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 LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 

The Roycroft Quarterly 
 
 A SOUVENIR AMD A MED LE Y : 
 
 sl 
 
 ay '96. PRICE 25*CENTS. No. i. 
 
MAY '96. 
 
 NUMBER ONE. 
 
 ROYCROFT 
 UARTERLY: *& 
 iing a Goodly Col- 
 llection of Literary *& 
 (^Curiosities obtained 
 _______ Sources not easi 
 ly accessible to the average Book- 
 Lover* Offered to the Discerning 
 every three months for 25 Cents a 
 number or One Dollar a year, 
 
 ROYCROFT PRINTING SHOP, 
 
 East Aurora, 
 N. Y. 
 
 Entered at the 'Postqffice at East Aurora, N. Y., as Second Class 
 Mail Matter, 
 
ASOUVEMR 
 
 AND 
 
 A MEDLEY: 
 
 SEVEN POEMS AND 
 
 A SKETCH 
 
 BY 
 
 STEPHEN CRANE, 
 
 WITH DIVERS 
 
 AND 
 
 SUNDRY 
 
 COMMUNICATIONS 
 
 FROM 
 
 CERTAIN EMINENT 
 
 WITS. 
 
 DONE INTO PRINT 
 
 AT 
 
 THE ROYCROFT PRINTING SHOP, 
 
 WHICHISIN EAST AURORA, N. Y. 
 
 EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND NINETY-SIX. 
 
I saw a man pursuing the horizon; 
 Round and round they sped. 
 I was disturbed at this ; 
 I accosted the man. 
 " It is futile" I said, 
 " You can never " 
 
 " You lie," he cried, 
 And ran on. 
 
 The Black Riders. 
 
 J896 
 y 
 The Roycroft Printing Shop. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 I. Foreword. 
 
 II. Glints of Wit and Wisdom : Being replies 
 
 from sundry Great Men who missed a good 
 Thing. 
 
 III. Some Historical documents by W. Irving Way, 
 
 Philip Hale and Livy S. Richard. 
 
 IV. As to the Man. E. H. 
 A preachment by an admiring friend. 
 
 V. Seven Poems by STEPHEN CRANE. 
 
 I. 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. 
 
 VI. A Great Mistake. Stephen Crane. 
 
 Recording the venial sin of a mortal under sore tempta 
 tion. 
 
 VII. A Prologue. .Stephen Crane. 
 
FOREWORD. 
 
 On Thursday evening, Dec. 19, 1895, The Society 
 of the Philistines gave a Dinner in honor of Mr. 
 Stephen Crane. It was a large time, and much good 
 copy was passed off into space that otherwise might 
 have been used to enrich publishers. 
 
 At that time Mr. Crane's Red Badge of Courage 
 was selling slowly in its second thousand. After 
 three short months had slipped past, The Red Badge 
 of Courage was outselling, both in England and the 
 United States, any other book written by an Ameri 
 can. It would be presumptious to claim that a sin 
 gle Square Meal brought such fame and fortune to a 
 modest, blonde youth, wonderful heretofore only as 
 a Shortstop ; for it would leave the claimant the em 
 barrassing task of proving the rate of sale that The 
 Red Badge would have met with had not Mr. Crane 
 been adopted by the Philistine Hosts and duly dined. 
 
 But the fact remains that the whirligig of time has 
 brought a recognition of Mr. Crane's genius ; and it 
 has also brought a demand on the East Aurora col 
 ony of Philistines for a certain little Souvenir of the 
 Dinner that was issued at the time, and which has 
 been a deluge. To meet this demand we have 
 printed this booklet, adding to the original text cer 
 tain matter that may interest the future historian of 
 American Letters. 
 
FATE FROWNED UPON THEM AND 
 THEY COULD NOT COME. 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 Charles Dudley Warner. 
 
 The Crane Dinner, I hope, will encourage and 
 strengthen the inner man without enlarging unduly 
 that portion where our imagination is supposed to 
 dwell. 
 
 Maurice Thompson. 
 
 It would give me great pleasure to sit over against 
 Stephen Crane for an eating bout . Lately he made 
 the gooseflesh wiggle on me he is a fiendish war 
 rior. Eat, drink and be merry ! for tomorrow the 
 critics will be abroad. 
 
 J. C. Hopper, 
 
 of the U. S. Treasury. 
 
 Mr. Crane certainly wears the Red Badge of 
 Courage if he can face the Philistines in such an 
 encounter as this. 
 
Irving Bacheller. 
 
 My regards to my good friend Crane. God save 
 his appetite for many another dinner. 
 
 Arthur Lucas, 
 
 of the Albany Express. 
 
 I have a profound admiration for a man who, 
 casting to the winds rhyme, reason and metre, can 
 still write poetry. 
 
 Chester S. Lord, 
 
 of the Sun. 
 
 In spirit I join you in doing honor to Mr. Crane, 
 who is the mildest mannered man who ever cut a 
 throat or scuttled ship (on paper) . 
 
 Ripley Hitchcock. 
 
 I am glad to know that our prophets when they 
 prove themselves such are not without honor in their 
 own country. 
 
 Walter Storrs Bigelow, 
 
 of the Boston Commonwealth. 
 This is the first time I was ever asked in so fitting 
 manner to dine with a great poet, and I am glad you 
 have picked out so good an one as Crane. 
 
 Louise Imogen Guiney. 
 
 Miss Guiney is 
 
 " Eyeless in Gaza, at the Mill with slaves, 
 Herself in bonds, (NOT) under Philistian yoke," 
 
 and therefore is only sorry, and grateful, and absent, 
 and sensible of a good thing and much good com 
 pany missed. 
 
 8 
 
Walter Blackburn Harte. 
 
 I wish Mr. Crane all good fortune in literature and 
 life, and I trust the joy of the Philistines may be 
 complete. 
 
 The heroism of humanity has passed forever into 
 the hearts of those who starve and suffer and live for 
 Literature. There is no profession holds so many 
 true heroes and so many damned rascals as Lit 
 erature ; but Crane, who writes with the inspiration 
 of the smell of powder, is, let us hope, first of all a 
 Man and afterwards a Writer. 
 
 John Langdon Heaton, 
 
 of the Recorder. 
 
 Aren't the Philistines, individually and collectively, 
 peaches ? 
 
 Ernest E. Russell, 
 
 of Public Opinion. 
 
 It will be a goodly company and if you all slide 
 under the table, I swear to you it will be a goodly 
 company. 
 
 Amy Leslie, 
 
 of the Chicago News. 
 
 My most gentle thoughts are tinged with envy of 
 you who are so lucky as to meet Stephen Crane. 
 
 Thomas W. Durston, 
 
 of Syracuse. 
 
 In December a bookseller must work days and 
 nights and Sundays. If you will give a picnic for 
 Crane next summer, I'll come and stay a week. 
 
E. E. Winship, 
 
 of the Journal of Education. 
 
 I dote on Stephen Crane, although I don't under 
 stand his lines a bit. 
 
 Edward W. Bok. 
 
 I sincerely wish I could come, though even if I 
 could I probably would not be able to find East 
 Aurora. One thing is certain, you are making famous 
 a hitherto obscure town, and that is something in 
 these days. 
 
 Charles F. Lummis. 
 
 I am sorry that I cannot assist at the Hanging of 
 the Crane, but I trust Justice may be done. 
 
 W. W. Campbell. 
 
 I hope the occasion may not cause too many of 
 you to " chase the horizon " Friday morning. 
 
 Richard Harding Davis. 
 
 I will wager the dinner will be better than those 
 you and I got in the restaurant at Creede, but I can't 
 come. My respects to Mr. Crane. 
 
 Bliss Carman. 
 
 It would do me great pleasure to sit at feast with 
 Mr. Crane and the bold and worthy Philistines, but 
 I cannot find East Aurora in my Railroad Guide. 
 
 10 
 
Kamlin Garland. 
 
 I take a very special interest in Mr. Crane, as I 
 was one of the very first to know about Maggie and 
 the Red Badge. 
 
 Mr. Cudahy. 
 
 Being engaged in writing a sequel to " The Pawns 
 of Chance," I much regret that I cannot meet Mr. 
 Crane at dinner. As soon as the Packing Season is 
 over I hope to read "The Blue Badge of Bravery." 
 
 W. D. Howells. 
 
 I am very glad to know that my prophecies are be 
 ing realized and that Mr? Crane is receiving recogni 
 tion at a time in life when he can most enjoy it. 
 
 Robert W. Criswell, 
 
 of the Morning Advertiser. 
 
 1 do not understand Crane's poetry, nor do I un 
 derstand the inscription on the monolith in Central 
 Park, but I learn from good authority that it conveys 
 valuable information expressed in chaste and beauti 
 ful language. 
 
 (Rev.) Samuel J. Barrows, 
 
 of the Christian Register. 
 
 Although I might meet one Goliath, armed with 
 smooth stones that I might make a hit, I dare not 
 face a whole table of giants. Beside, the Railroads 
 declare there is an Interstate Commerce Law, and 
 that it is wicked to give passes. 
 
 ii 
 
Hayden Carruth. 
 
 I saw a Man reading an invitation. 
 
 Anon he chortled like a bull-frog 
 
 Like a billy-be-dasted bull-frog. 
 
 It was a dinner invitation, 
 
 Which accounted for the chortle. 
 
 "They will have Grub," quoth the 
 
 Man. 
 
 " Better yet, Grape Juice, I will go ! " 
 
 The red chortle died on his white lips. 
 
 His ashy hand shot into his black 
 
 Pocket. 
 
 A gray wail burst from his parched, 
 
 Brown throat 
 
 Like the scarlet yowl of a yellow 
 
 Tom Cat 
 
 The Man didn't have the price ! 
 
 Which accounted for the wail. 
 
 I left him cursing the Railroad 
 
 Company with great, jagged, 
 
 Crimson curses. 
 
 E. C. Stedman. 
 
 Judging from the vivid way in which he writes of 
 war, Stephen Crane must have in a former incarnation 
 been with the Philistines and fought for home and 
 native land against those marauding Children of the 
 Plain. 
 
 Ambrose Bierce. 
 
 Were it not for the miles which separate us, I would 
 be with you and lick a plate so clean that it would 
 not have to be washed for a month. 
 
 12 
 
S. S. McClure, Limited. 
 
 I admire Mr. Crane's work, and I admire the man. 
 I also admire the valiant Philistines from a safe 
 distance. 
 
 John J. Rooney. 
 
 I say advisedly that what Goethe did for Wiemar, 
 Shakespeare for Stratford, Whitman for Camden and 
 Emerson for Concord, the PHILISTINE is doing for 
 East Aurora. From the sleepy, moss-grown village, 
 it shines forth in the bright borealis rays reflected 
 from the burnished armor of its fierce-fighting Black 
 Riders, and the civilized world looks on and wonders 
 what next ! 
 
 Charles S. Savage, 
 
 of G. P. Putnam's Sons. 
 
 Can't come, and it is fortunate for the Philistines 
 that this is so, for should I come, I'd bring my 
 Weapon and slay you all. 
 
 E. St. Elmo Lewis, 
 of Footlights. 
 
 To Stephen Crane we of the modern era owe 
 much. 
 
 T. W. Higginson. 
 
 If it is really true that Crane fought through the 
 entire Revolutionary War, taking a hand too in the 
 Concord Fight, I can understand why his descrip 
 tions always ring true. 
 
 13 
 
Daniel Appleton. 
 
 As one of the first to read and appreciate the Red 
 Badge, I would like to be with you in honoring Mr. 
 Crane. 
 
 L. H. Bickford, 
 
 of the Denver Times. 
 
 I should like to be present, if only for the sake of 
 Art for I believe in each one of the Philistines do 
 ing his best to further that Art which receives exqui 
 site handling by Mr. Crane. 
 
 Adeline Knapp, 
 
 of the Examiner. 
 
 Say to Mr. Crane for me that the author of the 
 Red Badge is Great People, and that, did train con 
 nections permit my reaching San Francisco before 
 morning, more than my Astral Self were doing him 
 honor this night. 
 
 Edward Hofer, 
 
 of the Salem (Oregon) Journal. 
 
 Accept the greeting of one in the far West who 
 esteems it a great dignity to be called one of the 
 brotherhood of Philistia. 
 
 George F. Warren, 
 
 of the Democrat and Chronicle. 
 As a poet Stephen Crane is a cracker-jack. 
 
 Geoffrey Charlton Adams. 
 
 We need such men as Crane in Gath and Askelon. 
 
 14 
 
Col. John Lr. Burleigh. 
 
 It grieves me greatly to think I cannot be with 
 you at the Feed. I was with Crane at Antietam and 
 saw him rush forward, sieze two of the enemy and 
 bump their heads together in a way that must have 
 made them see constellations. When a Rebel Gen 
 eral remonstrated with him, Steve, in a red fury, gave 
 him a kick like a purple cow when all at once but 
 the story is too long to tell now. 
 
AS TO THE MAN. 
 
 ^TEPHEN CRANE possesses genius. 
 [Just what genius is the world has not 
 jdetermined, for, like the ulster, the 
 
 [word covers a multitude of sins. But 
 
 if pushed for a definition, I would say that genius is 
 only a woman's intuition carried one step further. 
 It is essentially feminine in its attributes, and the 
 men of genius (as opposed to men of talent) have 
 always been men with marked feminine qualities. 
 The genius knows because he knows, and if you 
 should ask the genius whence comes this power, he 
 would answer you (if he knew) in the words of 
 Cassius : " My mother gave it me." 
 
 Every genius has had a splendid mother. Had I 
 space, I could name you a dozen great men dead 
 and gone who were ushered into this earth-life un 
 der about the following conditions : A finely-organ 
 ized, receptive, aspiring woman is thrown by fate 
 into an unkind environment. She thirsts for knowl- 
 
 16 
 
edge, for sweet music, for beauty, for sympathy, for 
 attainment. She has a heart-hunger that none about 
 her comprehend ; she strives for better things but 
 those nearest her do not understand. She prays to 
 God, but the heavens are but brass. When in this 
 peculiar mental condition a child is born to her. 
 This child is heir to all of his mother's spiritual de 
 sires, but he develops a man's strength and breaks 
 the fetters that held her fast. He surmounts obsta 
 cles that she could never overcome. The woman's 
 prayer was answered. God listened to her after all. 
 But, like Columbus, who gave the world a continent, 
 she dies in ignorance of what she has achieved. 
 
 Earth's buffets are usually too severe for her ; she 
 cannot endure its contumely ; she goes to her long 
 rest, soothed only by the thought that she did her 
 work as best she could. In summer, wild flowers 
 nod in the breeze above her forgotten grave, and in 
 winter, the untracked snow covers with bridal white 
 the spot where she sleeps. But far away in the gay 
 courts of great cities the walls echo the praises of 
 her son, and men say, Behold, a Genius ! 
 
 She died that others might live. Her prayer was 
 answered, as every sincere prayer is : for every desire 
 of the heart has somewhere its gratification. But 
 Nature cares not for the individual her thought is 
 only for the race. Do you know the history of 
 Nancy Hanks? She is the universal type of women 
 who give the world its men of genius. 
 
 17 
 
When in. 1 89 1 Stephen Crane, wrote. Maggie, a 
 girl of the Streets, Mr. Ho wells read .the story, 
 and after seeing its author said, "This man has 
 sprung into life Mi-armed.,'' And that expression of 
 Mr. HoweUs; fully covers the case. I can imagine 
 no icondition of life that might . entangle a man or 
 woman within its meshes that. Stephen Crane could 
 not fully comprehend. and appreciate. Men are only 
 great as they possess sympathy.- Crane knows the 
 human .heart through and through, and he sympa 
 thizes with its every pulsation. From the beggar's 
 child searching in ash barrels .for treasure, to the 
 statesman playing at diplomacy with his chief 
 thought on next fall's election, Stephen Crane knows 
 the inmost soul of each and all. Whether he is able 
 to translate it to you or not is quite another question ; 
 but in the forty or more short stories and sketches 
 he has written I fail to find a single false note. He 
 neither exaggerates nor comes tardy off. 
 
 The psychologists tell us that a man cannot fully 
 comprehend a condition that he has never .experi 
 enced. But theosophy explains the transcendent 
 wisdom of genius by saying that in former incarna 
 tions the man passed through these experiences. 
 Emerson says : " We are bathed in an ocean of in 
 telligence, and under right conditions the soul knows 
 all things." These things may be true, but the se 
 cret of Crane's masterly delineation is that he is 
 able to project himself into the condition of others. 
 18 
 
He does not describe men and women he is that 
 man. He loses his identity, forgets self, abandons 
 his own consciousness, and is for the moment the in 
 dividual who speaks. And whether this individual is 
 man, woman or child, makes no difference. Sex, 
 age, condition, weigh not in the scale. 
 
 During the latter half of the year 1895 no writing 
 man in America was so thoroughly hooted and so 
 well abused as Stephen Crane. , I have a scrap-book 
 o'f newspaper clippings that is a symposium of Bil 
 lingsgate mud-balls, with Crane for the target. 
 Turning the leaves of this scrap-book I find used in 
 reference to a plain little book called The Black Ri 
 ders, these words : Idiocy, drivel, bombast, rot, 
 nonsense, puerility, untruth, garbage, hamfat, funny, 
 absurd, childish, drunken, besotted, obscure, opium- 
 laden, blasphemous, indecent, fustian, rant, bassoon- 
 poetry, swell-head stuff, bluster, balderdash, windy, 
 turgid, stupid, pompous, gasconade, gas-house bal 
 lads, etc., etc; 
 
 There are also in this scrap-book upward of a 
 hundred parodies on the poems. Some of these are 
 rather clever, but they differ from Crane's work in 
 this, that there is not a molecule of thought in one 
 of them, while there is a great moral truth taught in 
 each of Crane's poems. It's so easy to write a par 
 ody; a parody is a calico cat stuffed with cotton; it 
 pleases the little boys who wear dresses. Usually, 
 people even sensible people will not take time to 
 
 19 
 
find it. But one might as well accuse JEsop of idiocy 
 when he has a fox talk to a goose. Of course, we 
 could truthfully swear that no fox ever carried on a 
 conversation with a goose since the world began. 
 But to assume that ^sop was therefore a fool would 
 be proof that the man who made the assumption 
 was a fool and not ^Esop. 
 
 The " Lines" in The Black Riders seem to me 
 very wonderful : charged with meaning like a storage 
 battery. But there is a fine defy in the flavour that 
 warns the reader not to take too much or it may 
 strike in. Who wants a meal of horseradish? When 
 I hear intelligent people jeer at The Black Riders 
 (and intelligent people do jeer at The Black Riders} 
 I think of those Chicago hand-me-out restaurants 
 where men woo dyspepsia, (and win the termagent) 
 fighting like crimson devils for pie, and gulp things 
 red hot because Time and the Stock Exchange wait 
 for no man ; or perhaps of Paul Bourget who swal 
 lowed three fingers of Worcestershire Sauce on a 
 Pullman Dining Car and then made a memorandum 
 in his note book that American wines are very bad. 
 
 Any man who has a tuppence worth of philosophy 
 in his clay, and a little of God's leisure at his dispo 
 sal that will allow him to take his mental aliment with 
 pulse at normal, will find a good honest nugget of 
 wisdom in every sentence of Copeland & Day's unique 
 little work. Yet I admit that in a certain mood the 
 brevity of expression is rather exasperating, and the 
 
 20 
 
independence of spirit which shows that the author 
 can do without you is the quip modest, if not the 
 reproof valiant, that is not always pleasant. But 
 granting that there are some things in The Black 
 Riders that I do not especially like, I yet have no 
 quarrel with the book. I accept it and give thanks. 
 
 But granting for argument's sake that The Black 
 Riders is " rot," it then must be admitted that it was 
 a great stroke of worldly wisdom. For Stephen 
 Crane now has the ear of the world. Publishers be 
 siege him with checks in advance, and the manuscript 
 of a story he has just completed has been bid on by 
 four different firms, with special offers for the Eng 
 lish copyright. Tradition has it that the sixty-eight 
 short poems in The Black Riders were all written in 
 the space of two days and a night in a time of ter 
 rible depression. The work was then handed to a 
 dear friend. This friend thought he saw the deep 
 burning thought of a prophet in the lines, and he 
 conceived the plan of publishing them. A thousand 
 copies were printed and sold inside of six months. 
 If you want a first edition of The Black Riders now, 
 it will cost you five dollars, and if you can pick up a 
 Maggie of the Streets for twice that, you'd better do 
 it and do it quick. 
 
 Stephen Crane attended Lafayette College for a 
 time in his nineteenth year. The teachers there 
 write me that they remember him only as " a yellow, 
 tow-haired youth, who would rather fight than study." 
 
 21 
 
They advised him to "take a change," so he went to 
 Syracuse University his guardian being anxious he 
 should be "educated." His fame at Syracuse rests 
 on the fact that he was the best short-stop ever on 
 the University baseball team. He soon became cap 
 tain, this on account of his ability to hold his own 
 when it came to an issue with certain "scrapping" 
 antagonists. 
 
 Once when he was called upon to recite in the 
 psychology class, he argued a point with the teacher. 
 The Professor sought to silence him by an appeal to 
 the Bible : " Tut, tut what does St. Paul say, Mr. 
 Crane, what does St. Paul say?" testily asked the 
 old Professor. 
 
 " I know what St. Paul says," was the answer, 
 "but I disagree with St. Paul." 
 
 Of course no Methodist college wants a student 
 like that; and young Crane wandered down to New 
 York and got a job reporting on the Herald. 
 
 Since then he has worked on the editorial staff of 
 various papers. He is now, however/ devoting his 
 whole time to letters, living at Hartwood, Sullivan 
 County, N. Y. Hartwood has a store, a blacksmith 
 shop and a tavern. When the train comes in all of 
 the citizens go down to the station to see 'er go 
 through. Should you ask one of these citizens who 
 Stephen 'Crane is, he would probably answer you as 
 he did me : 
 -" Mr. -Crane, Mr. Crane ! you mean Steve Crane ? 
 
 2-2 
 
"Yes/? 
 
 "Why, he's^-he ? s Steve Crane an' a dern good 
 feller!" ; .V ,ii 
 
 Mr. Crane is now in his twenty-fifth year. He is 
 a little under the average height, and is slender and 
 slight in build, weighing scarcely one hundred and 
 thirty pounds. He is a decided blonde : his eyes 
 blue. His intellect is as wide awake as the matin 
 chimes, and his generosity is as ample as the double 
 chin of Col. Ingersoll. His handsome* boyish face 
 and quiet, half-shy, modest manner make him a gen 
 eral favorite everywhere with women. And to me, it 
 is rather curious that women should flock around and 
 pet this sort of a man, who can read their inmost 
 thoughts just as that Roentgen invention can photo 
 graph things inside of a box, when a big, stupid man 
 with a red face and a black mustache they are very 
 much afraid of. 
 
 , At a recent banquet given by the Society of the 
 Philistines, in honor of Mr. Crane, thirty-one men 
 sat at the feast. These men had come from Chi 
 cago, New York, Boston, and elsewhere to attend the 
 dinner. Several lawyers, one eminent physician, and 
 various writers were there. Crane was the youngest 
 individual at the board, but he showed himself the 
 peer of any man present. His speech was earnest, 
 dignified, yet modestly expressed. His manner is 
 singularly well poised, and his few words carry con 
 viction. 
 
 23 
 
Still he can laugh and joke, and no man has a bet 
 ter appreciation of humor. He loves the out-doors, 
 and in riding horseback by his side across country I 
 have admired his happy abandon, as he sits secure, 
 riding with loose rein and long stirrup in a reckless 
 rush. 
 
 In the New York Times for January 26 is a two- 
 column letter from London, by that distinguished 
 critic, Mr. Harold Frederic. The subject of the en 
 tire article is Stephen Crane. Says Mr. Frederic : 
 
 " The ' Red Badge of Courage ' appeared a couple 
 of months ago, unheralded and unnoticed, in a series 
 which, under the distinctive label of ' Pioneer,' is 
 popularly supposed to present fiction more or less 
 after the order of * The Green Carnation,' which was 
 also of that lot. The first one who mentioned in 
 my hearing that this ' Red Badge ' was well worth 
 reading happened to be a person whose literary ad 
 mirations serve me generally as warnings what to 
 avoid, and I remembered the title languidly from 
 that standpoint of self-protection. A little later 
 others began to speak of it. All at once, every book 
 ish person had it at his tongue's end. It was clearly 
 a book to read, and I read it. Even as I did so, re 
 views burst forth in a dozen different quarters, hail 
 ing it as extraordinary. Some were naturally more 
 excited and voluble than others, but all the critics 
 showed, and continue to show, their sense of being 
 in the presence of something not like other things. 
 24 
 
George Wyndham, M. P., has already written of it 
 in The New Review as ' a remarkable book.' Other 
 magazine editors have articles about it in preparation, 
 and it is evident that for the next few months it is to 
 be more talked about than anything else in current 
 literature. It seems almost equally certain that it 
 will be kept alive, as one of the deathless books 
 which must be read by everybody who desires to be, 
 or to seem a connoisseur of modern fiction. 
 
 " If there were in existence any books of a similar 
 character, one could start confidently by saying it 
 was the best of its kind. But it has no fellows. It 
 is a book outside of all classification. So unlike any 
 thing else is it, that the temptation rises to deny that 
 it is a book at all. When one searches for compari 
 sons, they can only be found by culling out selected 
 portions from the trunks of masterpieces, and con 
 sidering these detached fragments, one by one, with 
 reference to the ' Red Badge,' which is itself a frag 
 ment, and yet is complete. Thus one lifts the best 
 battle pictures from Tolstoi's great ' War and Peace,' 
 from Balzacs ' Chouans,' from Hugo's ' Les Miser- 
 ables,' and the forest fight in ''93,' from Prosper 
 Merimee's ' Assault of the Redoubt,' from Zola's 'La 
 Debacle ' and * Attack on the Mill ' (it is strange 
 enough that equivalents in the literature of our own 
 language do not suggest themselves), and studies 
 them side by side with this tremendously effective 
 battle painting by the unknown youngster. Posi- 
 
tively they are cold and ineffectual beside it. The 
 praise may sound exaggerated, but really it is inade 
 quate. These renowned battle descriptions of the 
 big men are made to seem all wrong. The ' Red 
 Badge ' impels the feeling that the actual truth about 
 a battle has never been guessed before." 
 
 There is a class of reviewers who always wind up 
 their preachments by saying : " This book gives 
 much promise, and we shall look anxiously for Mr. 
 Scribbler's next." Let us deal in no such cant. A 
 man's work is good or it is not. As for his " next," 
 nobody can tell whether it will be good or not. 
 There is a whole army of men about to do something 
 great, but the years go by and they never do it. 
 They are like those precocious children who stand on 
 chairs and recite " pieces." They never make ora 
 tors. As to Crane's " future work," let us keep 
 silent. But if he never produces another thing, he 
 has done enough to save the fag-end of the century 
 from literary disgrace ; and look you, friends, that is 
 no small matter ! 
 
 E. H. in The Lotos. 
 
 26 
 
THE CHATTER OF A DEATH-DEMON FROM A TREE- 
 TOP. 
 
 BLOOD BLOOD AND TORN GRASS- 
 HAD MARKED THE RISE OF HIS AGONY 
 THIS LONE HUNTER, 
 THE GREY-GREEN WOODS IMPASSIVE 
 HAD WATCHED THE THRESHING OF HIS LIMBS. 
 A CANOE WITH FLASHING PADDLE, 
 A GIRL WITH SOFT, SEARCHING EYES, 
 A CALL: "JOHN!" 
 
 COME, ARISE, HUNTER! 
 LIFT YOUR GREY FACE ! 
 CAN YOU NOT HEAR? 
 
 THE CHATTER OF A DEATH-DEMON FROM A TREE- 
 TOP. 
 
EACH SMALL GLEAM WAS A VOICE 
 A LANTERN VOICE- 
 IN LITTLE SONGS OF CARMINE, VIOLET, GREEN, 
 
 GOLD. 
 
 A CHORUS OF COLORS CAME OVER THE WATER, 
 THE WONDROUS LEAF-SHADOWS NO LONGER WAV- 
 
 ERED, 
 
 NO PINES CROONED ON THE HILLS, 
 THE BLUE NIGHT WAS ELSEWHERE A SILENCE 
 WHEN THE CHORUS OF COLORS CAME OVER THE 
 
 WATER, 
 
 LITTLE SONGS OF CARMINE, VIOLET, GREEN, GOLD. 
 SMALL GLOWING PEBBLES 
 THROWN ON THE DARK PLANE OF EVENING 
 SING GOOD BALLADS OF GOD 
 AND ETERNITY, WITH SOUL'S REST. 
 LITTLE PRIESTS, LITTLE HOLY FATHERS, 
 NONE CAN DOUBT THE TRUTH OF YOUR HYMNING 
 WHEN THE MARVELOUS CHORUS COMES OVER THE 
 
 WATER, 
 SONGS OF CARMINE, VIOLET, GREEN, GOLD. 
 
A SLANT OF SUN ON PULL BROWN WALLS 
 A FORGOTTEN SKY OF BASHFUL BLUE. 
 TOWARD GOD A MIGHTY HYMN 
 A SONG OF CLASHES AND CRIES, 
 RUMBLING WHEELS, HOOF-BEATS, BELLS, 
 WELCOMES, FAREWELLS, LOVE-CALLS, FINAL 
 
 MOANS, 
 
 VOICES OF JOY, IDIOCY, WARNING, DESPAIR,, 
 THE UNKNOWN APPEALS OF BRUTES, 
 THE CHANTING OF VIOLETS, 
 THE SCREAMS OF CUT TREES, 
 
 THE SENSELESS BABBLE OF HENS AND WISE MEN 
 A CLUTTERED INCOHERENCY THAT SAYS AT THE 
 
 STARS: 
 'O, GOD SAVE US!" 
 
"I HAVE HEARD THE SUNSET SONG OF THE 
 
 BIRCHES 
 
 " A WHITE MELODY IN THE SILENCE. 
 " I HAVE SEEN A QUARREL OF THE PINES. 
 " AT NIGHTFALL, 
 
 " THE LITTLE GRASSES HAVE RUSHED BY ME 
 " WITH THE WIND-MEN. 
 "THESE THINGS HAVE I LIVED," QUOTH THE 
 
 MANIAC 
 
 " POSSESSING ONLY EYES AND EARS. 
 "BUT, YOU 
 "YOU DON GREEN SPECTACLES BEFORE YOU LOOK 
 
 AT ROSES." 
 
" WHAT SAYS THE SEA, LITTLE SHELL? 
 
 " WHAT SAYS THE SEA? 
 
 " LONG HAS OUR BROTHER BEEN SILENT TO US, 
 
 " KEPT HIS MESSAGE FOR THE SHIPS, 
 
 "AWKWARD SHIPS, STUPID SHIPS." 
 
 "THE SEA BIDS YOU MOURN, OH, PINES, 
 
 " SING LOW IN THE MOONLIGHT. 
 
 " HE SENDS TALE OF THE LAND OF DOOM, 
 
 " OF PLACE WHERE ENDLESS FALLS 
 
 " A RAIN OF WOMEN'S TEARS. 
 
 " AND MEN IN GREY ROBES 
 
 " MEN IN GREY ROBES 
 
 " CHANT THE UNKNOWN PAIN." 
 
 " WHAT SAYS THE SEA, LITTLE SHELL? 
 
 WHAT SAYS THE SEA? 
 
 " LONG HAS OUR BROTHER BEEN SILENT TO US, 
 
 " KEPT HIS MESSAGE FOR THE SHIPS, 
 
 " PUNY SHIPS, SILLY SHIPS." 
 
 " THE SEA BIDS YOU TEACH, OH, PINES, 
 
 " SING LOW IN THE MOONLIGHT, 
 
 "TEACH THE GOLD OF PATIENCE, 
 
 " CRY GOSPEL OF GENTLE HANDS, 
 
 " CRY A BROTHERHOOD OF HEARTS, 
 
 " THE SEA BIDS YOU TEACH, OH, PINES." 
 
 " AND WHERE IS THE REWARD, LITTLE SHELL? 
 
 " WHAT SAYS THE SEA? 
 
 " LONG HAS OUR BROTHER BEEN SILENT TO US, 
 
 " KEPT HIS MESSAGE FOR THE SHIPS, 
 
 " PUNY SHIPS, SILLY SHIPS." 
 
 "NO WORD SAYS THE SEA, OH, PINES, 
 
 " NO WORD SAYS THE SEA. 
 
 " LONG WILL YOUR BROTHER BE SILENT TO YOU, 
 
 " KEEP HIS MESSAGE FOR THE SHIPS, 
 
 ' OH, PUNY PINES, SILLY PINES." 
 
 31 
 
TO THE MAIDEN 
 
 THE SEA WAS BLUE MEADOW 
 
 ALIVE WITH LITTLE FROTH-PEOPLE 
 
 SINGING. 
 
 TO THE SAILOR, WRECKED, 
 
 THE SEA WAS DEAD GREY WALLS 
 
 SUPERLATIVE IN VACANCY 
 
 UPON WHICH NEVERTHELESS AT FATEFUL TIME, 
 
 WAS WRITTEN 
 
 THE GRIM HATRED OF NATURE. 
 
 'U.M 1 ?f'T 
 
 aiV ,'j fcl tVity.V 
 
 <a fr.p/ 17 -; 
 
 r - .,,-' r 
 
FAST RODE THE KNIGHT 
 
 WITH SPURS, HOT AND REEKING 
 
 EVER WAVING AN EAGER SWORD. 
 
 " TO SAVE MY LADY ! " 
 
 FAST RODE THE KNIGHT 
 
 AND LEAPED FROM SADDLE TO WAR. 
 
 MEN OF STEEL FLICKERED AND GLEAMED 
 
 LIKE RIOT OF SILVER LIGHTS 
 
 AND THE GOLD OF THE KNIGHTS GOOD BANNER 
 
 STILL WAVED ON A CASTLE WALL. 
 
 A HORSE 
 
 BLOWING, STAGGERING, BLOODY THING 
 
 FORGOTTEN AT FOOT OF CASTLE WALL. 
 
 A HORSE 
 
 DEAD AT FOOT OF CASTLE WALL. 
 
 33 
 
A GREAT MISTAKE. 
 
 N ITALIAN kept a fruit stand on a 
 corner where he had good aim at the 
 people who came down from the ele 
 vated station and at those who went 
 along two thronged streets. He sat 
 most of the day in a backless chair that was placed 
 strategically. 
 
 There was a babe living hard by, up five flights of 
 stairs, who regarded this Italian as a tremendous be 
 ing. The babe had investigated this fruit stand. It 
 had thrilled him as few things he had met with in his 
 travels had thrilled him. The sweets of the world 
 laid there in dazzling rows, tumbled in luxurious 
 heaps. When he gazed at this Italian seated amid 
 such splendid treasure, his lower lip hung low and 
 his eyes raised to the vendor's face were filled with 
 deep respect, worship, as if he saw omnipotence. 
 The babe came often to this corner. He hovered 
 
 34 
 
about the stand and watched each detail of the busi 
 ness. He was fascinated by the tranquility of the 
 vendor, the majesty of power and possession. At 
 times, he was so engrossed in his contemplation that 
 people, hurrying, had to use care to avoid bumping 
 him down. 
 
 He had never ventured very near to the stand. 
 It was his habit to hang warily about the curb. Even 
 there he resembled a babe who looks unbidden at a 
 feast of gods. 
 
 One day, however, as the baby was thus staring, 
 the vendor arose and going along the front of the 
 stand, began to polish oranges with a red pocket- 
 handkerchief. The breathless spectator moved across 
 the sidewalk until his small face almost touched the 
 vendor's sleeve. His fingers were gripped in a fold 
 of his dress. 
 
 At last, the Italian finished with the oranges and 
 returned to his chair. He drew a newspaper printed 
 in his language from behind a bunch of bananas. 
 He settled himself in a comfortable position and be 
 gan to glare savagely at the print. The babe was 
 left face to face with the massed joys of the world. 
 
 For a time he was a simple worshipper at this 
 golden shrine. Then tumultuous desires began to 
 shake him. His dreams were of conquest. His lips 
 moved. Presently into his head there came a little 
 plan. 
 
 He sidled nearer, throwing swift and cunning 
 
 35 
 
glances at the Italian. He strove to maintain his 
 conventional manner, but the whole plot was written 
 upon his countenance. 
 
 At last he had come near enough to touch the 
 fruit. From the tattered skirt came slowly his small 
 dirty hand. His eyes were still fixed upon the ven 
 dor. His features were set, save for the under lip, 
 which had a faint fluttering movement. The hand 
 went forward. 
 
 Elevated trains thundered to the station and the 
 stairway poured people upon the sidewalks. There 
 was a deep sea roar from feet and wheels going 
 ceaselessly. None seemed to perceive the babe en 
 gaged in the great venture. 
 
 The Italian turned his paper. Sudden panic smote 
 the babe. His hand dropped and he gave vent to a 
 cry of dismay. He remained for a moment staring 
 at the vendor. There was evidently a great debate 
 in his mind. His infant intellect had defined the 
 Italian. The latter was undoubtedly a man who 
 would eat babes that provoked him. And the alarm 
 in him when the vendor had turned his newspaper 
 brought vividly before him the consequences if he 
 were detected. 
 
 But at this moment, the vendor gave a blissful 
 grunt and tilting his chair against a wall, closed his 
 eyes. His paper dropped unheeded. 
 
 The babe ceased his scrutiny and again raised his 
 hand. It was moved with supreme caution toward 
 
 36 
 
the fruit. The fingers were bent, claw-like, in the 
 manner of great heart-shaking greed. 
 
 Once he stopped and chattered convulsively be 
 cause the vendor moved in his sleep. The babe with 
 his eyes still upon the Italian again put forth his hand 
 and the rapacious finger closed over a round bulb. 
 
 And it was written that the Italian should at this 
 moment open his eyes. He glared at the babe a 
 fierce question. Thereupon the babe thrust the 
 round bulb behind him and with a face expressive of 
 the deepest guilt, began a wild but elaborate series 
 of gestures declaring his innocence. 
 
 The Italian howled. He sprang to his feet, and 
 with three steps overtook the babe. He whirled him 
 fiercely and took from the little fingers a lemon. 
 
 STEPHEN CRANE. 
 
 37 
 
A PROLOGUE. 
 
 A GLOOMY STAGE. SLENDER CURTAINS AT A 
 WINDOW, CENTRE. BEFORE THE WINDOW, A 
 TABLE, AND UPON THE TABLE, A LARGE BOOK, 
 OPENED. A MOONBEAM, NO WIDER THAN A SWORD- 
 BLADE, PIERCES THE CURTAINS AND FALLS UPON 
 THE BOOK. 
 
 A MOMENT OF SILENCE. 
 
 FROM WITHOUT, THEN AN ADJACENT ROOM IN 
 INTENTION COME SOUNDS OF CELEBRATION, OF 
 RIOTOUS DRINKING AND LAUGHTER. FINALLY, A 
 SWIFT QUARREL. THE DIN AND CRASH OF A 
 FIGHT. A LITTLE STILLNESS. THEN A WOMAN'S 
 SCREAM. " AH, MY SON, MY SON." 
 
 A MOMENT OF SILENCE. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 STEPHEN CRANE. 
 
SOME HISTORICAL DOCUMENTS. 
 
 There has been an entertaining aftermath of the 
 dinner which the Society of the Philistines gave to 
 Mr. Stephen Crane, who wears a red badge for his 
 black riding. It consists of a pamphlet containing 
 the words of regret sent to the committee in charge 
 by distinguished workers in the literary vineyard. It 
 is evident that many prominent gentlemen who 
 would have enjoyed grasping Mr. Crane by the hand 
 did not find it quite so easy to make a little journey 
 to East Aurora, N. Y., as Mr. Elbert Hubbard has 
 found it. Mr. Bok could not find the town, Bliss 
 Carman says it is not in his railroad guide, and Phil 
 istines from San Francisco found it impossible to 
 make train connections. But they all joined in the 
 spirit of the festival, and all toasted the hanging of 
 the Crane. 
 
 Even in these notes of regret we can see a great 
 diversity of opinion in regard to Mr. Crane's contri 
 butions to our literature. It is a delicate task to say 
 in a letter answering an invitation to dinner that you 
 do not understand what the author in whose honor 
 it is to be given means by his work. But some brave 
 men did this brave thing. Charles Dudley Warner 
 simply wished the inner man a good time ; Maurice 
 Thompson said Crane was a fiendish warrior who 
 
 39 
 
made his gooseflesh wiggle; Miss Louise Imogen 
 Guiney knew she was missing a " good thing ; " Rich 
 ard Harding Davis avoided criticising the poet in 
 question by wagering it would be a better dinner 
 than he had eaten at Creede; Hamlin Garland 
 vouched for his taking " a very special interest in 
 Mr. Crane ; " Mr. Howells was glad his prophecies 
 were being realized, and that one man is receiving 
 recognition at a time in life when he can most enjoy 
 it, recognition in this instance being food, varied 
 with Sauterne, St. Julian and Irroy ; and other authors 
 replied in a similar strain. 
 
 On the other hand, a genius from Albany wrote : 
 " I have a profound admiration for a man who, cast 
 ing to the winds rhyme, reason and metre, can still 
 write poetry." A Boston educator said : " I dote 
 on Stephen Crane, although I don't understand his 
 lines a bit." But more pat than any other message 
 was that sent to East Aurora by a New York news 
 paper man, who said he did not understand Crane's 
 poetry, nor did he understand the monolith in Cen 
 tral Park, although he had learned from good author 
 ity that " it conveys valuable information, expressed 
 in chaste and beautiful language." The Boston 
 Journal. 
 
 To the younger generation of book lovers a great 
 deal of interest and not a little curiosity have lately 
 been excited by the achievements of that new stellar 
 light in the twinkling dome of American letters, Mr. 
 Stephen Crane. Their introduction to him has been 
 recent. Some poetry that, while violating with 
 serene self-confidence well-nigh all the traditions and 
 conventions of versification, nevertheless spoke forth 
 
 40 
 
a virile message, deep in its philosophy, daring in its 
 imagery and unmistakable in the subtle play of its 
 writer's genius ; this and a strange performance in 
 prose comprise about all that the majority of ordi 
 narily informed readers yet know concerning Stephen 
 Crane. To be sure, some of them have heard, in a 
 faint way, that he is a young author whose future is 
 brilliant with high promise. Mr. Howells has said 
 as much. Mr. E. J. Edwards, the reviewer and cor 
 respondent, has frequently reiterated the statement ; 
 and in New York, within the partly coincident cir 
 cles of journalism and letters, several persons of 
 equal or less renown have undertaken in a modest 
 way to act as Mentors to the young genius and to aid 
 in " bringing him out." But to the mass, he is 
 known, if at all, only as the author of The Black 
 Riders in verse, and of the Rfd Badge of Courage in 
 prose ; efforts, both, that challenge study and baffle 
 understanding rather than soothe superficiality or 
 pander to the wishes of mental indolence. 
 
 In these two works, and especially in the prose 
 one, there existed a quality which, among the curi 
 ous, courted investigation. To those who knew that 
 these strong, strange writings, these bold Teachings 
 into the depths of nature and of truth, were the 
 achievements of a boy scarcely beyond his majority 
 of a lad who at 1 7 had placed pen upon paper 
 with the confidence and in some degree with the 
 warrant of well-seasoned maturity they amounted 
 to a piquant challenge. Some there were who felt it 
 a duty to extend the hand of fraternal recognition ; 
 and a pleasure to make of this duty a chance for 
 personal scrutiny and for study at short range. No 
 doubt it was this motive which inspired the Society 
 of the Philistines, an organization of bright news- 
 
paper and literary workers which has its axis about 
 East Aurora, N. Y., the home of The Philistine 
 magazine, to scheme the emprise of a dinner to Mr. 
 Crane, the consummation of which was pleasantly 
 commemorated. The dinner itself was an exquisite 
 effect in artistic gustatation ; but it was chiefly not 
 able as an incident in the early career of a possible 
 immortal, and perchance as a refutation of the dic 
 tum that no good thing can come out of Judea. 
 There were present at it representative bright minds 
 in letters, in journalism, in medicine, in the law, in 
 architecture, and in the art which speaks through 
 colors, not to mention a liberal sprinkling of men 
 who practice the less ethereal art of practical busi 
 ness ; and these men, one and all, extolled what Mr. 
 Crane had done, urged that he remain true to the 
 best instincts within him, and pleaded for room and 
 recognition for the newer generation of writers who 
 aim to speak a true thought in a way not cramped 
 by the archaic conventions. 
 
 In this personal age, to speak of an achievement 
 inevitably incurs the complementary duty of exploit 
 ing a personality. There is. little to be said of Stephen 
 Crane, the individual, further than that he is a youth 
 ful-looking, modest person, with a face that suggests 
 at once strong mentality and supersensitive nerves ; 
 and with a manner that shows no signs of spoiling. 
 He is now 24 years of age, although he looks a year 
 or two older. The Red Badge of Courage was begun 
 ere he was 18 and finished before its author had be 
 come a voter. An oracular English reviewer of it 
 the other day, in a pretentious Anglican quarterly, 
 expatiated at some length upon the book's internal 
 evidence that the writer of it had expressed his own 
 emotions as a soldier bearing arms ; whereas, Mr. 
 
 42 
 
Crane had probably never smelled even the gun 
 powder of sham battle prior to the book's accept 
 ance by the Appleton's. Mr. Crane has been at in 
 tervals in active newspaper harness. He is one of 
 the craft, and is thoroughly one with it in its sympa 
 thies and ideals. 
 
 Although the temptation is before him to work fast 
 and carelessly, in order that the financial crop of his 
 popularity may be harvested at its seeming ripeness, 
 he refuses to pot-boil ; and firm friends are sustain 
 ing him in it. The Red Badge of Courage has fas 
 cinated England. The critics are wild over it, and 
 the English edition has been purchased with avidity. 
 Mr. Crane has letters from the most prominent of 
 English publishers asking for the English rights to all 
 of his future productions ; but the young author re 
 fuses to be hurried. " I write what is in me," he 
 said, at the Square Meal, " and it will be enough to 
 follow with obedience the promptness of that inspir 
 ation if it be worthy of so dignified a name." Liv 
 S. Richard in the Scranton Tribune. 
 
 The Philistine dinner in honor of Stephen Crane 
 was no joke after all. It was given on December 
 I9th, although East Aurora is to be found nowhere in 
 the railway guide. Thirty-one Philistines of the 
 sterner sex sat 'round the festal board. Miss Louise 
 Imogen Guiney could not come, hence her regrets, 
 printed on the menu : 
 
 Eyeless in Gaza, at the mill with slaves, 
 Herself in bonds, (not) under Philistian yoke. 
 
 It was a regular Clover Club affair, and many be 
 gan asking, "Who is Stephen Crane? " while others 
 present echoed the sentiment of A. E. Winship, who 
 
 43 
 
was unavoidably absent, " I dote on Stephen Crane, 
 although I don't understand his lines a bit." Dwight 
 R. Collin's design for the menu represented the 
 Black Riders and the man chasing the horizon. In 
 the same spirit several sent regrets. Maurice Thomp 
 son said it would have given him " great pleasure to 
 sit over against Stephen Crane for an eating bout. 
 Lately he made the goose-flesh wiggle on me he is 
 a fiendish warrior." Charles F. Lurnmis was sorry 
 that he could not " assist at the Hanging of the 
 Crane." W. D. Ho wells was very glad to know that 
 his " prophecies were being realized." Robert W. 
 Ciiswell did not " understand Crane's poetry, nor do 
 I understand the inscription on the monolith in Cen 
 tral Park." George F. Warren said that " as a poet 
 Stephen Crane is a cracker-jack." 
 
 Several of those who did accept, with the under 
 standing that they need not "talk" to the Philistines, 
 were assured that they would be ready to talk after 
 the fourth course. And so it was ; everybody talked. 
 But first Elbert Hubbard, in a very neat and humor 
 ous speech, made the address of welcome, explained 
 the modern meaning of the word " Philistine," and 
 likewise the object and purpose of the society. The 
 Philistines had always had a hard time since first 
 driven out of their country by a tribe of invaders 
 who had been slaves in Egypt, and " had the pull 
 with the publishers." His vindication of the apos 
 tles of sincerity and personal independence was 
 convincing and conclusive, and he closed with an 
 eloquent tribute to the " strong voice now heard in 
 America, the voice of Stephen Crane." The Master 
 of Ceremonies here winked slyly at the guest of 
 honor at his right, and the spare, pale-faced young 
 man, who may be twenty-five or under, and whose 
 
 44 
 
appearance recalled Henley's line, 
 
 "Thin-legged, thin-chested, slight unspeakably," 
 
 found his feet and modestly acknowledged the tribute 
 paid him by the society. He said he was trying to 
 do what he could " since he had recovered from col 
 lege," sincerely, though clumsily, perhaps, to set 
 forth his impressions. The machinery given him 
 might be defective, but, such as it was, it seemed 
 his duty to work it for what it was worth. Mr. 
 Crane's speech would read something like one of his 
 poems, and all the time he was delivering it one was 
 thinking of the words Edward FitzGerald asked 
 should be inscribed on his tomb : 
 
 " It is He that hath made us, and not we ourselves." 
 
 The toast master said that the author having un 
 folded his plan of work, it was now the typefounder's 
 turn, but the story of this speaker was so full of typo 
 graphical errors that the Philistines rung him down 
 and called for the paper-maker. This was a sort of 
 machine-made affair with deckle edges and no gilt 
 on, and in due time the publisher was asked to tell 
 what he had to say to the Philistines that might be 
 new and interesting about book-making. But the 
 publisher had done little else during his six months 
 of business experience than to read Little Journeys, 
 The Philistine, and rejected manuscripts. He was 
 assured there was some phosphorous in his speech, 
 but as the diners had passed the fourth course he 
 thought the sparkle was all in the champagne. A re 
 viewer, the editor of Brains, Willis Hawkins, fol 
 lowed, but he was not allowed to finish his story. 
 The censor of the occasion, Claude F. Bragdon, told 
 how the Philistines were trying in art to stimulate 
 and cultivate sincerity of expression, and with a keen 
 
 45 
 
sense of humor depicted the serious pretensions of 
 some of the old masters and their worshipers. There 
 were many other informal addresses, interlarded with 
 " asides " from the wits, and much drinking of 
 healths and successes, which extended well into the 
 night, when the diners lapsed into solemnity long 
 enough to enable the toast master to propose ad 
 journment with a toast to " the first of American 
 newspaper-iren " Charles Anderson Dana. It was 
 a large and happy time and will long be remembered 
 by those present. W. Irving Way in Chicago Post. 
 
 46 
 
A nOUNTAIN WOMAN. BY ELIA W. PEAT- 
 TIE. With cover design by Mr. Bruce Rogers. 
 i6mo, cloth, gilt top, $1.25. 
 
 The author of " A Mountain Woman " is an edi 
 torial writer on the Omaha World-Herald^ and is 
 widely known in the Middle West as a writer of a 
 number of tales of Western life that are characterized 
 by much finish and charm. 
 
 THE LAMP OF GOLD. BY FLORENCE L. 
 SNOW, President of the Kansas Academy of Lan 
 guage and Literature. Printed at the De Vinne 
 Press on French hand-made paper. With title- 
 page and cover designs by Mr. Edmund H. Gar- 
 rett. i6mo, cloth, gilt top, $1.25. 
 PURCELL ODE AND OTHER POEMS. BY 
 ROBERT BRIDGES. i6mo, cloth, gilt top, $1.25 
 net. 
 
 Two hundred copies printed on Van Gelder hand 
 made paper for sale in America. 
 HAND AND SOUL. BY DANTE GABRIEL Ros- 
 SETTI. Printed by Mr. William Morris at the 
 Kelmscott Press. 
 
 This book is printed in the "Golden" type, with 
 a specially designed title-page and border, and in 
 special binding. " Hand and Soul " first appeared 
 in "The Germ," the short-lived magazine of the 
 Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. A few copies remain 
 for sale at $3.50. Vellum copies all sold. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers^ or mailed postpaid by the 
 pttblishersy on receipt of price. 
 
 WAY & WILLIAMS, 
 
 Monadnock Block. Chicago. 
 
 47 
 
" Would to God my name were not so terrible to 
 the enemy as it is." 
 
 HENRY IV. 
 
 PHILISTINE: 
 Periodical for Curi- 
 lous Persons. Printed 
 lEvery Little While for 
 Society of The 
 
 Mistines and Pub 
 lished by Them Monthly. Sub 
 scription, One Dollar Yearly. Sin 
 gle Copies, JO Cents. Payable to 
 the Bursar. 
 
 " // is very handsome and very sassy." 
 
 BOSTON HERALD. 
 "// is deliciously impudent." 
 
 ROCHESTER HERALD. 
 '* // offers a most promising sign." 
 
 NEW YORK TRIBUNE. 
 ** It gave me a purple moment." 
 
 THE CHAP-BOOK. 
 
 The Philistine is calculated to lay 
 the dust of convention and drive out 
 the miasma of degeneracy, and while 
 assailing the old gods may, in good 
 time, rear new ones to the delight of 
 the healthy populace. 
 
 THE PHILISTINE, 
 
 East Aurora, 
 
 New York. 
 
 48 
 
I HE ROYCROFTMMwi 
 PRINTING SHOP 
 at this time desires to 
 announce a sister book 
 to the Song of Songs : 
 which is Solomon's, 
 lit is the Journal of 
 Koheleth : being a Reprint of the 
 Book of Ecclesiastes with an Essay 
 by Mr. Elbert Hubbard. The same 
 Romanesque types are used that 
 served so faithfully and well in the 
 Songs, but the initials, colophon and 
 rubricated borders are special de 
 signs. After seven hundred and 
 twelve copies are printed the types 
 will be distributed and the title page, 
 colophon and borders destroyed. 
 
 IN PREPARATION of the text Mr. Hub- 
 bard has had the scholarly assistance of 
 his friend, Dr. Frederic W. Sanders, of 
 Columbia University. The worthy pressman 
 has also been helpfully counseled by several 
 Eminent Bibliophiles. 
 
 Bound in buckram and antique boards. 
 The seven hundred copies that are. printed 
 on Holland hand-made paper are offered at 
 two. dollars each, but the twelve copies on 
 Japan Veflum at five dollars are all sold. 
 Every book will be numbered and signed by 
 Mr. Hubbard. 
 
 The Roycroft Printing Shop, 
 East Aurora, N. Y. 
 
f E MAKE a specialty of 
 JDekel Edge Papers and 
 .carry the largest stock 
 d best variety in the 
 country. Fine Hand-made Papers 
 in great variety* Exclusive West 
 ern Agents for L. L. Brown Paper 
 Company's Hand-mades* 
 
 GEO. H. TAYLOR & CO., 
 
 207-209 Monroe Street, 
 
 Chicago, 111. 
 
\-T-T 
 
 C73S48 
 
OAV res 
 
 GENERAL LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA-BERKELEY 
 
 TURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED 
 
 book is due - *e las, date S ta mpe d below, or on the 
 
 ate to which renewed, 
 ewed books are subject to immediate recall. 
 
 N0V15 1954 
 
 MAR 2 01955 I 
 
 MERARY USE 
 p APR 1 2 te5G 
 
 21 No'58W J 
 REC'D LD 
 
 JUN3 1959 
 
 ^- 
 
 21-100m.l,'54(I887sl6)476 
 
E UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIF 
 
 a * 6 
 
 E UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 6 
 
 LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALII