The Philistine: a periodical of protest (Vol. II, No. 4, March 1896)

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I call the attention of Gunner Antonio Kumstalk to the fact that while the _Youth’s Companion_ and the _Ladies’ Boklet_ furnish the pictures for Art and Underwear, the Boston _Commonwealth_ still supplies the text.

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Law is now being successfully taught by correspondence. In fact the most brilliant legal lights of the future will probably be men who never went to school a day in their lives—simply hit the principles of Blackstone by correspondence while working on a farm. Journalism, too, is taught by correspondence and also in night schools. Twenty first-class lessons can be had for five dollars, with promise of position as Managing Editor to all who run the course and are glorified—that is graduated.

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I am informed that the reason young Mr. Bumball of Chicago is often spoken of by his father as Issachar is fully explained in verse 14 of Chapter xlix of Genesis.

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My good friend Walter Hippeau Merriam writes me from New York: “As a Philistine in good standing, with dues paid to 1901, I wish to exert my prerogative to protest. In your February issue you allow Mr. Macpherson Wiltbank to put forth some very startling “facts” concerning a musician named Chopin. The musician was not fertile enough in matters of revenge to ever originate that story of _The Little White Black Bird_. It was the work of an obscure poet named De Musset and can be found in his _Contes_, (Charpentier Librarie Editeur, 39 Rue de l’Universite, Paris, 1854.) If the Datary has not fined Mr. Wiltbank twenty-five skekels for trifling with truth, please see that it is done at once.”

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The _New Cycle_ has changed its name. Being essentially feminine, and this being leap year beside, of course it had a perfect right to do so. The move I understand was made to circumvent the joker who had a way of saying _Wheels_. Neith Boyce did not like this, for she said it was twitting on facts. She even threatened to resign if the name was not changed and a prettier cover used. The manager swore he would never be dictated by a woman, and swearing he would never consent, consented—changing the name (but not its nature) and getting that pretty cover. Phosphorus in editorial rooms is at a premium, and _The Lotos_ (that’s the new name) cannot afford to lose Neith Boyce.

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_The Cosmopolitan_ (not the magazine composed merely of printers’ ink) contains on page 425 of its February, 1896, issue a poem (?) by one Gustav Kobbe, entitled _Obediah Folger_. In _Hundred Choice Selections_, 1872, No. 5, under the title _The Nantucket Skipper_, and in _American Union Speaker_, 1865, as _The Alarmed Skipper_, is the identical story now published by John Brisben Walker as something new! Nothing about it is new except the word combinations. The only possible excuse that I can see is that both the plagiarist-author and his publisher have never been in Boston and never heard of that eminent author and publisher, James T. Fields, (1817-1881), who composed the first poem on this idea.

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It was well enough for Shakespeare to ask “What’s in a name?” seeing that he never realized what his own would stand for in the scroll of time; but do our modern writers who are not satisfied with one, but insist on forcing three and sometimes more names apiece upon public observation, take the same modest view of the significance of a cognomen? Not when there are three or more together, evidently. In short, and let us remember that “brevity is the soul of wit,” the natural inference is that they hold their signature as of more consequence than the screed that follows it. And perhaps they are right in this, though in some cases that is only a left-handed compliment.

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The Revolutionary condition of Literature in America: Old Men sitting in shade on door steps; sometime smoking, always talking: of paper battles won in many magazines; of thrusts with pen; parries with pencil; ink bespattered veterans o’ercome, all in wordy warfare; of merry meetings turned to stern alarums; a so-long manuscript at so-much a page. Then Boys come by detached from Philistinic Hosts: make mud balls; revile; jeer; hiding behind bibelots. These two Factions, the Old and Young; the Senile and the Callow, the Wornout and the Willing: this is all there is to Literature in America. So saith that paper which with rare satire calls itself _Truth_.

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Mr. John Langdon Heaton, who writes good poetry (and bad), suggests that the use of the fig leaf in these notes is “indelicate.”

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Backed by the sanity of keen observation and good sense, the stories of “Octave Thanet” come out of the West like young Lochinvar. Recently from Miss French came a note of commendation enclosing the first stanza of a Philistine Hymn. Hearing that great things are in the air, I hasten to print these lines lest they be grabbed by greedy publishers:

I’m glad I am a Philistine, I wouldn’t be no other, For half the Art that poses now Is nerves and mud and Bother!

I like a clean and decent tale About a friend and brother. Neurotic dames and wandering flames If I can skip, I ’druther.

I’m glad, etc., etc.

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The esteemed _Whims_ of New York begins a new series. It will be followed rapidly by _Jims_, _Skims_, _Limbs_ and _Pims_. We already have had _Chips_, _Dips_, _Skips_ and _Pips_. I learn that Grandmother _Chip-Munk_ is exceedingly proud of her interesting brood and is still laying eggs.

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And the flood continues. I wonder what the definite aim of all the periodicals may be? At any rate I wish them all success, and hope they may “try to do which,” as the French say, “is that which it is that which it is what.” High aims are good things, we are told, and doubtless, like the mariners, we should steer our courses by the stars. Still there is good game which lies close to the earth if we knew how to hunt for it—and there’s the fun of hunting anyway, game or not.

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Colonel Frank L. Stanton, able poet, of Atlanta, Georgia, is whirling his wheels too rapidly. Seventeen yards of poetry a day, seven days in the week, is too much for all concerned. The Colonel started with foam, and already is running to emptyings, namely:

Sleep, my little curl-head, sleep! Here beside your nest I keep. Mother’s hung your Christmas stocking, Mother’s hand your cradle’s rocking— Sleep, my little curl-head, sleep!

The office boy can rhyme you in that style till the cows come home.

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

THE CONSERVATOR

Printed Monthly in Philadelphia.

HORACE L. TRAUBEL, Editor.

ANNUAL SUBSCRIPTION PRICE ONE DOLLAR.

All communications intended for the Editor should be addressed to HORACE L. TRAUBEL, CAMDEN, NEW JERSEY.

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that weekly illustrated paper published in Philadelphia, (pity, isn’t it?) is a clean (moderately so) paper, chock full of such uninteresting topics as interviews with actor and actress (bless ’em); book gossip, news from Paris and London, (dear, old Lunnon), woman’s chatter, verse and lots more of idiocy that only spoils white paper. It sells for five cents a copy, or $2.00 a year. It has a big circulation (and that’s no joke) and to make that circulation bigger yet we will mail you the paper for the cost of postage—52 cents for 52 numbers for 52 weeks. Send the 52 any old way you want, but for Heaven’s sake address your letter right, so no other paper gets it but

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[Illustration]

Although Mr. Gladstone is a very busy man he has found time to write me with his own hand saying that the PHILISTINE has supplied him several quiet smiles.