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.