The Philistine: a periodical of protest (Vol. I, No. 6, November 1895)

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_.

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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.

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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_.

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Mr. Cudahy recommends Bovox for novel readers.

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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.

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And after all, has Rockefeller got rid of Bemis?

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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.

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

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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.

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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.

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“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.

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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.

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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_.

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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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Here endeth the First Volume.

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[Illustration: 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.