SIDE TALKS WITH THE PHILISTINES: BEING SUNDRY BITS OF WISDOM WHICH HAVE
BEEN HERETOFORE SECRETED, AND ARE NOW SET FORTH IN PRINT.
I suppose no one was much surprised that John Oliver Hobbes wanted a
legal release from the man who called himself her husband, but when the
mother of Fauntleroy and the author of the _Quick or the Dead_ followed
in the category of misfits I doubt not Mona Caird lifted up her voice in
the wilderness and there was joy in the camp of the Claflin-Woodhulls.
But the marrying and giving in marriage go right along, for this isn’t
heaven; and the multitude that don’t complain put the literary folks
who do to a kind of proof not easy to face. Since nature made men and
women to marry, the wire-drawn literary folks who can’t stay married
have the floor for an explanation. There are bitter critics who cry “I
told you so,” and maybe they did—when it is announced that Amelie Rives
can no longer endure her Chanler. Perhaps he is only common tallow after
all—half a dozen to the pound. The maids and manlings who read _According
to St. John_ and believed Miss Rives’s emphasized statement that “Love
is the fulfilling of the law” must wonder if she meant the law she has
just invoked to give her liberty. It is a choice of the quick or the dead
now—the dead love or the quick release—and there is something more than
tragic in the appeal through a prosaic court to “deliver me from the body
of this death.” No, there is no discredit to any one in the pleadings of
the impulsive young Southerner for her liberty. Nobody has broken any
law. They can’t live together—that’s all, and all the amatory fury of
the novel that gave her fame is a dead waste. It was honest when it was
written, no doubt, but the pitch was too high. The happy (more or less)
millions who don’t run to the public with a transcript of their strongest
emotions or to a court for release from their vows must have learned a
secret unknown to the Hobbeses and the Riveses and the Bashkirtseffs.
They have found the happy middle line between the neurotic extreme that
holds the master emotion to be a matter of physiology or of pathology—the
Zolas and the Helgardeners respectively.
* * * * *
I read with unfeigned regret that the repairs which lately have been
going forward in the New York postoffice will have to be abandoned
until more funds accumulate in the United States Treasury. This is bad.
It will leave the new elevator suspended between Heaven and earth in
an unfinished condition for the Lord only knows how long. Patrons of
the Federal building on Manhattan Island will therefore be obliged to
patronize the two antedeluvian other on the Park Row side. And this is
always attended with the keenest disappointments. For example: You go to
the Broadway “lift” and find it placarded, “Not running; try the other.”
You journey around to Park Row, only to be confronted with this, “Out of
order; try Broadway.” Then you mount the stairs, which you ought to have
done in the first place, for the reason that the man who takes passage
in one of the New York postoffice elevators can have no possible idea
when he will see his family again. It is said that the regular patrons
of these elevators take their luncheons with them; but this imputes to
them a sprightliness of motion which they do not possess. The gentleman
who made the ascent to the moon by way of the horns of the Darby ram went
up in January and didn’t come down till June. Persons have been known
to enter these national “lifts” on the up trip in December and not get
back till the Fourth of July. The several elevators in the East Aurora
postoffice are of the rapid transit variety, and never stop, except when
clogged with the PHILISTINE’S mail.
* * * * *
A woman who knows my weakness for potato salad on Sunday evenings asked
me to lunch with her a few days ago. She has some boys—I don’t remember
how many, and it doesn’t really matter—who make curious and totally
irrelevant remarks, one to the other. Then they let drive biscuits
through the air and accompany the sailing food with whoops, great and
terrible. They are good boys—as children go—but wanting to know more
about such matters, I bought Mr. Pater’s _Child in the House_ to present
it to my cousin Anthony, who has a very new boy—his first—just to let him
see what he has ahead of him. And then it wasn’t about that kind of a boy
at all. I wonder why nobody except Mr. Aldrich has written a story of a
really truly boy.
* * * * *
It is comforting to know that when a man loses his job being president
he can do such things as this for the man who made Philadelphia and the
_Home Journal_ and all that in them is:
“In a series of popular articles ex-President Benjamin Harrison
will aim to explain clearly just what this Government means
and how it is conducted. He will explain the Constitution, its
origin and meaning; outline the different legislative bodies;
our foreign relations; the power of the President; how the
House and Senate legislate, and touch upon and explain the
great National questions.”
Mr. Harrison will also devote several numbers to a detailed description
of the scrap between Colonel William Patterson and the Unknown,
endeavoring to explain that Colonel Patterson inflicted his own wounds in
order to gain notoriety—just like Dr. Parkhurst.
* * * * *
From a magazine with four million subscribers I clip this choice bit from
The Woman’s Corner. The advice is given by Mrs. Rorer:
“Cleaning a chicken is beautiful work. It is a deal easier than
boiling potatoes and not half so messy as painting and modeling.
“For brain-workers the red meats are most sustaining. Bread and
potatoes should be avoided as much as possible. Brain-workers
should avoid warmed-over meats—the dainty entrees of which
people are so fond are simply hash, and no matter how good the
food tastes it is not wholesome.”
Ho! ye poets, no wonder your verse is rank; you probably live on “simply
hash;” and “warmed-over” meats only give you warmed-over ideas. Long have
I told you to eschew sack and low company. Now do as Mrs. Rorer says and
avoid bread and potatoes, and get comfort out of the thought that Mrs.
Rorer does not forbid you looking upon the meat when it is red!
* * * * *
The price is five cents, but is too much. The only thing about the
periodical that is pretty is the picture on the cover, which represents a
nice young lady in the act of crowning a black tom-cat with a wreath of
burdock. Then why a black cat? Why not a maltese, or a tortoise shell or
a plain grey blanket? But Tom is an inky black, and looks as if he could
not keep proper hours even if he tried. However, that marvellous cover is
a bit of symbolism. I am told that the young lady represents one of the
Mewses and the cheeky cat is Max Pemberton, who is perfectly willing to
be crowned.
* * * * *
I wish to notify the public that I have known Frank A. Munsey for
twenty-nine years, come Michaelmas, and will vouch that any picture he
prints is pretty.
* * * * *
Possibly it is as well to confess that the Universalists got listed with
the Evangelical denominations in the summary of the last census on a
fluke. May they do St. Peter with equal ease! Mr. Wright didn’t know any
better, but having put them there and electrotyped the plates, he could
not change the record without considerable expense. He therefore turned
to and proved that after all Universalists were Evangelistic and had been
since the days of Constantine, and now he offers to caper in an argument
on the question against all comers for a thousand dollars. Darwin says we
feel a thing is true first and prove it afterward; but Mr. Wright prints
it first, accidentally discovers it, then knowing he has to prove it,
claims it as truth and dares any one to tread on the tail of his coat.
* * * * *
I notice that a famous globe-trotter is scheduled for a series of
articles for a “literary” syndicate of some pretensions. Among her
announced themes is Etiquette, both general and particular, and lest
there be some misapprehensions I hasten to say that this is not Mr.
Bok’s social kindergarten and has no connection with the _Missus’ Home
Journal_, A department of this subject is thus set forth in the circular:
+-----------------------------------------+
| EXTRAORDINARY ETIQUETTE. |
| |
| HOW TO MEET SOCIAL EMERGENCIES THAT ARE |
| THE OUTGROWTH OF MODERN LIFE: |
| |
| DIVORCE ETIQUETTE. |
| THE FASHIONABLE FUNERAL. |
| ENDORSING SOCIAL ASPIRANTS. |
| IN CASES OF FINANCIAL FAILURE. |
+-----------------------------------------+
It is so nice to be informed what to do when you are divorced and how to
treat your friends, if you have any, “in cases of financial failure.”
So important, too, seeing that these social emergencies are “the
outgrowth of modern life,” and of course it’s legitimate outgrowth—for no
illegitimate outgrowth would for a moment engage the virtuous attention
of the rival of Nellie Bly. Other chapters tell women how to behave
“when dispensing millions,” a valuable thing for every one to know, and
also the how and whereas of “the womanly woman” in public life—such
occupations being specified as “street cleaning, road making and
regulating schools and saloons.” Abundant illustrations are promised, and
I have no doubt the newest thing in milk shakes and the jerking of beer
will come within their scope. The new woman grows newer every day.
* * * * *
And is Judge Grant right when he says a man cannot be healthy, virtuous
or wise unless his income is ten thousand a year?
* * * * *
In _Harper’s_ for October Mr. Brander Matthews explains that
story-tellers “are of three kinds.” Startling, thrice startling, is this
frightful truth which the Second-Prize-Taker sets forth! Three kinds?
Gadzooks, and here the world has staggered along for six thousand years
believing there were only two—the good and bad.
And then the breezy Brander says: “Mr. Du Maurier has the gift of story
telling. No doubt Mr. Du Maurier has also other qualities, for instance
the gift of pleasant humor and broad sympathy.” Will the Philistines
please note that Professor Brander Matthews of Columbia College considers
that a man may be a successful novelist and still not have “pleasant
humor” and “broad sympathy;” or should we be charitable and take it that
he is writing in self defense?
But a bright woman at my elbow says she knows what Brander Matthews wrote
that article for—he wrote it for _Fifty Dollars_.
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_.
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
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_.
* * * * *
Mr. Cudahy recommends Bovox for novel readers.
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
And after all, has Rockefeller got rid of Bemis?
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
Sixty-nine applications for stock have reached the Combined Press from
Cluett, Coon & Company’s employees alone.
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
“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.
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
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_.
* * * * *
_McClure’s_ pillory will present Abraham Lincoln next. Mr. Lincoln, being
dead, can not say a word.
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
Here endeth the First Volume.
* * * * *
[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.