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ACU CAT A Guide to Feline Acupressure 2nd Edition
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Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Philistine
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
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eBook.

Title: The Philistine

a periodical of protest (Vol. III, No. 3, August 1896)

Author: Various

Editor: Elbert Hubbard

Release date: January 11, 2024 [eBook #72688]

Language: English

Original publication: East Aurora: The Society of the Philistines,

1895

Credits: hekula03 and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team

at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced
from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital
Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PHILISTINE

***
 The Philistine
A Periodical of Protest.
Let me take you a buttonhole lower.—Love’s Labour’s Lost.

Printed Every Little While for The Society

of The Philistines and Published by Them
Monthly. Subscription, One Dollar Yearly

Single Copies, 10 Cents. August, 1896.

 THE PHILISTINE.

CONTENTS FOR AUGUST.

Miserere, Hiram Dryer McCaskey.

An Hour with Maecenas, G. W. Stevens.
Sunrise Over the City, William James Baker.
The Captives, Ouida.
If Love Were All, Edith Neil.
The Man on a Bicycle, Harvey Lewis Wickham.
The Steward, C. P. N.
Let There Be Gall Enough in Thy Ink, Adeline Knapp.
The Worshippers, Charles P. Nettleton.
Side Talks with the Philistines.
Conducted by the East Aurora School of Philosophy.

Have you seen the Roycroft Quarterly? The “Stephen Crane”

number is attracting much attention and we believe it will interest
you. 25 cents a copy.

Entered at the Postoffice at East Aurora, New York, for

transmission as mail matter of the second class.
COPYRIGHT, 1896, by B. C. Hubbard.

NOTICE TO
Collectors of Artistic Posters.

On receipt of 10 cents we will send to any address, a copy of

our largely illustrated catalogue of 500 posters exhibited by “The
Echo” and “The Century.”
“The Echo” is the pioneer in fostering the poster in America. It
began its department of Poster-Lore in August, 1895, and has
printed it fortnightly, with many illustrations, ever since.
Each issue of “The Echo” bears a poster design, in two or
more colors, on its cover. During the past year seven of these
covers were by Will H. Bradley.
“The Echo” is $2.00 a year, 10 cents a number. New York, 130
Fulton Street.

LOOK OUT for the second and popular edition of “Cape of

Storms,” price 25 cents. One sent free with every year’s
subscription to “The Echo.”

THE LOTUS.
A Miniature Magazine of Art and Literature Uniquely Printed and
Illustrated.
 A graceful flower.—Rochester Herald.
It is a wonder.—Chicago Times-Herald.
The handsomest of all the bibelots.—The Echo.
Alone in its scope and piquancy.—Boston Ideas.
Artistic in style and literary in character.—Brooklyn Citizen.
The prettiest of the miniature magazines.—Syracuse Herald.
Each bi-weekly visit brings a charming surprise.—Everybody.
The Lotus seeks to be novel, unconventional and entertaining
without sacrificing purity and wholesomeness. It seeks to be a
medium for the younger writers.
The Lotus is published every two weeks and is supplied to
subscribers for One Dollar a year; foreign subscription, $1.25.
Sample copy five cents. On sale at all news stands.
THE LOTUS, Kansas City, Mo.

The Roycroft Quarterly:

Being a Goodly collection of Literary Curiosities obtained from

Sources not easily accessible to the average Book-Lover. Offered
to the Discerning every three months for 25c. per number or one
dollar per year.
Contents for May:
I. Glints of Wit and Wisdom: Being replies from sundry Great Men
who missed a Good Thing.
II. Some Historical Documents by W. Irving Way, Phillip Hale and
Livy S. Richard.
III. As to Stephen Crane. E. H. A preachment by an admiring
friend.
IV. Seven poems by Stephen Crane.

1—The Chatter of a Death Demon.

2—A Lantern Song.
3—A Slant of Sun on Dull Brown Walls.
4—I have heard the Sunset Song of the Birches.
5—What Says the Sea?
6—To the Maiden the Sea was Blue Meadow.
7—Fast Rode the Knight.

V. A Great Mistake. Stephen Crane. Recording the venial sin of a

mortal under sore temptation.
VI. A Prologue. Stephen Crane.
 THE PHILISTINE.

no. 3. August, 1896. vol. 3.

 MISERERE.
Joy and sorrow, mirth and tears,
Darkness, sunshine, kind words, jeers,
The flitting moments, halting years—
Strange contrasts these!

Today the youth, tomorrow age;

We read, and then we turn the page;
The fool we honour, not the sage—
Sad travesties!

The dancers gay, the open grave—

From foot-lights’ flare to solemn wave
The sale of souls Christ came to save—
Life’s tragedies!

—Hiram Dryer McCaskey.

 AN HOUR WITH MAECENAS.
One, two, three—five men that call themselves my friends, all
wishful to borrow money! Statilius, you will please to make a note of
these five gentlemen, and give orders that on no account are they to
pass my vestibule again. The settlement of society under our Prince
has done much to stamp out the dangerous classes, but we have
not yet got rid of the borrowers. I think it a little hard that after I
have neglected my estate for half my life to expel roguery by the
front door that it should creep in at the back.
Did you inquire, Statilius, why my cook served white sauce with
quails last night? Very well; I have made it a rule to deal with my
people in person: send for him. It is not possible to maintain a
household well regulated, unless the servants come personally into
touch with the master.
Plato, you served me last night a dish which, had any of my
friends been present, would have shamed me forever. As it was, my
dinner was ruined. It is incompetence such as yours whose ill effects
Rome has struggled these eight lustrums to efface. You will be sold
in the market tomorrow. Go.
You see now, Statilius, the wisdom of my rule to permit no
freedman in my household: all my servants are my own property.
You will buy me the best cook in Rome in three hours. What, sir?
You are a free man, and I employed you only to work at my
pedigree and my library? True: I am satisfied with you. But
understand that if I bid you litter my horses you will do it, or I sell
you up tomorrow. Now, sir, the best cook in Rome is Iulus Antonius’s
Dama: buy him. Antonius is a rich man? Very true, but I think we
need not be afraid of that. We can tempt him, I imagine, Statilius. At
any price whatever: do you understand? And not a penny more than
he will sell at: understand that also. If he is stubborn, hint at my
influence with the Prince; that will be sufficient. Go.
Iulus knows that he is whispered against, and he looks to me to
prop him up. I shall not do so. Again and again I have urged on
Octavian the necessity of putting these malcontents out of the way.
His father’s son cannot but be a danger to a settled State, however
soundly disposed himself. It appears to me that Octavian is losing his
aptitude for politics, and Agrippa exercises the worst possible
influence upon him. This stupid, expensive system of banishment: it
should never have had my voice had I remained in politics.
Thucydides, I have told you once already I am not to be disturbed
in meditation. The poet Horace is in attendance? Horatius, I think
you mean; avoid these vulgarisms, Thucydides. Bid Horatius wait.
Indeed, I doubt not whether Octavian had at any time any real
grasp of the principles of government. I was deceived by the facility
with which he lent himself to my views. He is a man incapable of
understanding any system between militarism and license. Of the
finer arts of statecraft I am afraid he knows very little. How often
have I explained to that man how the law of treason might be
developed into an infallible engine of sound government! Yes: I was
wise to leave politics, though Octavian is ungrateful to his Mentor.
Well, I will see Horatius. He, at least, with all his faults, is a faithful
soul. A man I have made.
Good-day, Horatius. I hope you are well and keeping sober. Have
you brought the work I commissioned? Very well; let me see it.
There has been a very great improvement in your manner of writing,
Horatius, since I took you up: the large P’s are very much bolder
than they were. But what is this? This is not the Epistle Dedicatory I
ordered. That comes second? Ah! yes, here it is; you should have
given it to me first.

Maecenas, born of grandsire kings—

Quite right: “grandsire kings” is very good. It is not, of course,

literally correct, but one may, in poetry, fairly write the particular
term “grandsire” for the general “ancestor”—

O my defense and proud delight!

“Proud delight.” Now I think I shall correct that to “dear delight.” I

think the alliteration is well worth securing, and you may allow
yourself a familiarity in literature, Horatius, where all men are equal,
which, as I have no doubt you felt in writing, would be highly
unbecoming in society. “Proud delight” does you credit as a man, my
good Horatius; as a poet I permit—nay, I invite you to write “dear.”

To hug the post with wheels afire

The piece gets a little tame in the middle, Horatius, ... ah! what is
this?

But deign me so to canonize,

O’er highest heaven my fame will rise.

Yes, very happy. A very good ode, Horatius. You have distinctly
added to your reputation. I am very glad to note that you disavow
that most dangerous tendency, which I am sorry to see is growing
among some of my poets, to defer to the popular judgment. Even
poor Virgil is tainted by it in this last epic, as he calls it, published in
one of those measly magazinelets. I am afraid Virgil is coming to
think more of the so-called glories of Rome than of his truest friends.
Such defection on your part, I warn you candidly, I should feel very
deeply. Now what is this other? I hope none of that Epicurean stuff
which is such a handicap, if I may so phrase it, upon your best
powers for good....

Ah, Postumus, how fleet, how fleet,

The years slip by no prayers may stay
Since beldame Age knows not delay,
Since Death pursues with ruthless feet—
I think you might have found a fitter name than Postumus; but it is
very passable. I suppose you have verified all these mythological
allusions in the Greek; it is not your industry I need ever distrust.

Your land, your house, your yielding wife

Renounce; and of these trees you trim;
None follows, save the cypress grim,
The lordling of the little life.

Yes, the tone of the work is quite good.... And then—really Horatius,
you are too annoying—then you must spoil all again in the last
stanza. I have warned you a thousand times against that, Horatius.
Listen, sir, to what you say here—

He breaks your seals, the worthier heir,

He sweeps your bins, the worthier lord,
Dashing imperial winds abroad,
While Pontiffs envy and despair.

Now, understand once and for all, Horatius, that I will not have such
pernicious and disloyal trash as this put out to pollute the State. You
say you meant nothing impious? Well, then I will ask you, Horatius,
who is Chief Pontiff? The prince; so I had thought. And then you say
you had no intention of disloyalty? In that case I will merely answer
that you have expressed yourself very badly. You will agree, I
suppose—even you who were out with Brutus, when I understand
you threw away your shield—that what we must all work for in
Rome, is a settled social order? And I suppose that you are not
incapable of perceiving that this is impossible without the
maintenance of religion? And perhaps you may have heard that His
Highness is supreme head of our religion? And then, do you tell me,
sir, that you did not see that this last stanza—this Pontiff’s ambition,
or whatever it is—is pernicious in the highest degree? Now this is
what I shall do. I shall make you, Horatius, write an ode of fourteen
stanzas in praise of His Highness as Chief Pontiff. Take your tablets
and write down the heads of the poem, as I dictate them.
 First: The deplorable desuetude.
I beg your pardon: I think I was asking you to take down the
heads of the ode. What! I? You say that I gave you the subjects of
this one? Very possibly, though I do not remember: with the ode as
a whole I am very well satisfied. You say I gave the hint of the
Pontiff? Very true; I recollect it quite well, but it was not to be used,
or wasted, in the spirit in which you have used it here. Perhaps,
however, you meant it to refer to the Pontiffs of the old regime,
whose unworthy excesses I may have doubtless mentioned to you at
some time? I could wish, Horatius, that your execution were on a
level with your intention: you lay yourself open to a great deal of
misconstruction. I think we must substitute “late” for “while.”
What is that you are sputtering about Minucius? I told you to
glance at Minucius? Well, in one respect you are quite right. I do not
remember that I ever spoke of him to you, but the extravagance of
Minucius not only makes him a man impossible to be seen abroad
with, but constitutes a great scandal on the pontificate. And I tell
you, sir, I tell you that that man’s insolence to his betters is more
than any well-ordered State could endure. He has got the Prince’s
ear, and presumes upon it. Yes, you may jab at Minucius whenever
you can, and as hard as you can. I am very glad I suggested that,
and you have taken up the hint very cleverly. Sit down, my good
Horatius; you must be tired of standing, and we men of letters are
all equal, whatever our social position. I will read you a chapter of
my own history that I threw off last night. You will remember, of
course, what happened while I was Urban Prefect.
G. W. Stevens.
 SUNRISE OVER THE CITY.
With restless searching are the nightwinds spent,
A solitary bird pipes lovenotes lorn,
Portent of life new wakening with the morn;
Long lines of flaring lamps still burn their stent,
With gloom upon the city’s bosom blent;
But ’bove the dark threat of a cloud low drawn,
White as a wraith, pale glows God’s holy dawn,
The morning star her brightest ornament.
As gathering splendor floods the world with light,
The whilom watcher sleeps, forgetting grief;
And though ’neath fuming smoke, ’mid roll of wheels,
The sordid city wakes her giant might
Lustful of gain, her deepest heart yet feels
The benediction of that vision brief.

William James Baker.

 THE CAPTIVES.
Amongst them there was one colossal form, on which the sun
poured with its full radiance.
This was the form of a man grinding at a mill-stone; the majestic,
symmetrical, supple form of a man who was also a god.
In his naked limbs there was a supreme power; in his glance there
was a divine command; his head was lifted as though no yoke could
ever lie on that proud neck; his foot seemed to spurn the earth as
though no mortal tie had ever bound him to the sod that human
steps bestrode: yet at the corn-mill he laboured, grinding wheat like
the patient blinded oxen that toiled beside him.
It was the great Apollo in Pherae.
The hand which awoke the music of the spheres had been blood
stained with murder; the beauty which had the light and lustre of
the sun had been darkened with passion and with crime; the will
which no other on earth or in heaven could withstand had been bent
under the chastisement of Zeus.
He whose glances had made the black and barren slopes of Delos
to laugh with fruitfulness and gladness—he whose prophetic sight
beheld all things past, present, and to come, the fate of all unborn
races, the doom of all unspent ages—he, the Far-Striking King,
laboured here beneath the curse of crime, greatest of all the gods,
and yet a slave.
In all the hills and vales of Greece his Io paean sounded still.
Upon his holy mountains there still arose the smoke of fires of
sacrifice.
With dance and song the Delian maidens still hailed the divinity of
Leto’s son.
 The waves of the pure Ionian air still rang forever with the name
of Delphinios.
At Pytho and at Clarus, in Lycia and in Phodis, his oracles still
breathed forth upon their fiat terror or hope into the lives of men;
and still in all the virgin forests of the world the wild beasts honored
him wheresoever they wandered; and the lion and the bear came at
his bidding from the deserts to bend their necks and their wills of
fire meekly to bear his yoke in Thessaly.
Yet he labored here at the corn-mill of Admetus; and watching him
at his bondage stood the slender, slight, wing-footed Hermes, with a
slow, mocking smile upon his knavish lips, and a jeering scorn in his
keen eyes, even as though he cried:
“O brother, who would be greater than I! For what hast thou
bartered to me the golden rod of thy wealth and thy dominion over
the flocks and the herds? For seven chords strung on a shell—for a
melody not even thine own! For a lyre outshone by my syrinx hast
thou sold all thine empire to me. Will human ears give heed to thy
song now thy sceptre has passed to my hands? Immortal music only
is left thee, and the vision foreseeing the future. O god! O hero! O
fool! what shall these profit thee now?”
Thus to the artist by whom they had been begotten the dim white
shapes of the deities sometimes speak. Thus he sees them, thus he
hears, whilst the pale and watery sunlight lights up the form of the
toiler in Pherae. For even as it was with the divinity of Delos, so is it
likewise with the genius of a man, which, being born of a god, yet is
bound as a slave to the grind-stone. Since even as Hermes mocked
the Lord of the Unerring Bow, so is genius mocked of the world,
when it has bartered the herds, and the grain, and the rod that
metes wealth, for the seven chords that no ear, dully mortal, can
hear.
He can bend great thoughts to take the shapes that he choose, as
the chained god in Pherae bound the strong kings of the desert and
forest to carry his yoke; yet, like the god, he likewise stands fettered
to the mill to grind for bread.
Ouida.
 “IF LOVE WERE ALL.”
(PRISONER OF ZENDA.)

“If love were all!” Can love be less than all

Here in the world the God of Love hath made?
If love were all—and love were unafraid,
And knew not death’s corrupting funeral pall!

Oh Princess, with thy soul by heavenly call

In love’s divinest panoply arrayed,
Hath thy soul-sight thy love-sight so betrayed
That love from his supremest place should fall?

Yet wert thou right. Thy woman’s heart divined

The soul of love’s transcendent perfectness:
For like a star within a mist confined
And burning thro’ love’s soul is righteousness.

Thus love is all—tho’, as on Calvary,

Renunciation love’s fulfillment be!

Edith Neil.
 THE MAN ON A BICYCLE.
The man on a bicycle came panting up a hill at the beginning of a
large town.
“Hello! Knickerbockers,” cried the man on foot; “do you call that
the gait for a scorcher? Why, it aint more’n a pair uv bars.”
“That’s all right, little boy,” returned he of the wheel.
“Little boy, yourself! Didn’t you know it was five dollars fine for
ridin’ on the sidewalk?”
“Is it? All right? I’ll pay when I come back;” and the man on a
bicycle, encountering a level piece of road, put an end to further
conversation by a sudden spurt.
But the cyclometer was not to make a steady advance that
evening. A surface crossing lay ahead, blocked by a belated freight
train. The engineer knew his business and meddled continually with
the throttle. After going about two car-lengths in one direction, the
train would stop, remember something left behind, and back up.
That is the way to keep a crowd pacific. Give them plenty to hope
for and they forget to fight.
The wheelman rode in slow circles for a while, but finding the
slush and snow too deep for this exercise, was forced to a
humiliating dismount.
“Misder!” shouted a dirty urchin with a cold, “did yer know yer
’adn’d god no lighd? Fibe dollars fine an’ the cop’s in the deepo.”
“O, break away, break away!” snarled the wheelman.
“Young man,” lisped a willy boy, “I thought those things weah
called in, you know.”
“I wish some one would call that thing in.”
 This retort was pointed at the willy boy, and raised a laugh.
“How long are they going to keep us waiting here in the cold?”
muttered a querulous old gentleman. “It’s against the law, and the
company ought to be prosecuted.”
“The present company?” ventured a bashful young man, who was
dressed as if going somewhere.
“No, the present company is always excepted,” came from
obscurity.
The man with a bicycle snapped his bell uneasily. He was in a
hurry, of course; if you live much on a wheel, hurry becomes
chronic, engendered perhaps by the accustomed sense of rapid
motion; but, like many of his class, he had that fellow feeling for
petty law breakers, which comes by taking chances against city
ordinances.
The fellow at the valve was taking his chances too, with excellent
success. The patience of an American crowd approaches the
miraculous. Fifty engagements were being broken and ten times as
many toes were freezing, all because one railroader was too lazy to
draw a coupling-pin. Yet so long as the cars continued to move, no
one felt called upon to interfere.
“How many minutes may a crossing legally be blocked?”
demanded the querulous old gentleman, pulling out his watch.
“Ten, I believe,” answered the flagman, soothingly.
“Ten? Why, we’ve been here most fifteen now!”
“S’posin’ that train on the down track ud move up just as this un
was movin’ away, which ud you have ’rested then?”
The querulous old gentleman looked at the newsboy reprovingly,
but said nothing.
“Might try and have the president pulled,” suggested some one.
“What of? The Road? Wopey dick! He’s got a pull himself.”
 The newsboy smiled approvingly upon his mot, during a silence
that might be felt. It was a relief when the wind picked up the tones
of a brass band, playing in front of the theatre, and wafted them in
that direction.
“Sub ud oughd to pud runners on thad bike, see?” volunteered the
dirty urchin with a cold.
This aroused the newsboy to a stroke of business.
“New Yawk Evening Sun or Worl! One cent! Sunorworl?”
Here the bashful young man who was dressed as if going
somewhere, separated himself, and cried:
“Conductor, cut this train in two, or I will have you arrested.”
“There, you’re done!”
“Cut it short!”
“Go, take a walk!”
were expressions which greeted this sally.
The bashful young man took up the thread of his private life
where it had broken off, and wished he had separated himself
further.
A touch on the sleeve aroused the man with a bicycle. There stood
the man on foot.
“Hello! Knickerbockers. Horse tied, eh? Thought I’d ketch up to
you. Where is your century run? Didn’t I say that there was no
scorchin’ gait?”
The man with a bicycle said something that commenced with
“damn,” and then, seeing a pale frightened-looking girl near by,
wished he hadn’t. In the forgetfulness of his remorse he smirched
the newsboy with his machine.
“You most certainly want to get done hittin’ me with that there
last year’s safety,” began the latter, speaking loud enough to be
heard by all—but his philippic was cut short by the arrival of train
orders, and the clearing of the road. The man with a bicycle did a
handsome pedal mount and spun skillfully through the surging mob,
catching cries of “See that burning safety!” “Gimmie a ride, boss?”
and the like, from those left behind. But the man on a wheel
continued to ride.
The man on foot continued to walk.
And the band played on.
Harvey Lewis Wickham.
 THE STEWARD.
A BALLAD OF DEATH.

A Beggar wandered forth to beg.

(A soul may dwell in Heaven or Hell.)
At night he groaned aloud, when passed
One bearing stores the King wished last.

“Now give me food, for the dear Christ’s sake,”

(Or Heaven or Hell—O, choose ye well.)
Moaned he the weak, stretching his hand.
I trow men fear the final strand.

The Steward stopped, and smiled, and bowed.

(One ward may tell of Heaven or Hell.)
Softly he spoke: “A fitting thing,
To give you food and rob the King!”

The one moved on, the one moved not.

(A soul may dwell in Heaven or Hell.)
The Steward sold one half the bread.
Next morning the Beggar was dead.

The jester told the King the tale.

(A soul shall dwell in Heaven or Hell.)
A woman gazing at the King,
Shrieked—to his knees she did not cling.

The King’s sword pushed the Steward on,

(Who can foretell the depths of Hell?)
And the King smiled as on the band
Outside a door he laid his hand.
C. P. N.
 LET THERE BE GALL ENOUGH IN
THY INK.—Twelfth Night.
’Tis an odd old world, this of ours that is round like an orange, and
slightly flattened at the poles. It drives not well, and it hath but
moderate fondness for gall. Why, then, seek to drive it? Why harass
it with the hurtful attrition of gall-dippen pens? For in truth, its small
love for gall is yet greater than its use therefor. It needs not that we
should make it smart. ’Tis smart enough, and clever enough,
already, towering the hearts of the angels, and affording a spectacle
for the little fishes. Application of gall will not help it. Rightly used, a
little may ease thy own jaundice, but in thy ink it erodes the pen
that uses it.
Are we vexed at the follies of the round old world? Is our taste
offended by the unripe things written and painted and sung by those
who are not perfect as we are? We ought to consider the words of
the gentle stoic: “For it is natural that these things should be done
by such persons. It is a matter of necessity, and if a man will not
have it so he will not allow the fig-tree to have juice.”
To what end do we Philistines write? Is it not because we are
seeking after the truth? Is it not for the expression of that which to
us seems beautiful and helpful and desirable to be in the world?
And for what, let us suppose, do the armies of the aliens put pen
to paper? Is it not for the same end? And if they see not purely, do
we then hope to clarify their vision with gall? Rather we ought not to
thwart them in the pursuit of that which seems to them excellent
and worthy of effort. It is unphilosophic, and in contravention to the
scientific spirit, to deny others the right which we claim for
ourselves. We ought rather to do the thing which to us seems lovely,
and let that protest, for us, against unloveliness, by its life and realty
—the only effectual protest this world has ever known. Already there
is too much of strife, too much of denial in the world. Nature argues
the questioning life in the affirmative, for well she knows, the
ancient wise one, that denial is deadly. “I believe” is the password
into the secret places of good.
The single vision, that sees truest, the simple heart, that loves it;
the direct thought that sends it forth to bless—the world needs these
more than that we should camp upon its trail with gall in our ink and
our pens tipped with bitterness.
Gall can never fill a vacuum. “If you don’t want a boy to do that,”
said a wise teacher (putting thumb to nose), “teach him something
prettier.”
This, then, must we do for this hulking schoolboy world of ours;
the half-grown, growing world, that knows enough to recognize that
gall is neither good nor beautiful, yet sees not that the thing it does
is, as well, unlovely.
Let us strive to look out on life with open vision and simple soul,
seeing that it is fair; that no plant cometh forth to face the winter’s
blight, but when the winter is over then green, tender things of
beauty push upwards to meet the sunshine—first the blade, then the
ear, and after that the full corn in the ear. Then cometh the insect,
with his drop of gall, and ugliness and excrescence follow.
That which gives heat and light and blessing; that which
generates force, and yields beauty in the burning wood that cheers
our hearth, is the warm brightness of the sun’s rays that, in the
process of liberating oxygen into the outer air, were stored up in the
growing tree. If these had not been actually caught and incorporated
in the wood by Nature’s subtle chemistry, do you think the fire would
warm us, sitting by it?
And that in our literature, and in our art, that shall make them
real, and able to offer coming ages anything in the warmth and light
of this, must be what we shall manage to incorporate with their
growth of the pure and wholesome, the life-making forces of our
time. Negation is not life. Disease is not power. Abnormality is not
truth. These are forces that make for death; and life, in its scientific
ultimate, is the sum-total of the forces that resist death. So, I say
again, that work of ours which is to carry life forward, which is to
warm and light the ages, must be what we can perpetuate of the
life-giving, growing elements of this one. Let there be gall enough in
thy ink. To what purpose? Gall is not a promoter of growth. It is a
result of hurt, and where it touches it leaves even a bad thing worse
than it found it.
Adeline Knapp.
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