SIDE TALKS WITH THE PHILISTINES: BEING SOUL EASEMENT AND WISDOM
INCIDENTALLY.
Dr. Robertson Nicoll, of London, England, a good Scot, is the present day
discoverer of Scotch genius, and Ian Maclaren is largely the creation of
his splendid audacity of prophecy and executive ability.
Dr. Nicoll is a noticeable and interesting personality in contemporary
literature. He fully deserves his wide celebrity, for he has put into
the chronicling of monotonous literary news and criticism an element of
newsyness and vim that is characteristic of the best American journalism.
He has made mere literary news as exciting and mysterious as politics or
horseracing. We now bet on the sales of new poets as well as on the Derby
favorites. This adds a great deal to the picturesqueness and interest of
“The Literary Show,” and Dr. Nicoll deserves the credit due to a bold
innovator. He marks an epoch in literary journalism, and his “Scotch era”
will be remembered in history. But fashions change and Ian Maclaren, and
some of Dr. Nicoll’s other inventions and discoveries, will pass into
well deserved oblivion, in a very little while.
They are significant simply as striking examples of the creative genius
of criticism. As “famous authors” they are purely factitious. In a word,
they must be considered at par amply as the shadows and phantoms of Dr.
Nicoll’s picturesque power of criticism and great creative gifts.
The literature of the Kailyard is having its day, but happily it will not
last forever. It will eventually go the way of negro dialect fiction,
when its unique adaptability as a conveyance for the perfectly obvious
and the perfectly absurd come to be more generally recognized than is
possible in this hour of perfervid enthusiasm.
All the Scots who want to be in the Scotch Sweepstakes and win, had
better mount their nags in this hour of favor and get away. A few
discerning and canny critics are still alive, and the suspicion is
gaining ground among them from a perusal of Ian Maclaren’s pages, that
the great literary prophet of Paternoster-Row, while a delightful
chroniqueur and a generous soul, is not altogether an infallible judge
of the permanent and essential elements of robust and distinctive
literature.
* * * * *
The one man of the Nineteenth Century who will be remembered when
all others are forgotten, and whose name will go clattering down the
Corridors of Time like a tin kettle to a dog’s tail, is Professor J.
Dorman Steele. This man covers all Science and all Philosophy. He has
compiled text books on seventeen subjects and over three million volumes
of his works have been sold. Darwin, Humboldt, Spencer, Huxley—all fade
into misty nothingness when we think of Steele, and bless my soul! what a
suggestive name that is anyway!!
* * * * *
The _Forum_ for March had an article concerning your Uncle Kruger and
his folks. It was headed “Manners and Customs of the Boers.” But the
compositor got it “Manners and Customs of the Boors,” just as if every
one did not know only too well what they were already. I understand that
nearly half of the edition was run before the mistake was discovered.
* * * * *
“If I owned Hell and Texas, I’d rent Texas and live in Hell,” once
said Phil Sheridan. But now comes _The Fad_, one of the _Chip-Munk_
brood, printed on green paper at San Antonio, and claims that Texas has
more real, sure-enough Culture than all of New England. This is only
truism—Rodents!
* * * * *
Speaking of a certain very New Woman, Quilp says, “God made her, let her
pass for a man.”
* * * * *
On sighting the Crookes tube in the direction of East Aurora we find
there are some very choice things to appear in THE PHILISTINE within the
next few months.—_Exchange._
* * * * *
So far no charge has been made that the Philistines were mixing up in
the theatrical business; but on every hand the air is full of complaints
because the stage has fallen into the hands of the Children of Israel.
Even Mr. Howells has turned _Harper’s Weekly_ into a Periodical of
Protest, and declares that the greed for dollars has dropped histrionics
to a point where the drama is not only artistically decadent but
positively demoralizing.
But a friend of mine takes issue with Silas Lapham and declares that
there is a sure reaction just now in favor of plays with a strong ethical
purpose. To prove his point he cites a certain curtain raiser called _The
Flea Hunt_.
The scene opens, in this choice little fantasy, on the _ennui_ of a
pretty young woman, whose husband, a sea captain, is far across the
water. The afternoons pass slowly for her; she cannot read and tosses
on her boudoir lounge distressfully. To add to her uneasiness a young
man across the way has had the impudence to send her flowers and a
note, with a rendezvous for 3 o’clock. Indignation. Pride of conscious
strength. Admiration. Curiosity. Hesitation. Remorse. Prayers to her
husband’s portrait. Sighs. Wriggles. Pillowtossing. Thoughtfulness.
The clock strikes 2. _Zut!_ She starts up guiltily, tiptoes across the
room, and turns her husband’s picture to the wall. Now she is in a
tempest of preparation with her street toilette. The time is growing
short. She has her gloves, her hat, her cloak, her muff, her veil, her
parasol, and stands at the open door to give a last apologetic look.
Ouch! What is that! Can it be! Ouch! again. Certainly a flea is biting
her neck—she reaches for it! Then the trouble begins. In the search for
the nimble flea nearly everything the lady has on is cast aside. At last
she finds it. But by this time she has revealed a very roly-poly tenement
of clay with a center of gravity like a sofa pillow. Lingerie is strewn
over chairs, tables, sofa and floor. She is clad only in very scanty, but
dainty dimity. The clock is striking 3. Too late! she looks at the flea,
first revengefully, then thoughtfully, then gratefully. Hesitatingly she
slips across the room and turns her husband’s portrait to the light.
Saved—providentially saved, saved by a flea! Curtain.
* * * * *
In 1859 there lived three miles north-east of Skowhegan an Old Farmer,
and he subscribed for the New York _Tribune_. The reason he subscribed
was because the Editor, one Horace Greely, wrote Hot Stuff. Now the
Old Farmer was a great admirer of Mr. Greely and of the Hot Stuff and
he induced several of his neighbors to subscribe for the _Tribune_ on
account of the Hot Stuff and the greatness of Mr. Greely. Now it chanced
that Mr. Greely wrote on many themes and on a certain day he produced
Hot Stuff on a certain subject about which no man should write unless he
has had a Call. When the Old Farmer read that particular editorial he
was very wroth and he wrote a very angry personal letter to Mr. Greely,
cancelling his subscription; and he also induced his neighbors to cancel
theirs.
About a year after this the Old Farmer went to Skowhegan with a load of
slipperyellum, and walking into a grocery he found the Grocer reading the
New York _Tribune_. The Old Farmer started, stared, and exclaimed, “What
er—eh—what er that paper you be readin’?”
“The New York _Tribune_,” was the answer.
“My! Judas Priest—that can’t be—me and three other fellows ordered it
stopped a year ago!”
* * * * *
I hear that an article by Mr. Cudahy is soon to appear in _The Ladies
Home Journal_. The subject is not yet announced but it probably will be
“The Pigs that Have Helped Me.”
* * * * *
Latest advices from the Librarian of Congress confirm the report that Mr.
Brander Matthews’ whiskers are fully covered by copyright.
* * * * *
Who says that woman has more feeling than man? Her feelings are more
shallow, and this being so more ripple on the surface is seen, that’s
all. So says Nax Moredough.
* * * * *
No doubt but that Mr. Howells is a great man, but he would be a greater
if he never used in print those tattered and attenuated expressions, “so
to speak” and “as it were.” These ancient terms belong with the hoary
oratorical, “If I may be allowed the expression.” Further than this, I
have gibes and jeers in store for any man who says “from time immemorial.”
* * * * *
In the _Forum_ for April Mr. Brander Matthews has a preachment entitled,
_On Pleasing the Taste of the Public_. No man has made more anxious
efforts to do it than Mr. Matthews.
* * * * *
I certainly have nothing against Mr. MacArthur nor against Mr. Dodd,
who hires him. They are both nice men, and as an advertising sheet the
_Bookman_ is certainly skilfully conducted. But they shall not mislead
the dear public if I can help it. On page 36 of the March issue the
_Bookman_ makes bold to tell us that Robert Browning and Elizabeth
Barrett were married “in September of 1866.” And then in the next column
“on March 9th, 1869, was born their son.” If James Russell Lowell were
alive today I can imagine him saying, “I may be a bookman, but by the
eternal I’m not the kind issued by Dodd, Mead & Company.”
* * * * *
Philosopher and prophet, Edward S. Martin, avers that when the
_Chip-Munk_ doubled its size it reduced its value one-half.
* * * * *
Way & Williams, Chicago, the publishers of Mrs. Wynne’s book, _The Little
Room and Other Stories_, say that THE PHILISTINE’S mention of the volume
sold seven thousand copies. Advertising rates made known on application.
* * * * *
“Should we have an Eleventh Commandment?” asked a youth of the Greatest
Living Actress. “Most assuredly, no—we have ten too many now!” answered
the divine Sara.
* * * * *
The fact that we have no “serving class” in America, and that some of
us (or you) have wealth and insist on being waited upon, is a stream of
tendency that makes for misery. The wives of very many of our rich men
make a business of keeping up an establishment. They are not producers
in any sense, and their one excuse for living is put out of court when we
consider that “society” to them means neither affinity nor friendship.
Their woes are in exact proportion to the number of servants that play
tennis with their peace of mind. Or, more strictly speaking, the size
of the house, showing the bigness of their cares, their happiness is in
inverse ratio to the square of the domicile.
* * * * *
Writers who can gain an audience in a foreign and distant country reap
some of the advantages of the cool and impartial interest of posterity.
The English authors enjoy this advantage, and something more with the
contemporary American reading public; but the English critics and public
do not reciprocate our hospitality and impartiality in any degree, though
there is a reported demand in England for American text books on electric
lighting and improved methods of agriculture.
However, the future of the English speaking race is with us on this
continent, and in Australia and in Africa, and so certain characteristics
of the English mind and English literature will be remolded and touched
and broadened by other racial influences. They have already been so
modified and changed here since Emerson’s day. So, eventually, instead
of Americans looking obsequiously over to Paternoster Row and Fleet
street in all intellectual concerns, England will shrink into a small
and insignificant provincial community, cut off from the rest of the race
and its great centres of thought. Modern civilization will upset all the
traditions of the old intellectual centres by making new ones. Thus our
posterity will have a revenge on British condescension we can only enjoy
in anticipatory imaginings. I wish I could live as long as Methusaleh
to be alive then. England and English’ literature will perhaps finally
hold the importance of the Provencal literature in France—it will be an
archaic survival in the midst of the great throbbing heart of a great
modern people. Our descendants will roar over our adulation of English
female theological novelists.
* * * * *
The _Chip-Munk_ “Notes” are all long past due; and most depressing to
contemplate. It was after trying to make sense of them that Ella Wheeler
Wilcox wrote:
I am tired, and that old sorrow
Sweeps down the bed of my soul,
As a turbulent river might suddenly break
Away from a dam’s control.
It beareth a wreck on its bosom,
A wreck with a snow-white sail,
And the hand on my heartstrings thrums away,
But they only respond with a wail.
* * * * *
Here is a true story that I have pinched for the benefit of the Hivites,
the Moabites, the Hittites and the Parasites: A nice young man in
Scranton called on a nice young lady and spent the evening. When he
arrived there was not a cloud in the sky, so he carried no umbrella and
wore neither goloshes nor mackintosh. At ten o’clock when he arose to go,
it was raining cats and dogs; the gutters o’erflowed and if it had been
in Johnstown, it could properly have been called a Johnstown flood.
“My, my, my!” said the nice young lady, “if you go out in all this storm
you will catch your death a’ cold!”
“I’m afraid I might!” was the trembling answer.
“Well, I’ll tell you what—stay all night; you can have Tom’s room, since
he’s at college. Yes, occupy Tom’s room—excuse me a minute and I’ll just
run up and see if it’s in order.”
The young lady flew gracefully up the stairs to see that Tom’s room was
in order. In five minutes she came down to announce that Tom’s room
was in order, but no Charles was in sight. Like old Clangingharp, he
had passed out—no one knew where or how. But in a very few moments he
appeared, very dripping and out of breath from running, a bundle in a
newspaper under his arm.
“Why, Charles, where have you been?” was his greeting.
“Been home after my night shirt,” was the reply.
One dollar will secure this magazine for one year and twelve Little
Journey booklets, which will be sent in a complete package, charges
prepaid. Each of the Little Journey books treats of recent visits
made by Mr. Elbert Hubbard to the homes and haunts of various eminent
persons. They are delightfully unconventional sketches of places forever
associated with the lives and works of some of the greatest names in
English art and literature. The subjects are:
1. George Eliot.
2. Thomas Carlyle.
3. John Ruskin.
4. W. E. Gladstone.
5. J. M. W. Turner.
6. Jonathan Swift.
7. Victor Hugo.
8. Wm. Wordsworth.
9. W. M. Thackeray.
10. Charles Dickens.
11. Oliver Goldsmith.
12. Shakspeare.
This complete set of twelve dainty booklets and THE PHILISTINE for one
year for One Dollar is the most attractive offer that could be made to a
Bookman for the price. The LITTLE JOURNEYS form an introduction to the
master minds of our century which will lead many younger readers to make
wider excursions into the best literature. For the busy man or woman here
is a small library complete in itself. These are the unexacting books
that solace us for the harrassments of active life.
Address THE PHILISTINE,
East Aurora, N. Y.