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

I suppose no one was much surprised that John Oliver Hobbes wanted a legal release from the man who called himself her husband, but when the mother of Fauntleroy and the author of the Quick or the Dead followed in the category of misfits I doubt not Mona Caird lifted up her voice in the wilderness and there was joy in the camp of the Claflin-Woodhulls. But the marrying and giving in marriage go right along, for this isn’t heaven; and the multitude that don’t complain put the literary folks who do to a kind of proof not easy to face. Since nature made men and women to marry, the wire-drawn literary folks who can’t stay married have the floor for an explanation. There are bitter critics who cry “I told you so,” and maybe they did—when it is announced that Amelie Rives can no longer endure her Chanler. Perhaps he is only common tallow after all—half a dozen to the pound. The maids and manlings who read According to St. John and believed Miss Rives’s emphasized statement that “Love is the fulfilling of the law” must wonder if she meant the law she has just invoked to give her liberty. It is a choice of the quick or the dead now—the dead love or the quick release—and there is something more than tragic in the appeal through a prosaic court to “deliver me from the body of this death.” No, there is no discredit to any one in the pleadings of the impulsive young Southerner for her liberty. Nobody has broken any law. They can’t live together—that’s all, and all the amatory fury of the novel that gave her fame is a dead waste. It was honest when it was written, no doubt, but the pitch was too high. The happy (more or less) millions who don’t run to the public with a transcript of their strongest emotions or to a court for release from their vows must have learned a secret unknown to the Hobbeses and the Riveses and the Bashkirtseffs. They have found the happy middle line between the neurotic extreme that holds the master emotion to be a matter of physiology or of pathology—the Zolas and the Helgardeners respectively.

I read with unfeigned regret that the repairs which lately have been going forward in the New York postoffice will have to be abandoned until more funds accumulate in the United States Treasury. This is bad. It will leave the new elevator suspended between Heaven and earth in an unfinished condition for the Lord only knows how long. Patrons of the Federal building on Manhattan Island will therefore be obliged to patronize the two antedeluvian other on the Park Row side. And this is always attended with the keenest disappointments. For example: You go to the Broadway “lift” and find it placarded, “Not running; try the other.” You journey around to Park Row, only to be confronted with this, “Out of order; try Broadway.” Then you mount the stairs, which you ought to have done in the first place, for the reason that the man who takes passage in one of the New York postoffice elevators can have no possible idea when he will see his family again. It is said that the regular patrons of these elevators take their luncheons with them; but this imputes to them a sprightliness of motion which they do not possess. The gentleman who made the ascent to the moon by way of the horns of the Darby ram went up in January and didn’t come down till June. Persons have been known to enter these national “lifts” on the up trip in December and not get back till the Fourth of July. The several elevators in the East Aurora postoffice are of the rapid transit variety, and never stop, except when clogged with the Philistine’s mail.

A woman who knows my weakness for potato salad on Sunday evenings asked me to lunch with her a few days ago. She has some boys—I don’t remember how many, and it doesn’t really matter—who make curious and totally irrelevant remarks, one to the other. Then they let drive biscuits through the air and accompany the sailing food with whoops, great and terrible. They are good boys—as children go—but wanting to know more about such matters, I bought Mr. Pater’s Child in the House to present it to my cousin Anthony, who has a very new boy—his first—just to let him see what he has ahead of him. And then it wasn’t about that kind of a boy at all. I wonder why nobody except Mr. Aldrich has written a story of a really truly boy.

It is comforting to know that when a man loses his job being president he can do such things as this for the man who made Philadelphia and the Home Journal and all that in them is:

“In a series of popular articles ex-President Benjamin Harrison will aim to explain clearly just what this Government means and how it is conducted. He will explain the Constitution, its origin and meaning; outline the different legislative bodies; our foreign relations; the power of the President; how the House and Senate legislate, and touch upon and explain the great National questions.”

Mr. Harrison will also devote several numbers to a detailed description of the scrap between Colonel William Patterson and the Unknown, endeavoring to explain that Colonel Patterson inflicted his own wounds in order to gain notoriety—just like Dr. Parkhurst.

From a magazine with four million subscribers I clip this choice bit from The Woman’s Corner. The advice is given by Mrs. Rorer:

“Cleaning a chicken is beautiful work. It is a deal easier than boiling potatoes and not half so messy as painting and modeling.

“For brain-workers the red meats are most sustaining. Bread and potatoes should be avoided as much as possible. Brain-workers should avoid warmed-over meats—the dainty entrees of which people are so fond are simply hash, and no matter how good the food tastes it is not wholesome.”

Ho! ye poets, no wonder your verse is rank; you probably live on “simply hash;” and “warmed-over” meats only give you warmed-over ideas. Long have I told you to eschew sack and low company. Now do as Mrs. Rorer says and avoid bread and potatoes, and get comfort out of the thought that Mrs. Rorer does not forbid you looking upon the meat when it is red!

The price is five cents, but is too much. The only thing about the periodical that is pretty is the picture on the cover, which represents a nice young lady in the act of crowning a black tom-cat with a wreath of burdock. Then why a black cat? Why not a maltese, or a tortoise shell or a plain grey blanket? But Tom is an inky black, and looks as if he could not keep proper hours even if he tried. However, that marvellous cover is a bit of symbolism. I am told that the young lady represents one of the Mewses and the cheeky cat is Max Pemberton, who is perfectly willing to be crowned.

I wish to notify the public that I have known Frank A. Munsey for twenty-nine years, come Michaelmas, and will vouch that any picture he prints is pretty.

Possibly it is as well to confess that the Universalists got listed with the Evangelical denominations in the summary of the last census on a fluke. May they do St. Peter with equal ease! Mr. Wright didn’t know any better, but having put them there and electrotyped the plates, he could not change the record without considerable expense. He therefore turned to and proved that after all Universalists were Evangelistic and had been since the days of Constantine, and now he offers to caper in an argument on the question against all comers for a thousand dollars. Darwin says we feel a thing is true first and prove it afterward; but Mr. Wright prints it first, accidentally discovers it, then knowing he has to prove it, claims it as truth and dares any one to tread on the tail of his coat.

I notice that a famous globe-trotter is scheduled for a series of articles for a “literary” syndicate of some pretensions. Among her announced themes is Etiquette, both general and particular, and lest there be some misapprehensions I hasten to say that this is not Mr. Bok’s social kindergarten and has no connection with the Missus’ Home Journal, A department of this subject is thus set forth in the circular:

EXTRAORDINARY ETIQUETTE.

HOW TO MEET SOCIAL EMERGENCIES THAT ARE THE OUTGROWTH OF MODERN LIFE:

DIVORCE ETIQUETTE.

THE FASHIONABLE FUNERAL.

ENDORSING SOCIAL ASPIRANTS.

IN CASES OF FINANCIAL FAILURE.

It is so nice to be informed what to do when you are divorced and how to treat your friends, if you have any, “in cases of financial failure.” So important, too, seeing that these social emergencies are “the outgrowth of modern life,” and of course it’s legitimate outgrowth—for no illegitimate outgrowth would for a moment engage the virtuous attention of the rival of Nellie Bly. Other chapters tell women how to behave “when dispensing millions,” a valuable thing for every one to know, and also the how and whereas of “the womanly woman” in public life—such occupations being specified as “street cleaning, road making and regulating schools and saloons.” Abundant illustrations are promised, and I have no doubt the newest thing in milk shakes and the jerking of beer will come within their scope. The new woman grows newer every day.

And is Judge Grant right when he says a man cannot be healthy, virtuous or wise unless his income is ten thousand a year?

In Harper’s for October Mr. Brander Matthews explains that story-tellers “are of three kinds.” Startling, thrice startling, is this frightful truth which the Second-Prize-Taker sets forth! Three kinds? Gadzooks, and here the world has staggered along for six thousand years believing there were only two—the good and bad.

And then the breezy Brander says: “Mr. Du Maurier has the gift of story telling. No doubt Mr. Du Maurier has also other qualities, for instance the gift of pleasant humor and broad sympathy.” Will the Philistines please note that Professor Brander Matthews of Columbia College considers that a man may be a successful novelist and still not have “pleasant humor” and “broad sympathy;” or should we be charitable and take it that he is writing in self defense?

But a bright woman at my elbow says she knows what Brander Matthews wrote that article for—he wrote it for Fifty Dollars.

Then what does Brander Matthews mean when he declares that “Miss Austen was the grandmother of Mr. Howells”? Accidentally I once coupled Mr. Howells with Mr. Bok, for which I duly apologized to Mr. Howells, but I never gave him such a dig as Brander Matthews does in the October Harper’s.

The Washington Capital says: That baby Goliath, The Philistine, is trying hard to make something choice in the way of a Bok bier: but what’s the use? The Tin God is immortal.

When in 1892 Mr. Ham Garland prophesied that Chicago would soon be the literary center of America, the Ink-Stained of the East said “Shoo!” But the prophecy is fast coming true. The first edition of Mr. Thomas W. Mudgett’s book was sold in a week; and the good people of the Windy City are taking a justifiable pride in the achievement of their best known citizen. “H. H. Holmes” is Mr. Mudgett’s nom de plume.

Mr. Cudahy recommends Bovox for novel readers.

In that bundle of choice things entitled In This Our World, by Charlotte Perkins Stetson, is a poem called “Mr. Rockefeller’s Prayer.” Preceding the poem is this note of explanation: “The wealthy Mr. Rockefeller is reported to have said that his income is so much in excess of his power to spend it that he has to kneel down every day and ask for Divine guidance in getting rid of it.” It may here be stated for the benefit of the unenlightened that Mr. Rockefeller be not a Philistine, he be a Baptist, a Close Communion Baptist, and therefore a firm believer in the efficacy of prayer. Now while I have no wish to quibble with Mrs. Stetson, I am of the opinion that she has been misled as to the facts. Mr. Rockefeller considers the Lord too much his debtor to get down on his knees to Him, and if he ever did it was to ask Him how to get rid of Professor Bemis and not how to get rid of his wealth.

And after all, has Rockefeller got rid of Bemis?

I am sorry that Anthony Hope has married off the Princess Osra. She was a delightful old maid, and now that she’s the Countess of Mittenheim her story’s done. For Anthony Hope is a romanticist, not a veritist, and therefore tells the truth about the most vital thing in life, which is the soul of romance. That most vital fact is that there is virtue in true lovers and marriage is not a failure with people who are good enough for chivalry. So there will be no more adventures for the charming princess who has so strong a mind and so warm a heart that she might stand as the type of the new woman. She has found the port and happy haven of her life. Thanks to the breezy narrator of her voyages. But how we shall miss the bluff monarch who has that rare accompaniment of power—a sense of humor. Let us petition the court chronicler of Zenda for a partial remission of sentence. Let us have the merry Rudolf and his boys for awhile, though the star of his kingdom has gone out.

Sixty-nine applications for stock have reached the Combined Press from Cluett, Coon & Company’s employees alone.

To gentlemen about to make presents to bookish ladies I commend that most charming thing, The Female Offender, by my esteemed co-worker in the vineyard, C. Lombroso.

I don’t know whether the following headlines, taken from a recent number of Footlights, are ironical or sarcastic, but to a man whose memory extends back to the thirties they seem curious: THE NEW WOMAN—Fay Templeton.

“Every Man His Own Nordau” is the theme of the word-builder in the Scribner’s foreground study this month. “Degeneration While You Wait” is the motto of the retrospectives who read Grant et al in the Buddhist’s Own.

Possibly Mr. Pullman is not a praying man, and perhaps he merely accepted “the Universalist compromise with Infidelity,” as that staunch Calvinist, Russell Sage, who gives $25,000 yearly to Foreign Missions, avers; yet Mr. Pullman has not lost all sense of piety, for he “lifts the collection” religiously in five thousand Palace Cars every morning.

A Richmond, Virginia, publishing house is out with a history of the United States, and from the advance notices it ought to have a good sale in the land of reconstruction. All the notices are from the land of cotton. The Houston Post says it sets forth the heroic struggles “for self government and the sovereignty of the States.” I haven’t seen any reviews from north of Mason and Dixon’s line, but the New York Tribune ought to give the book a handsome send off, and if the Tribune neglects it, why there’s the Cleveland Leader or La Monte G. Raymond’s Allegany Republican.

McClure’s pillory will present Abraham Lincoln next. Mr. Lincoln, being dead, can not say a word.

The Sons of the House of Putnam (vide Chip Munk, May 15), are bringing out a serial, one part every twelve months. Quilp says that if the Sons would make it once in twelve years it would suit him as well.

There is in England a flourishing sect that believes we are now being punished for sins committed in a former life: the chief tenet of the creed being that this earth is Hell. The London Echo seriously explains that the Philistine is the organ of this peculiar religious denomination; but the Echo is mistaken—the Philistine is strictly non-sectarian. It believes there are hells which exist on earth, but fortunately only in isolated places—and further that the head devils in most of them are managing editors of daily alleged newspapers.

Advance announcements of the November Scribner’s emphasize the good news that “The final part of Robert Grant’s Art of Living appears in this number.” The December Scribner’s ought to be pretty good.

Why Bliss Carman and Stephen Crane do not write for Lippincott’s has long been a mystery to me. Some of their verse is bad enough. But the secret is out. They have only two names apiece.

Here endeth the First Volume.

THE NEW GODIVA.

New dames that “in the flying of a wheel cry down the past” take pride or shame in this: If she who raised the tax from Coventry scorched through the town this noon, no Peering Tom would risk his eyes—sated with stranger sights, in these swift days.