The Philistine: a periodical of protest (Vol. I, No. 1)

1. Quatrains,

E. R. White.

2. Philistines Ancient and Modern,

William McIntosh.

3. The Sanity of Genius,

Rowland B. Mahany.

4. English Monuments,

Elbert Hubbard.

5. Ballade des Écrivains du Temps Jadis,

G. F. Warren.

6. Philistinism in General,

Mark S. Hubbell.

7. Side Talks,

The East Aurora School of Philosophy.

COPYRIGHT 1895

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A tiny spot on the map is the Philistia of Old Testament days—a way station on the path of commerce between alphabet-building Phœnicia to the north, and Canaan and predatory Arabia on the south. But long before those hardy neighbors plagued Israel and made a hostage of the Ark of the Covenant there were Philistines in the world, influencing its destinies.

Tradition has been unkind to Philistinism as to many other good things. The Serpent in the Garden is the earliest embodiment of the genius of protest, unless we follow John Milton farther back to the rebellion in the Court of Heaven, organized by the Sons of the Morning. Omnipotence that founded order set in motion change also. The unrest that is the electro-motor of progress is in nature as in man, and evolution is its perpetual law.

Human society was ripe for Philistines when Noah launched his ocean palace inland. Scarce a century later the egotism of man sought to scale high heaven from a tower of brick and asphalt. Matter was deified with the usual result, and a discordant medley of alien labor was all the product of the giant enterprise.

Down through the patriarchal ages the conservative men who builded cities and the sons of progress who balked established order and moved on kept up the alternation of forces. Jacob wrung from an angel his divine endowment and won his brother’s primogeniture when Esau, the conservative, gave all the future for the good things near by. Joseph, the dreamer, peddled like old clothes to a rag man, showed his thrifty brothers a bunco trick worth learning when he had come, a stranger of a despised race, to be all but a Pharaoh in the capital of civilization. The trumpet blasts that felled Jericho, the vanquishing shouts of Gideon, the sling of the shepherd stripling that freed a nation, tell of seemingly inadequate means out of the conservative order that changed history. Moses, prophet and lawgiver and priest, killed his man and was a fugitive a generation before he abandoned his princely rank in Egypt to lead a nation of slaves into the evolution of independence and mastery of the world’s spiritual thought.

The ancient monarchies went to wreck when the social order had become stationary—encrusted with custom and caste. But a few Philistines, destroyers of arbitrary ranks, recreated the world in the democracy of Chivalry, and that in turn went down when its vital purpose had been achieved and its orders had become set and stifled progress.

It was a Philistine, a despised player and holder of horses, who gave the modern world its literature. It was a heretic monk who threw ink-stands, not only at Satan, but at embodied and enthroned religion, who gave the modern world its impetus to freedom. The imaginative authors who most strongly sway mankind today are Philistines. Thackeray smilingly lifted the mask from aristocracy and exposed its sordid servility. Dickens threw down the idols of pretentious respectability. Hugo taught the democracy of virtue. Tolstoi dethroned convention in religion. Ibsen divorced morality from law.

The note of protest resounds throughout history. Every age seeks in material gratifications the realization of its destiny. Everywhere genius becomes conservative and sterile; art grows self-conscious and measures achievement by technical difficulties; ceremonial binds social life; law protects artificial privilege; religion is refined into theology or materialized into idolatry; hospitality becomes an exchange, and the humanities are buried alive under their own machinery. They who protest, who exalt purpose and measure achievement thereby, are called Philistines.

They realize the finiteness of all created things. They see evolution in all, and hold naught that is finite to be final.

Philistinism is the world’s perpetual crusade. It reveres tradition, but it despises commonplace in purple.

William McIntosh.

England relegates her poets to a “Corner.” The earth and the fullness thereof belongs to the men who can kill; on this rock have her State and Church been built.

As the tourist approaches the city of London for the first time there are four monuments that probably will attract his attention. They lift themselves out of the fog and smoke and soot, and seem to struggle toward the blue.

One of these monuments is to commemorate a calamity—the conflagration of 1666—and the others are in honor of deeds of war.

The finest memorial in St. Paul’s is to a certain Irishman, Albert Wellesley, Duke of Wellington. The mines and quarries of earth have been called on for the richest contributions; and talent and skill have given their all to produce this enduring work of beauty that tells posterity of the mighty acts of this mighty man. The rare richness and lavish beauty of the Wellington mausoleum is only surpassed by that of a certain tomb in France.

As an exploiter the Corsican overdid the thing a bit—so the world arose and put him down; but safely dead his shade can boast a grave so sumptuous that Englishmen in Paris refuse to look upon it.

But England need not be ashamed. Her land is spiked with glittering monuments to greatness gone. And on these monuments you often get the epitomized life of the man whose dust lies below.

On the carved marble to Lord Cornwallis I read that “He defeated the Americans with great slaughter.” And so, wherever in England I see a beautiful monument I know that probably the inscription will tell how “he defeated” somebody. And one grows to the belief that, while woman’s glory is her hair, man’s glory is to defeat someone. And if he can “defeat with great slaughter” his monument is twice as high as if he had only visited on his brother man a plain defeat. In truth I am told by a friend who has a bias for statistics, that all monuments above fifty feet high in England, are to men who have defeated other men “with great slaughter.” The only exceptions to this rule are the Albert Memorial, which is a tribute of wifely affection rather than a public testimonial, so therefore need not be considered here, and a monument to a worthy brewer who died and left three hundred thousand pound to charity. I mentioned this fact to my friend, but he unhorsed me by declaring that modesty forbade carving truth on the monument, yet it was a fact that the brewer, too, had brought defeat to vast numbers and had, like Saul, slaughtered his thousands.

When I visited the site of the Globe Theater and found thereon a brewery whose shares are warranted to make the owner rich beyond the dream of avarice, I was depressed. In my boyhood I had supposed that if ever I should reach this spot where Shakespeare’s plays were first produced I should see a beautiful park and a splendid monument; while some white-haired old patriarch would greet me and give a little lecture to the assembled pilgrims on the great man whose footsteps had made sacred the soil beneath our feet.

But there is no park, no monument and no white-haired old poet to give you welcome—only a brewery.

“Aye, mon, but ain’t ut a big ’un?” protested an Englishman who heard my murmurs.

Yes, yes, we must be truthful. It is a big brewery, and there are four big bulldogs in the court way; and there are big vats; and big workmen in big aprons. And each of these workmen is allowed to drink six quarts of beer each day without charge, which proves that the true Christian spirit is not dead. Then there are big horses that draw the big wagons and on the corner is a big tap room where the thirsty are served with big glasses.

The founder of this brewery became very rich; and if my statistical friend is right, the owners of these mighty vats have defeated mankind “with great slaughter.”

We have seen that although Napoleon, the defeated, has a more gorgeous tomb than Wellington, who defeated him, yet there is consolation in the thought that although England has no monument to Shakespeare, he now has the freedom of Elysium; while the present address of the British worthies, who have battened and fattened on poor humanity’s thirst for strong drink since Samuel Johnson was executor of Thrale’s estate, is unknown.

We have this on the authority of a Spirit Medium, who says: “The virtues essential and peculiar to the exalted station of the British worthy debars the unfortunate possessor from entering Paradise. There is not a Lord Chancellor, or Lord Mayor, or Lord of the Chamber, or Master of the Hounds, or Beefeater in Ordinary, or any sort of British bigwig out of the whole of British Beadledom, upon which the sun never sets, in Elysium. This is the only dignity beyond their reach.”

This Mejum is an honorable person, and I am sure he would not make this assertion if he did not have proof of the facts. So for the present we will allow him to go on his own recognizance, believing that he will adduce his documents at the proper time.

But still should not England have a fitting monument to Shakespeare? He is her one universal citizen. His name is honored in every school or college of earth where books are prized. There is no scholar in any clime who is not his debtor.

He was born in England, he was never out of England, his ashes rest in England.

But England’s Budget has never been ballasted with a single pound to help preserve inviolate the memory of her one son to whom the world uncovers.

Victor Hugo has said something on this subject about like this:

Why a monument to Shakespeare? He is his own monument and England is its pedestal. Shakespeare has no need of a pyramid; he has his work.

What can bronze or marble do for him? Malachite and alabaster are of no avail. Jasper, serpentine, basalt, porphyry, granite; stones from Paros and marble from Carrara—they are all a waste of pains; genius can do without them.

What is as indestructible as these: The Tempest, The Winter’s Tale, Julius Cæsar, Coriolanus? What monument sublimer than Lear, sterner than The Merchant of Venice, more dazzling than Romeo and Juliet, more amazing than Richard III?

What moon could shed about the pile a light more mystic than that of A Midsummer Night’s Dream? What capital, were it even in London, could rumble around it as tumultuously as Macbeth’s perturbed soul? What framework of cedar or oak will last as long as Othello? What bronze can equal the bronze of Hamlet?

No construction of lime, of rock, of iron and of cement is worth the deep breath of genius, which is the respiration of God through man. What edifice can equal thought? Babel is less lofty than Isaiah; Cheops is smaller than Homer; the Colosseum is inferior to Juvenal; the Giralda at Seville is dwarfed by the side of Cervantes; St. Peter’s at Rome does not reach to the ankle of Dante.

What architect has the skill to build a tower so high as the name of Shakespeare? Add anything if you can to mind! Then why a monument to Shakespeare?

I answer, Not for the glory of Shakespeare, but for the honor of England!

Elbert Hubbard.

PUBLISHED IN CHICAGO circa A. D. 1930, AND PRINTED BY THE PHILISTINE FROM ADVANCE SHEETS.

I doff my hat to The Philistine and hail it “Brother well met.”

In the name of all who have hated shams, in the name of all brave knights whose lances have shivered against the dead walls of human stupidity, ignorance, malice and convention; in the name of every stifled and unuttered song that should have mounted like a meadow lark’s to heaven; in the name of every pilloried hope and dead ambition killed in the long battle with the Mediocrities and the Banalities greet thee, Knight Errant from Philistia, and bid thee God speed.

And having,“hailed,” and “bade,” and “greeted,” let me say that though the world is wide and shams are many, and the race, to the swift usually, and the fight to the strong almost always, and though the God of battle, is according to Napoleon, whom it is fashionable to quote “on the side of the big battalions,” yet strong blows for truth are cumulative and The Philistine’s bright blade must be dyed often with the blood of Error ere it be sheathed and every lie sooner or later driven to its sure end of bankruptcy.

I will not hail you Reformer, for that old and honorable name like that older and still more honorable one of “gentleman” has fallen recently into disrepute and at last reports was still falling; besides reformers are often failures, and too often after a brief career are found taking tea with the Mammon of Unrighteousness, having assumed their discarded role originally rather for “what there was in it,” than from exalted or high-minded motives or to improve the condition of their respective healths.

A young man called once on the great Voltaire, and besought his encouragement in projects he had conceived for a reorganized and better scheme of human society, The philosopher leaned his head upon his hand and thought a minute, then rising, led the way to an inner room, where, against the velvet-hung wall, was an ivory figure of the Redeemer on the cross; he pointed to it with warning forefinger. “Young man,” he said, “behold the fate of a reformer.”

When I see the little things many men strive and cavil over and the great ones they disregard or ignore I know that the kingdom of Liliput was not a figment of the imagination of the genial Swift but a lesson from real life. And when I consider how they swarm like water-bugs and quarrel over the pronunciation of words and bicker with their neighbor to make him or her use the sharp “a” in “squalor” so as to make it “squaylor,” I think sensible people might be excused for weeping or even swearing.

Little people these, say I, and I would wager a dollar to nothing that William Dean Howells is their prophet and that they all venerate his works.

The mere fact that Howells is, is a proof that there are those who want Howells besides himself, and while not entirely subscribing to the saying that “whatever is is best,” it must be recognized that it has its raison d’être, and we all know Howells has his readers or he would not have his publishers.

One can almost tell what a man’s opinions will be by knowing what he reads or has read, just as I once heard it said of a tuft-hunting editor that it could be predicated with absolute certainty what position he would take on a public question by learning with whom he walked down town in the morning or with what wealthy parvenu he passed the previous evening. This is but a modern application of the old saw, “a man is known by the company he keeps,” and mentally he may be known by the books he reads or the magazines he skims through. I shudder for Richard Watson Gilder, John Brisben Walker, E. Bok, and others of the Mutual Admiration Society style of periodical makers if they are to be believed to keep the company or read the lucubrations of the contributors to the dreary masses of illustrated inanities they edit, publications which have claims to interest, based alone upon the merit of their illustrations and the perfection of their typographical beauty.

But to recur to the line of romance and digress from the magazines which need so much attention, and from “Bartley” and the other counter jumping namby-pamby, goody-goodies of the Howells stripe, including his own weary history of himself, and the “Books Which Most Influence Him,” the baleful effects of which are legitimately and plainly perceptible in his works. There are shams in literature more dreadful than Mr. Howells, who is a turgid fact and no sham. For instance;

I know of one evanescently popular young creature who chronically contributes to the magazines, whose mother it is said, writes his tales which, she being a clever woman and he an uncommonly stupid man, appears credible to say the least; and there is another “man” I am told of whose sister is said to write his poems and modestly efface herself, and as the stories are good and the poems fairly readable, it should be the part of The Philistine to disclose to the world the real authors and chastise these and other shams, for shams are the hardest hurdles in the steeplechase which Truth has to make in this world, since they substitute the false for the real and crown the fool with the laurels of the genius.

How much more might be said of the tasks you have to accomplish, brave Philistine with your brawny arm and your good naked sword! So much that the very thought of it fatigues one and that, hailing you as the latest and best contestant in the tourney of Knighthood and yet, considering you as a publication in an embryonic stage, I am compelled to quote these lovely lines of Longfellow:

Mark S. Hubbell.

It is a land of free speech, Philistia, and if one of us chooses to make remarks concerning the work of the others no sense of modesty keeps us quiet. It is because we cannot say what we would in the periodicals which are now issued in a dignified, manner in various places, that we have made this book. In the afore-mentioned periodicals divers men chatter with great fluency, startling regularity and “damnable complacency,” each through his individual bonnet. Edward W. Bok, evidently assisted by Mrs. Lydia Pinkham and W. L. Douglas, of Brocton, Massachusetts, prints the innermost secrets of dead women told by their living male relatives for six dollars a column. Thereby the authors are furnished with the price of a week’s board, and those of us who may have left some little sense of decency, wonder what manner of man it may be who sells his wife’s heart to the readers of Bok. But the “unspeakable Bok” is “successful.” His magazine flourishes like a green bay tree. Many readers write him upon subjects of deportment and other matters in which he is accomplished. So, the gods give us joy! Let him drive on, and may his Home Journal have five million readers before the year is out—God help them!

Mr. Gilder dishes up monthly beautifully printed articles which nobody cares about, but which everybody buys, because The Century looks well on the library table.

Mr. Howells maunders weekly in a column called “Life and Letters” in Harper’s journal of civilization. This “Life and Letters” reminds me of the Peterkin’s famous picnic at Strawberry Nook. “There weren’t any strawberries and there wasn’t any nook, but there was a good place to tie the horses.”

So it goes through the whole list. There are people, however, who believe that Romance is not dead, and that there is literature to be made which is neither inane nor yet smells of the kitchen sink. This is a great big merry world, says Mr. Dana, and there’s much good to be got out of it, so toward those who believe as we do—we of Philistia—this paper starts upon its great and perilous voyage at one dollar a year.

It was Balzac, or some one else, who used to tell of a flea that lived on a mangy lion and boasted to all the rank outside fleas that he met: I have in me the blood of the King of Beasts.

It is a comforting thought that somewhere, at some time, every good thing on earth is brought to an accounting of itself. Thereby are the children of men saved from much tyranny. For the good things of earth are your true oppressors.

For such an accounting are Philistines born in every age. By their audit are men perpetually set free from trammels self-woven.

Earnest men have marvelled in all times that convention has imputed to husks and symbols the potency of the things they outwardly stand for. Many also have protested, and these, in reproach, have been called Philistines. And yet they have done no more than show forth that in all things the vital purpose is more than the form that shrines it. The inspirations of to-day are the shams of to-morrow—for the purpose has departed and only the dead form of custom remains. “Is not the body more than raiment”—and is not life more than the formulæ that hedge it in?

Wherefore men who do their own thinking, and eke women betimes, take honor rather than disparagement in the name which is meant to typify remorseless commonplace. They hesitate not to question custom, whether there be reason in it. They ask “Why?” when one makes proclamation:

“Lo! Columbus discovered America four hundred years ago! Let us give a dance.” There have been teachers who sought to persuade mankind that use alone is beauty—and these too have done violence to the fitness of things. On such ideals is the civilization of Cathay founded. Neither in the grossness of material things nor in the false refinements that “divorce the feeling from its mate the deed” is the core and essence of living.

It is the business of the true Philistine to rescue from the environment of custom and ostentation the beauty and the goodness cribbed therein. And so the Philistines of these days, whose prime type is the Knight of La Mancha, go tilting at windmills and other fortresses—often on sorry nags and with shaky lances, and yet on heroic errand bent. And to such merry joust and fielding all lovers of chivalry are bidden: to look on—perhaps to laugh, it may be to grieve at a woeful belittling of lofty enterprise. Come, such of you as have patience with such warriors. It is Sancho Panza who invites you.

The Chip-Munk has a bright reference in the issue of May 15 to Coventry, Patmore, Pater and Meredith. These are four great men, as The Chip-Munk boldly states.

The Chip-Munk further announces that the Only Original Lynx-Eyed Proof Reader has not gone on a journey. Really, I supposed of course he had been gone these many moons!

I wonder if Carman is still upon a diet of Mellin’s Food that he imagines people do not know that this poem

was written years and years ago as follows:

I desire to swipe him after this manner:

Mark Twain says he is writing “Joan of Arc” anonymously in Harper’s because he is convinced if he signed it the people would insist the stuff was funny. Mr. Twain is worried unnecessarily. It has been a long time since any one insisted the matter he turns out so voluminously was or is funny.

The amusing William Dean Howells writes that he is so bothered by autograph seekers that he will hereafter refuse to send his signature “with a sentiment” unless the applicant for his favor produces satisfactory evidence he has read all of his works, “now some thirty or forty in number.” When this proof has been sent if Mr. Howells does not return his autograph on the bottom of a check for a large amount, he deserves to be arrested for cruelty to his fellows.

There is no doubt that a teacher once committed to a certain line of thought will cling to that line long after all others have deserted it. In trying to persuade others he convinces himself. This is especially so if he is opposed. Opposition evolves in his mind a maternal affection for the product of his brain and he defends it blindly to the death. Thus we see why institutions are so conservative. Like the coral insect they secrete osseous matter; and when a preacher preaches he himself always goes forward to the mourners’ bench and accepts all of the dogmas that have just been so ably stated.

Literature is the noblest of all the arts. Music dies on the air, or at best exists only as a memory; oratory ceases with the effort; the painter’s colors fade and the canvas rots; the marble is dragged from its pedestal and is broken into fragments; but the Index Expurgatorius is as naught, and the books burned by the fires of the auto da fe still live. Literature is reproduced ten thousand times ten thousand and lodges its appeal with posterity. It dedicates itself to Time.

The action of various theatrical managers in cutting from their programmes the name of the author of the plays running at their houses and the similar action of numerous librarians in withdrawing his books from their shelves is simply another proof of the marvellous powers of stultification possessed by the humans of the present time. These managers, having the scattering wits of birds, do not seem to appreciate that, whatever the character of the author, the plays he has written were as bad before they were produced as they are now that he has been so effectually extinguished; and these librarians cannot comprehend, evidently, that his books were fully as immoral as they are now when they were first put on the shelves. Would it not be a refreshing thing to find a theatrical manager who managed a theater because he had an honest purpose of elevating, perpetuating, purifying and strengthening the drama, instead of speculating in it as a Jew speculates in old clothes? And would it not be a marvel to discover librarian who knew something about books?

Buffalo, New York, is getting to be very classic in some things. It tolerated the nude with great equanimity in the recent Art Exhibition and exhibits the female embodiment of everything ideal, from the German muse of song to the still more German muse of barley products, at the great variety of fests, more or less related to beer, that follow in swift succession in that town. But the classic climax was reached on Good Friday of this year, when the Venus of Milo, mounted on a Bock beer pedestal, was the center piece of an Easter symbol picture in a Hebrew clothing advertisement. The limit of Buffalo congruity seems to have been reached.

The Chip-Munk for May has a bit of folk-lore about a man who advised another to join a conspiracy of silence. This item appeared in 1893 and during 1894 was published by actual count in one hundred and forty-nine newspapers. The editors of The Chip-Munk are a bit slow in reading their exchanges.

The Two Orphans at the Kate Claxton Building, Chicago Stockyards, have a motto on their letter heads that reads, “We are the people and wisdom will die with us.”

The editor of The Baseburner, who claims to be a veritist, states that it is not true that the Garland stoves were named after Ham Garland of Chicago Stockyards; but the fact is Garland named himself after the stoves.

Current Literature recently had a long article on Louise Imogene Guinly. Doubtless the spelling of the name was a typographical error, as the editor probably refers to Miss Louisa Imogene Quinney, who is postmistress at Auburn, New York, and daughter of Richard Quinney, manufacturer of the famous Quinney Mineral Water.

Judge Robert Grant has in preparation a series of articles called “How to Live on a Million a Minute and Have Money to Burn.”

I hear the voice of the editors of The Chip-Munk complaining that Little Journeys, The Bibelot, Chips and other publications are base, would-be imitators of their own chaste periodical. Why, you sweet things, did you know that many hundred years ago a great printer made a book which was printed in black inside with a cover in red and black. I believe this is the thing which you claim is original with yourselves. So far as the rest of the periodicals are concerned I have no means of knowing whether they are imitations or not, but Little Journeys was in type and printed long before The Chip-Munk came out of its hole.

Messrs. Copeland & Day of Boston recently published for Mr. Stephen Crane a book which he called “The Black Riders.” I don’t know why; the riders might have as easily been green or yellow or baby-blue for all the book tells about them, and I think the title, “The Pink Rooters,” would have been better, but it doesn’t matter. My friend, The Onlooker, of Town Topics, quotes one of the verses and says this, which I heartily endorse:

This was Mr. Howells proving that Ibsen is valuable and interesting. It is to be hoped that Mr. Crane will write another poem about him after his legs have been worn off.

I was moved to read Mr. Hermann Sudermann’s diverting novel, “The Wish,” upon observing an extended notice in the “Sub Rosa” column of the Buffalo Courier. The writer therein alleged that the novel taught a great moral lesson, and desiring to be taught a great moral lesson I bought the book. It treats of the wish of a girl for her sister’s death in order that she might marry the husband. I suppose the great moral truth is that one should not wish for such things, but I supposed that had been taught in one of the Commandments, which tells of coveting thy neighbor’s wife, and my Sunday School teacher used to tell me that it referred equally to husbands. I was evidently mistaken, and Hermann Sudermann is hereby hailed as a teacher of morals. I should think, from the style of the “Sub Rosa” article, that the writer is a woman. If she is, I’ll bet her feet are cold if she enjoys such things as this:

This cheerful book is translated from the German by Lily Henkel and published by the Appletons. I commend it to Mr. Bliss Carman and his shroud washers.

Mr. Thomas B. Mosher, of Portland, Maine, deserves the thanks of the reading public for the issuing of The Bibelot. Each month this dainty periodical comes like a dash of salt water on a hot day, and is as refreshing. After reading the longings and the heartburnings of the various degenerates who inflict their stuff on us these days, Mr. Mosher’s “Sappho” comes and makes us really believe that there is a man up on the coast of Maine who has the salt of the sea and the breath of the pines in him, and is willing to think that there are other people who care for purity and sweetness, rather than such literature as “Vistas” and the plays of Maeterlinck.

When in five consecutive stories, printed in the same periodical, the hero or heroine has ended the narrative by shooting himself or herself, is it not about time to hire somebody to invent some other denouement?

Many a man’s reputation would not know his character if they met on the street.

To be stupid when inclined and dull when you wish is a boon that only goes with high friendship.

Every man has moments when he doubts his ability. So does every woman at times doubt her wit and beauty and long to see them mirrored in a masculine eye. This is why flattery is acceptable. A woman will doubt everything you say except it be compliments to herself—here she believes you truthful and mentally admires you for your discernment.

Kate Field’s Wash is dry.

The Arena has sand.

“Sub-Tragic” is the latest description of Vic. Woodhull’s Humanitarian.

McClure’s is getting a little weary with its living pictures.

Scribner’s has a thrilling article on “Books We Have Published.”

Godey’s is very gay in its second childhood.

Judge Tourgee’s Basis isn’t business. “It’s pretty, but it isn’t war.”

The Century, it is said, will insert a page or two of reading matter between the Italian art and the ads.

The Basis is out with prizes for poets and sermon writers. It was as certain as the law of nature makes the filling of every vacuum at some time, that somewhere and at some time these people would get their reward. It seems to be coming now. But where and when will be the reward of the people who read what they write? The thought of their fate is all shuddery.

Ginger used to be in evidence in magazines and pumpkin pies. Squash is a prominent ingredient now.

If Peterson’s wouldn’t mix ads. and reading matter in their books and on title pages the cause of current literature would be advanced.

Between Grant’s essays on the art of living and the mild satire of “The Point of View,” it really looks as if the Tattler had come again—a little disembodied for Dick Steele, but in character.

Philadelphia, June 1, 1895.
W. D. Howells:
To EDWARD W. BOK, Dr.
42 sq. inches in Boiler Plate. “Literary Letter,” on What I Know of Howells’s Modesty	$4 20
Mentioning Howells’s name, 730,000 times in same (up to date)	7 30
Cussing Trilby (your suggestion)	20
	$11 70
Less 2 per cent. for cash.
Please remit.

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