The Philistine: a periodical of protest (Vol. I, No. 2, July 1895)

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Mrs. Frank Guesslie has written an article on _How My Husbands Proposed_. It will be syndicated by the National Thought Supply and Newspaper Feeding Company.

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A newspaper that does much show printing announces in big headlines: “A Woman Clown. The Only One Is With Barnum and Bailey.” Barnum and Bailey reside in different climates just now. That “only” woman clown must be as ubiquitous as Sydney Smith’s Scot.

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The Boston Woman’s Rescue League has the champion non sequitur. The league is against bicycling by women, and announces the startling discovery that “thirty per cent of the girls that have come to the Rescue League for aid were bicycle riders at one time.” Probably one hundred per cent of the same were innocent girls at one time. Maybe it was when they biked.

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I understand there’s a movement in the Back Bay gravel pit of Boston, Mass., to abolish the word “Mr.” on calling cards. Some of the three-named have been a little crowded for space, perhaps, or it may be that they dimly realize that it isn’t good taste to call oneself by a complimentary title. Some clergymen refuse to sign “Rev.” before their names, or put it in parenthesis as if to have it beyond their personal reach, as New England ladies write “(Miss)” and others “(Mrs.)”. Good Philistines need not be told that Mr. means Master and is a compliment in the second person. It is of a piece with lifting the hat, theoretically a helmet, to the person whom you respect. That was the old time vote of confidence. You thus expressed the belief that he wouldn’t brain you with a broadsword at the first opportunity. Giving the hand was another token of disarmament as a mark of confidence. Bowing the head also invited the knightly salute with any convenient weapon. With this went a more or less sincere confession of his imputed power. You called him “master,” which became “mister” by corruption. Our imitative good society has forgotten the meaning of the thing it imitates, as usual. Our ready-made coats of arms seldom fit. He that is greatest calls himself servant, according to good authority, and not master. Even Beacon Hill and the adjacent desert seems to have come to a realization of the fact. We may look for the cards of John De Smythe Smythe or Perkins Hopkinson Revere with Mr. in brackets or omitted one of these days.

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“Mamma,” said seven-year-old, in the suburbs, “when will somebody’s house or somebody’s barn burn up?”

“I don’t know,” said mamma, “I hope never. But I suppose they will sometime.”

“Well,” said the son, with a sigh, “it’s an awful long time since we had a good fire.”

Thus we see that even calamity may furnish entertainment for the simple and sincere.

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Rock & Bumball, of Chicago, announce a new volume by Gallbert Faker. Its title is _Scenes in the Boshy Hills_.

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Several mighty and high church bishops in this country are out against “the new woman.” It is noted that they don’t say anything against “the old woman” in general or in particular.

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_How to Carry a Cat in a Basket_ is the attractive title of an article to appear in the forthcoming _Ladies’ Fireside Fudge_, from the pen of its gifted editor, Mr. E. W. Sok.

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There are things in these maxnordo days that are enough to make a man strike his father—for something besides a loan. For instance, a few weeks since we had the peculiar spectacle of the Marquis of Queensbury being done up by his son according to London rules; and now in the last issue of the _Chip-Munk_ we see “A Recent Writer in _Scribner’s_” well cuffed by a boy of whom he is the author. “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth,” etc.

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Judge Tourgee is still making straw without bricks in the _Basis_.

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Now that Mrs. Cady Stanton has launched her Woman’s Bible, let her prepare to enter a woman’s heaven. The men won’t be in it.

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Robert Grant is getting democratic. He is down as far as the summer girl in the current _Scribner_.

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_The Napoleon on the Hearth_ is a new magazine announced from New York. It will bear the subtitle, _Every Man His Own Bonaparte Revival_.

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A new book by Mr. Poultry Bigead is about ready. It will be called _My Collection of Stones from Cherries Eaten by the German Emperor_, and will contain a frontispiece of _Cavalry Horses Having Spasms_, by a well known artist.

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On what ought to be very good authority I am told that if the women who wheel adopt knickerbockers, there will be more care of the female infants of the next generation. Some of the ladies who most strongly object to the advanced and advancing style are said to have good reasons in the matter of physical conformation. I know parents who are very careful not to let their boy babies stand alone too early, fearing bow legs. Perhaps the parents of the future will be equally careful about their girlies, in view of the changing fashion in nether drapery.

Apropos of this, I know a very pleasant little lady—pleasant, but thin—whose brother is a sad wag. “Adelaide,” he said to her last Tuesday, “if you wear those new knickerbockers of yours out on the street, you’ll get yourself arrested for having no visible means of support.”

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It is asserted that Mr. George A. Hibbard is perfectly serious.

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It is really too bad that a magazine which lives up to its standard so well as the _Overland Monthly_ should try to make us believe that its illustrations are much better than those in Frank Leslie’s _Budget_.

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_How I Wrote the Account of How I Wrote My First Book_, by General Louisa Wallace, author of _Bob Hur_, is announced.

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I have received through Messrs. Funk & Wagnalls, publishers of a Methodist dictionary and other works of erudition and vital piety, an invitation to vote aye on a large number of changes of words in common use—mostly in the fonetic direction. Simplicity is the apparent aim. There is a good deal of retrospect in the list. Some of the spellings that were licked out of us when we were boys seem like old friends come back to ask our pardon. The old days are with us when we are told to spell “skul,” for example. The evisceration of sacred words is a little arbitrary. “Savior” is spelt without the full-mouthed British “u,” dear to every lover of the Prayer Book, but Antichrist isn’t economized at all. “Pel-mel” looks it, if a word ever did. “Graf” is something to be guessed at, and one may ask if “adulterin” is something to eat. The fonetix didn’t reach Czar, or perhaps our M. E.—me friends are respecters of persons. However, they shortened “pontiff” by an “f,” and I wouldn’t be surprised if His Holiness masqueraded as “Pop” in the next circular. It is interesting, if not impressive, this reform—like the abbreviation of bicycle clothes and the sending of bad writing by wire.

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That choking female on the cover of the _Mid-Continent_ is still tottering, but hasn’t tumbled yet. Neither have the publishers, it would seem.

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A hammock and a book and a horse and a yacht are really enough to begin with for Robert Grant. He says as much in _Scribner’s_ and he doesn’t care a dam for Newport for a week or two. How little the things of this vain world appeal to those who can have them by touching a button.

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It runs in the Howl family. W. Dean has a daughter who puts her poems under display ad heads in _Scribner’s_. The decorative head is the thing. The poem just belongs.

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The last _Century_ is not so distinctly medieval as some of its predecessors.

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Mrs. Robert Humphrey Elsmere Ward has quit twaddling for a space. “Bessie Costrell” is ended, and it’s a toss up between jubilate and nunc dimittis.

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The current _Atlantic_ is very pacific—not to say mild.

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The June _Chautauquan_ really praises “newspaper English.” This is the time of year when the Reservation wants all the newspaper English it can get for nothing.

The amazing thing about that Amazing Marriage is the lot of talk the proof reader has read about it.

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Tarbell discovered Napoleon, but McClure discovered Tarbell. Now let’s have a series of living documents—“Tarbell at 8,” “Tarbell at 9:30,” “Tarbell at 46,” etc.

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The World, the Flesh and the Devil have gone out of partnership in the ’Frisco _News-Letter_. The head of the firm retires.

THE SPOTTED SPRINTER.

AFTER THE MANNER OF MR. STEAMIN’ STORK.

I saw a man making a fool of himself; He was writing a poem, Scratch, scratch, scratch went his pen, “Go ’way, Man,” says I; “you can’t do it.” He picked up a handful of red devils and Threw them at my head. “You infernal liar,” he howled, “I can write poetry with my toes!” I was disquieted. I turned and Ran like a Blue Streak for the Horizon, Yelling Bloody Murder. When I got there I Bit a piece out of it And lay down on my stomach and Thought. And breathed hard.

AN EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER.

ADDRESSED TO THE BAIRNS AND OTHER RELATIVES OF ALL SUCCESSFUL AUTHORS.

Ye kin of unco’ writing men, How can ye sing sae weak, sae flat; How can ye wag the little pen, And I sae weary and a’ that!

A near relation ye may ain, Wha’s joyed me muckle in the past— That canna sooth my inward pain— Ye’ll break my swelling heart at last!

Thou well mayst be a poet’s son, And still shouldst gather trolley fare; The daughter of a mighty one, And yet shouldst maul the typewritair!

Oh, relatives of canny men, Think ye that I’ve a heart to feel; Stay, stay the wild cavorting pen, And gie my wounds a chance to heal.

THE AHKOOND OF SWAT.

TO THE NICEST GIRL.

AFTER THE FRENCH OF PIERRE DE RONSARD.

Eyes of brown: The major key In which, ’tis plain, days ought to be, Seems all in minor chords; the strings Have slipped down half-a-tone, and things Are dark as blackest night to me.

And why? Because your brown eyes bring The vision of a heart to me; The vision of a heart to sing Of Life and Love and Loyalty— I may not win. That’s why the strings Are out of tune.

H. P. T.

ADVERTISEMENTS.

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Ibsen interpreted while you wait. Columbia College, N. Y.

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WALTER QUEER NICHOLS, ONE of Harper’s Young People, Manufacturer Castoria Jokes. Warranted harmless. Address Harper’s Drawer, Franklin Square, New York.

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MAVERICK BRANDER MATTHEWS, Dealer in Local Color in bulk or tubes. Columbia College, New York. Write for specimens. Reference, Bacheler, Johnson & Bacheler.

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CABLEGRAM.

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PHILISTINE received. Fire Carman.

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_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.

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_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 29 West 23d Street, New York. 24 Bedford Street, Strand, London.