readers more would be the appearance of life somewhere about the sheet. I would respectfully call the attention of the editors of the Post to the fate which befell the Assyrians. It is written in Isaiah XXXVII—36: Then the angel of the Lord went forth and smote in the camp of the Assyrians a hundred and four score and five thousand; and when they arose in the morning: behold, they were all dead corpses.
The Philistine’s plea is for the widest liberty to individual genius. Perhaps no living man has presented this plea so strongly in his life and work as William Morris. The poem herein printed is a taste of this strong man’s quality. It is taken from that dainty bundle of beautiful things entitled, Love Lyrics.
In that very charming article by Mr. Zangwill in the last Chap Book, mention is made of the utter impossibility of stating a truth so that the majority will remember or recognize it when they see it again—so shallow is human wit. In The Philistine for July I made bold to insert an extract from the Bible. No credit was given, however, and the matter was re-paragraphed. And now, behold, a Chicago paper arises and calls the quotation rot; several other publications refute the scriptural statements and a weekly that is very wise in its day and generation refers to my irreverence in writing in Bible style.
In the Popular Science Monthly for July a Dr. Oppenheimer announces the interesting discovery why children lie. It has been supposed that they lie, as a general thing, because they want something, but it appears that it is because they have something, in the French sense. It isn’t inherent viciousness but disease. The doctor says:
The children usually are suffering from disorders of mind or body, or both, which radically interfere with the transmission of conceptions and perceptions from the internal to the external processes of expression, so that they really are unable to be more exact than they seem.
This seems to explain several things about our good friends Landon and Townsend—G. A.
The London Athenæum says “Stephen Crane is the coming Boozy Prophet of America; his lines send the cold chills streaking up one’s spine, and we are in error if his genius does not yet sweep all other literary fads from the board.”
All of which strikes me as a boozier bit of cymbalism than any of Mr. Crane’s verses.
On the authority of the New York Sun, afternoon teas are growing more and more realistic. That arbiter of etiquette says:
The formality of bidding adieu to the hostess at an afternoon tea is now dispensed with; the omission is considered with favor and in good taste. No after calls are made in acknowledgement of a tea.
The little trifle of ceremony that stood for courtesy is about all cast aside. The program now is—Greet, Eat and Git.
I observe that Mr. Andrew Lang is to write some verses to be read at a dinner of the Omar Club in London “on some future occasion.” I shall watch for these with much interest, remembering, meanwhile, these verses recently read before that remarkable organization:
We envy not the saint what bliss he hath: Still let him cheer his puritanic path With what of joy his joyless rules permit: The beer of ginger and the bun of Bath. We plunder not the Pharasaic fold Whose drinks are new, whose jests and maidens old; Content to cherish what the Dervish hates, The cup of ruby and the curls of gold.
It is noted that Mr. W. Irving Way of Chicago was present at the last Omar club dinner. He should give us some notable reminiscences of the feast.
Speaking of Way, I hear that he has gone into the publishing business in Chicago. As a critic of the mechanical construction of books he is supreme, but I wonder will his publishing be that of literature or wool from the wild west.
“You have us down one dollar for dog tax. I’d have you know we keep no dog,” said the man to the tax gatherer.
“I understand,” answered the publican, “but you subscribe to the Albany Argus!”
Buffalo, N. Y., has a Young Ladies’ Magazine. It has a beautiful picture of a skirt dance on the cover of its prospectus, which is ever so much more interesting than Mr. Bok’s Bermuda lily gatherer seven feet tall.
Now that Robert Louis Stevenson’s will has been published in full text as a feature story, perhaps Mr. So So McClure may desist. The will is almost as thrilling as a market report. Its publication explains in part, however, how the cheap magazine movement is founded. Next we shall see the weather and a Congressional debate among the contents of the cheap-books.
Prizes are offered in Judge Tourgee’s Basin to preachers, women and “colored writers,” for short stories. The Judge is bound to keep solid with the three sexes as he understands them.
It is matter of record in McClure’s that Edmund Goose’s poem on Samoa, which it prints, “reached Robert Louis Stevenson three days before his death.” There is a horrible suggestion in the little nonpareil footnote that the poem may have hastened that sad event. It’s bad enough.
A LYRIC OF JOY.
Over the shoulders and slopes of the dune I saw the white daisies go down to the sea. —Bliss Carman, in July Century.
Over the ballast, the ropes and the chairs, I see the fat picnicers clamber galore, And struggle for seats by the rail near the stairs, To fry in the sun when they steam from the shore. The barker has rallied them out of the town To sands stretching white in the pitiless glare; And all of their talk as the calm night comes down Is the crush going back and the bargain day fare. M’Liss Cowboy.
Ham Garland has gone up the coulee to his farm near La Crosse and is writing another novel. He is daily in receipt of letters and telegrams from people in all parts of the country asking him to pull the coulee up after him.
In a recent number of the Chip-Munk it is said the intelligent compositor set it Charles G——d— Roberts; and the Only Original Lynx-Eyed being on a journey the whole edition was printed. It was one of those very aggravating mistakes that will occasionally occur even in printerys which print things on the finest paper.
I greet with exceeding joy the name of a new writer of stories which appeal to me as being above the plane of universal grayness which we have viewed for many months, and for this reason I am glad to see A Very Remarkable Girl in the quarterly issued by Town Topics. The author of this story is Mr. L. H. Bickford of Denver, and the editor of Town Topics says that he has heretofore been unacquainted with Mr. Bickford’s work. For many years I have watched the development of this young author, and if I am not much mistaken he will yet be heard from in no uncertain way. I do not believe that the public has any business with the private life of writers, but it may be said that Mr. Bickford is twenty-six, and was born in Leadville, Colorado. For a half hour’s entertainment, reading aloud in a hammock, I know of nothing better than A Very Remarkable Girl. It is suggestive of the signs of the times.
Good form has determined that special attentions at a time of bereavement are to be recognized by sending engraved cards. Some people used to send letters of thanks for sympathy, but of course cards are more impressive. A coupon scheme has been suggested, the thanks to be attached to a ticket to the funeral.
And furthermore be it known that the marginal notes opposite articles in The Philistine are never supplied by the authors thereof.
A man in Paris sends me the following delicious bit clipped from the Paris edition of the New York Herald of April 1:
New York, March 31.—The Herald’s leading editorial to-day says that many surprises await us in heaven.
I regret not seeing this editorial of March 31. I imagine, however, that it related to Reginald de Koven and his surprise—when he gets there—at finding he cannot write all the choir music.
But then—is Egotism Art?
MEDITATIONS IN MOTLEY.
By WALTER BLACKBURN HARTE
“Meditations in Motley” reveals a new American essayist, honest and whimsical, with a good deal of decorative plain speaking. An occasional carelessness of style is redeemed by unfailing insight.—I. Zangwill in The Pall Mall Magazine for April, 1895.
A series of well written essays, remarkable on the whole for observation, refinement of feeling and literary sense. The book may be taken as a wholesome protest against the utilitarian efforts of the Time-Spirit, and as a plea for the rights and liberties of the imagination. We congratulate Mr. Harte on the success of his book.—Public Opinion, London, England.
Mr. Harte is not always so good in the piece as in the pattern, but he is often a pleasant companion, and I have met with no volume of essays from America since Miss Agnes Repplier’s so good as his “Meditations in Motley.”—Richard Le Gallienne, in the London Review.
PRICE, CLOTH $1.25.
For sale by all Booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by The Philistine.
LITTLE JOURNEYS
To the Homes of Good Men and Great.
A series of literary studies published in monthly numbers, tastefully printed on hand-made paper, with attractive title-page.
By ELBERT HUBBARD
The publishers announce that Little Journeys will be issued monthly and that each number will treat of recent visits made by Mr. Elbert Hubbard to the homes and haunts of various eminent persons. The subjects for the first twelve numbers have been arranged as follows:
1. George Eliot
2. Thomas Carlyle
3. John Ruskin
4. W. E. Gladstone
5. J. M. W. Turner
6. Jonathan Swift
7. Victor Hugo
8. Wm. Wordsworth
9. W. M. Thackeray
10. Charles Dickens
11. Oliver Goldsmith
12. Shakespeare
LITTLE JOURNEYS: Published Monthly, 50 cents a year. Single copies, 5 cents, postage paid.
Published by G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS,
27 and 39 West 23d Street, New York. 24 Bedford Street, Strand, London.