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Altogether, my sympathies are with the Philistines—who were so strong in personality that they gave their name to the Holy Land—_Pelishton_, _Pelesheth_, _Philistia_, Palestina, PALESTINE.
II.
Long years ago Professor Jowett called attention to the fact that the word Philistia literally meant Land of Friendship: the term having the same root as the Greek word Philos—Love. Max Muller has recently said: “The dwellers in the Valley of the Jordan, in the fifteenth century before Christ, recognizing the idea of Oneness or Fraternity, gave a name that signified Love-Land to their country: thus embodying the modern thought of the Brotherhood of Man.”
In view of these things it was rather a strange move—a man so scholarly as Matthew Arnold applying the word “Philistine” as a term of reproach toward those who did not think as he did! I can see though that he shaped his language to fit the ears of his clientele. He sought to make clever copy—and he did. The opinion being abroad that the Philistines were the enemies of Light—how very funny to throw the word like a mud ball at any and all who chanced to smile at his theories! Having small wit of their own, the scribbling rabble took it up.
On reading certain books by a Late Critic, who now wears prison garb and is doing the first honest work that ever his hands found to do, I see that he is very fond of calling people who are outside of his particular cult, “Philistines.”
But look you! Brave Taurus at the bull-fight is a deal more worthy of respect than the picadores who for a price harry him without ruth to his death. And as his virtue surpasses that of any in the silken, belaced and perfumed throng who sit safe and with lily fingers applaud, so do we accept your banderilla, recognizing from whence it comes, and wear it jauntily as a badge of honor.
As the Cross for eighteen hundred years has been a sacred emblem, and the gallows since John Brown glorious; and as the word Quaker, flung in impudent and impotent wrath, now stands for gentleness, peace and truth, so has the word Philistine become a synonym for manly independence.
In Literature he is a Philistine who seeks to express his personality in his own way. A true Philistine is one who brooks no let nor hindrance from the tipstaffs of letters, who creating nothing themselves yet are willing for a consideration to show others how. These men strive hard to reduce all life to a geometrical theorem and its manifestations to an algebraic formula. But life is greater than a college professor, and so far its mysteries, having given the slip to all the creeds, are still at large. My individual hazard at truth is as legitimate as yours. The self appointed beadles of letters demand that we shall neither smile nor sleep while their Presiding Elders drone, but we plead in the World’s Assize for the privilege of doing both.
In Art we ask for the widest, freest and fullest liberty for Individuality—that’s all!
ELBERT HUBBARD.
CHOPIN AND GEORGE SAND.
THE LITTLE WHITE BLACK BIRD.
The game of tit for tat is rarely graceful or dignified. And yet the man who “turns the other cheek” has not appealed strongly to the robust sensibilities of any age. His behavior we cannot admire; it is too much that of Sterne’s ass, who says meekly to his tormentor, “Please do not hit me again—but if you will, you may.” Such a course surely no one of us can be called upon to follow. Besides, the animal acted merely on instinct, as one of a race of craven unfortunates, who while alive are peculiarly seductive to stripes, and whose hides after death, as we all know, are made into drums.
Perhaps the proper rule of conduct lies somewhere in between this hypocritical or recreant meekness on the one hand, and on the other that unchristian and vulgar manner of retaliation against which, it must have been, that the precept of the Bible was directed.
The “lex talionis” in its literal meaning, “an eye for an eye,” and “a tooth for a tooth,” is certainly barbarous; but surely if mine enemy has plucked out one of my eyes, and so increased considerably the market value of the one remaining, no dilettante in morals or the market would deny my right to sell the other dearly, nor my privilege to write a book upon my loss. Indeed, men’s enemies from the days of Solomon have never asked for more than this.
It has been impossible to discover the exact cause which led to the rupture between Chopin, the musician, and George Sand. However caused, this rupture was final and was followed almost at once by the novelist’s publication of her _Lucrezia Floriani_, in which, under the mask of Prince Karol, she caricatured the sensitive Chopin, holding him up to ridicule and contempt, and wounded him deeply. As we know, the excitement following this event and the mental distress and mortification connected with it threw the musician once more upon the sick bed, where he lingered a long time, really dangerously ill. We know too that he recovered. It was then that he wrote and distributed among the old friends of the “Nohant days,” and among the world of arts and letters in Paris, with which he and George Sand were so closely associated, a story called the “Little White Black Bird,” known to us of the present day, by tradition only.
And it is because this tradition, at least as far as I have learned, has reached but few people, that I have taken it upon myself to tell simply, as I have heard it, this story of the “Little White Black Bird,” which, as an act of retaliation, was, we must confess, a dignified and just one, and which apart from this, forms an allegory that is beautiful and perhaps instructive.
* * * * *
There was once a little white bird that lived in such a beautiful forest that one might think no creature with such a home and such a playground could fail to be happy. But in truth this little bird was far from happy, because of his loneliness, for in all that wood there seemed to be no white bird but himself. There were many other birds there, but they were all black; these had their mates and their nests where they rested at night, and whence early in the morning they would fly away together, making the silent woods echo with their song, peeping at the little elves, one of whom lives hidden away in each beautiful flower and plant, and sharing with each other all that they learned of the wonderful world about them. All this the white bird knew they did, for in his loneliness he watched them closely, following them often a long distance in their flights, grateful for even this companionship. And always he looked about him for that little white object, which vaguely, in his dreams perhaps, he felt he might one day find in this mysterious forest, and which might prove to be his mate.
And one bright happy day this happened: he found another little white bird who seemed to have suffered for companionship just as he had done, and they built their home upon a lofty tree and there they lived, and life seemed to him a wonderful thing and full of joy. For many days this lasted.
But at last there came a dark morning; all day the rain poured steadily down and the two little birds stood, huddled, side by side upon the tree, their feathers draggled and their bodies cold with the damp and wind. Since early morning the little white bird had been sad, and his heart full of misgivings, yet it was a great comfort to him through all the storm, to turn from time to time and look at the little figure at his side, and know that his precious companion was near him. But once as he looked, he seemed to see a wonderful change coming over the little bird. Could the dark light of the forest, he wondered, be misleading him: yet as he watched and watched he saw it all too clearly: his companion was becoming jet black, like the other birds he had seen about him in the forest. Soon the rain washed away the last little speck of white covering and then with an angry cry, knowing that she had been found out, she flew away, and doubtless joined her real companions in the wood. So thus he saw how he had been deceived, and that all along this had been merely a little black bird, painted white, who had at first, through the days of sunshine, played her part well, but who, at the coming of the first storm, had been shown forth in her true color.
The little “white black bird” and Chopin met but once again. The former in _Ma Vie_ gives this laconic account of the meeting “Je serrai sa main tremblante et glacée. Je voulu lui parler, il s’echappa.”
MACPHERSON WILTBANK.
DO POSTERS POST?
Do posters post? although they sprawl In loud profusion at each stall; Gibson’s pretentious black-and-whites, Nankivell’s freaks and Bradley’s frights, And Rhead’s red maidens, lean and tall.
Although we know each artist’s scrawl, _The book they note_ we can’t recall; And though their wild effect delights, Do posters post?
Their lines and forms our eyes enthrall, Their color schemes our tastes appall, The keen collector glibly cites Beardsley and all his satellites, They’re works of art, but after all, Do posters post?
CAROLYN WELLS.
TWO FABLES.
THE HORSE AND THE ELK.
An Elk was one day browsing on the twigs in a dingy Forest, when he was accosted by a Horse who called over a neighboring Fence:
“You look Hungry, Old Man.”
“I am both Hungry and Lonesome,” replied the Elk.
“Well, it’s what you deserve; why don’t you come over into this Pasture and be Civilized?”
“I prefer the Freedom of the Forest,” replied the Elk.
“But if you joined our Society and submitted to our Rules you might even associate with me—as it is I’m quite Ashamed to be seen talking to you!”
“To change the subject,” said the Elk, “I just saw two men over in the edge of the woods coming this way with a Halter, and from their Conversation I think one of them has Bought a Horse.”
“Oh! oh! oh!” cried the Horse in Consternation, “I do not know who will be my master nor where my home shall be!”
“I may be uncivilized, but nobody Owns Me,” said the Elk as he dashed away into the Forest.
THE LUXURIOUS CATS.
A Man living on the Avenue in a Stylish House bought a pair of Cats, as the place had become infested with Rats.
When this became known to the Rats they were much Concerned and straightway called a Convention.
When the meeting was called to order a certain Rat that had been a Commercial Traveller arose and said:
“Be not Alarmed my friends—I know these Cats; they are very slow, being well fed and proud and prosperous, they are very Lazy.”
Then an old Pessimist Rat arose and said:
“Aye, there may be no immediate Danger, but I have noticed that when there is a Thomas Cat and a Tabby Cat living on good terms kittens soon appear. Ah, me! I fear we are Undone.”
Then the Rat that had been On the Road remarked:
“Mr. Chairman, I said that this was a proud, prosperous and stylish pair of Cats—such Cats, Sir, do not have kittens. Is there any other Business before the House?”
JOHN BRYAN of Ohio.
[Illustration]
Mr. Bumball will tutor a few more literary aspirants at low rates. Address with stamp Mr. BUMBALL, care Campbellite Press, Chicago. References, Libbie, McNeil & Libbie.
* * * * *
USE HAM GARLAND’S NERVINE.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
Professor Flinders Flanders, of Harvard, will deliver his celebrated lecture, “How to Run the World,” before Woman’s Clubs for one half gross receipts. For dates address with stamp MRS. FLINDERS FLANDERS, 44 Appian Way, Cambridge, Mass.
* * * * *
Reward—$500—Prize.
I will pay five hundred dollars to the person who sends to me within six weeks a better “Note” than I myself can write. A further prize of five hundred dollars for a better “Sketch” than I have written or can write. All articles submitted will be judged by me—after a precedent established by those who offer prizes for similar work. Address all communications Editor The Philistine.
“What says the sea, little shell? “What says the sea? “Long has our brother been silent to us, “Kept his message for the ships, “Awkward ships, stupid ships.”
“The sea bids you mourn, oh, pines, “Sing low in the moonlight. “He sends tale of the land of doom, “Of place where endless falls “A rain of women’s tears. “And men in grey robes— “Men in grey robes— “Chant the unknown pain.”
“What says the sea, little shell? “What says the sea? “Long has our brother been silent to us, “Kept his message for the ships, “Puny ships, silly ships.”
“The sea bids you teach, oh, pines, “Sing low in the moonlight, “Teach the gold of patience, “Cry gospel of gentle hands, “Cry a brotherhood of hearts, “The sea bids you teach, oh, pines.”
“And where is the reward, little shell? “What says the sea? “Long has our brother been silent to us, “Kept his message for the ships, “Puny ships, silly ships.”
“No word says the sea, oh, pines, “No word says the sea. “Long will your brother be silent to you, “Keep his message for the ships, “Oh, puny pines, silly pines.”
STEPHEN CRANE.
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?