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Chapter 06

International Trade Theory

True / False Questions

6-1
Copyright © 2015 McGraw-Hill Education. All rights reserved. No reproduction or distribution without the prior written consent of
McGraw-Hill Education.
1. Free trade refers to a situation where a government does not attempt to influence through
quotas or duties what its citizens can buy from another country.

True False

2. The theories of Smith and Ricardo show that countries should not engage in international
trade for products that it is able to produce for itself.

True False

3. David Ricardo's theory of comparative advantage explains international trade in terms of

international differences in political environments.

True False

4. New trade theory stresses that in some cases countries specialize in the production and
export of particular products because the world market can support only a limited number of
firms.

True False

5. Porter's theory of national competitive advantage recommends unrestricted free trade

between countries.

True False

6. Heckscher-Ohlin theory supports the case for unrestricted free trade between nations.

True False

7. Mercantilism supports the idea that countries should export more than what they import.

True False

6-2
Copyright © 2015 McGraw-Hill Education. All rights reserved. No reproduction or distribution without the prior written consent of
McGraw-Hill Education.
8. Mercantilist doctrine advocates unrestricted free trade between countries.

True False

9. The principle of mercantilism views trade as a positive-sum game.

True False

10. A country has an absolute advantage in the production of a product when it is more efficient
than any other country in producing it.

True False

11. Adam smith argued that countries should specialize in the production of goods for which they
have an absolute advantage.

True False

12. According to Ricardo's theory of comparative advantage, countries should produce all the
products for which they have an absolute advantage.

True False

13. According to Ricardo's theory of comparative advantage, countries shall not produce a good
even if they have an absolute advantage in its production.

True False

14. The theory of comparative advantage suggests that trade is a positive-sum game in which all
countries that participate realize economic gains.

True False

6-3
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McGraw-Hill Education.
15. Simple model of free trade assumed away transportation costs between countries.

True False

16. Resources always move easily from one economic activity to another.

True False

17. The production possibility frontier will be parabolic if constant return to specialization is
observed.

True False

18. The production possibility frontier will be convex if constant return to specialization is
observed.

True False

19. Diminishing returns show that it is feasible for a country to specialize to the degree suggested
by the simple Ricardian model.

True False

20. The simple comparative advantage model assumed that trade does not change a country's
stock of resources or the efficiency with which it utilizes those resources.

True False

21. According to Paul Samuelson's critique, a poor country will rapidly improve its productivity if a
rich country enters into a free trade agreement with it.

True False

6-4
Copyright © 2015 McGraw-Hill Education. All rights reserved. No reproduction or distribution without the prior written consent of
McGraw-Hill Education.
22. Paul Samuelson's critique argues that trade is a positive-sum game in which all countries that
participate realize economic gains.

True False

23. A rich country improves its productivity by engaging in free trade with a poor country. This
situation supports Paul Samuelson's critique.

True False

24. Factor endowments refer to the extent to which a country is gifted with such resources as
land, labor, and capital.

True False

25. The Heckscher-Ohlin theory predicts that countries will export those goods that make
intensive use of factors that are locally scarce.

True False

26. Heckscher-Ohlin theory stresses that comparative advantage arises from differences in
productivity.

True False

27. The Heckscher-Ohlin theory argues that the pattern of international trade is determined by
differences in factor endowments.

True False

28. Ricardo's theory makes fewer simplifying assumptions compared to Heckscher-Ohlin theory.

True False

6-5
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McGraw-Hill Education.
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Philistine: a periodical
of protest (Vol. I, No. 1, June 1895)
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
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Title: The Philistine: a periodical of protest (Vol. I, No. 1, June

1895)

Author: Various

Editor: Harry Persons Taber

Release date: June 21, 2022 [eBook #68370]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: The Society of the Philistines,

1895

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE

PHILISTINE: A PERIODICAL OF PROTEST (VOL. I, NO. 1, JUNE
1895) ***
 The Philistine
A Periodical of Protest.

“Those Philistines who engender animosity, stir up trouble and

then smile.”—J C .

Printed Every Little While for The Society

of The Philistines and Published by Them
Monthly. Subscription, One Dollar Yearly
Single Copies, 10 Cents.
June, 1895.
THE PHILISTINE.

Contents for June.

1. Quatrains,
E. R. White.
2. Philistines Ancient and Modern,
William McIntosh.
3. The Sanity of Genius,
Rowland B. Mahany.
4. English Monuments,
Elbert Hubbard.
5. Ballade des Écrivains du Temps Jadis,
G. F. Warren.
6. Philistinism in General,
Mark S. Hubbell.
7. Side Talks,
The East Aurora School of Philosophy.

COPYRIGHT 1895
 THE PHILISTINE.

. 1. June, 1895. . 1.
 QUATRAINS.
If one could hear aright the murmurings
Of some shore-stranded sea-shell as it sings,
It might be then that he would come to know
An inkling of the Planner’s purposings.

The weary shuttle can no more divine

Of how its thread looks, in the whole design,
Than we poor shuttles, in the hand of Fate
Can fathom of the Plan a single line.

E. R. W .
 PHILISTINES ANCIENT AND MODERN.
“T A P .—The enemies of the children of
light.”—International Cyclopedia.
“P .—A term of contempt applied by prigs to the rest
of their species.”—L S .

A tiny spot on the map is the Philistia of Old Testament days—a way
station on the path of commerce between alphabet-building Phœnicia to
the north, and Canaan and predatory Arabia on the south. But long
before those hardy neighbors plagued Israel and made a hostage of the
Ark of the Covenant there were Philistines in the world, influencing its
destinies.
Tradition has been unkind to Philistinism as to many other good
things. The Serpent in the Garden is the earliest embodiment of the
genius of protest, unless we follow John Milton farther back to the
rebellion in the Court of Heaven, organized by the Sons of the Morning.
Omnipotence that founded order set in motion change also. The unrest
that is the electro-motor of progress is in nature as in man, and evolution
is its perpetual law.
Human society was ripe for Philistines when Noah launched his ocean
palace inland. Scarce a century later the egotism of man sought to scale
high heaven from a tower of brick and asphalt. Matter was deified with
the usual result, and a discordant medley of alien labor was all the
product of the giant enterprise.
Down through the patriarchal ages the conservative men who builded
cities and the sons of progress who balked established order and moved
on kept up the alternation of forces. Jacob wrung from an angel his
divine endowment and won his brother’s primogeniture when Esau, the
conservative, gave all the future for the good things near by. Joseph, the
dreamer, peddled like old clothes to a rag man, showed his thrifty
brothers a bunco trick worth learning when he had come, a stranger of a
despised race, to be all but a Pharaoh in the capital of civilization. The
trumpet blasts that felled Jericho, the vanquishing shouts of Gideon, the
sling of the shepherd stripling that freed a nation, tell of seemingly
inadequate means out of the conservative order that changed history.
Moses, prophet and lawgiver and priest, killed his man and was a
fugitive a generation before he abandoned his princely rank in Egypt to
lead a nation of slaves into the evolution of independence and mastery of
the world’s spiritual thought.
The ancient monarchies went to wreck when the social order had
become stationary—encrusted with custom and caste. But a few
Philistines, destroyers of arbitrary ranks, recreated the world in the
democracy of Chivalry, and that in turn went down when its vital
purpose had been achieved and its orders had become set and stifled
progress.
It was a Philistine, a despised player and holder of horses, who gave
the modern world its literature. It was a heretic monk who threw ink-
stands, not only at Satan, but at embodied and enthroned religion, who
gave the modern world its impetus to freedom. The imaginative authors
who most strongly sway mankind today are Philistines. Thackeray
smilingly lifted the mask from aristocracy and exposed its sordid
servility. Dickens threw down the idols of pretentious respectability.
Hugo taught the democracy of virtue. Tolstoi dethroned convention in
religion. Ibsen divorced morality from law.
The note of protest resounds throughout history. Every age seeks in
material gratifications the realization of its destiny. Everywhere genius
becomes conservative and sterile; art grows self-conscious and measures
achievement by technical difficulties; ceremonial binds social life; law
protects artificial privilege; religion is refined into theology or
materialized into idolatry; hospitality becomes an exchange, and the
humanities are buried alive under their own machinery. They who
protest, who exalt purpose and measure achievement thereby, are called
Philistines.
They realize the finiteness of all created things. They see evolution in
all, and hold naught that is finite to be final.
Philistinism is the world’s perpetual crusade. It reveres tradition, but it
despises commonplace in purple.
W M I .
 THE SANITY OF GENIUS.
I talked with one who made a life “success”
Along convention’s smooth and hedge-trimmed road,
Type of that class who bear but their own load,
And “shrewdly” shun the fiery storm and stress,
When hearts and souls unselfish forward press
To mitigate oppression’s stinging goad;
Reformers he called geniuses, but showed
That genius is “a kind of foolishness.”

Well, when I thought how soon he would be cold,

How soon forgotten, and in how few years
His idiot heirs would spend his hoardings vain,
While “the eccentrics” would in ways untold
Make ever less the sum of human tears,
It seemed to me—genius alone is sane!

R B. M .

Legation of the United States, Quito, 1893.

 ENGLISH MONUMENTS.
England relegates her poets to a “Corner.” The earth and the fullness
thereof belongs to the men who can kill; on this rock have her State and
Church been built.
As the tourist approaches the city of London for the first time there are
four monuments that probably will attract his attention. They lift
themselves out of the fog and smoke and soot, and seem to struggle
toward the blue.
One of these monuments is to commemorate a calamity—the
conflagration of 1666—and the others are in honor of deeds of war.
The finest memorial in St. Paul’s is to a certain Irishman, Albert
Wellesley, Duke of Wellington. The mines and quarries of earth have
been called on for the richest contributions; and talent and skill have
given their all to produce this enduring work of beauty that tells posterity
of the mighty acts of this mighty man. The rare richness and lavish
beauty of the Wellington mausoleum is only surpassed by that of a
certain tomb in France.
As an exploiter the Corsican overdid the thing a bit—so the world
arose and put him down; but safely dead his shade can boast a grave so
sumptuous that Englishmen in Paris refuse to look upon it.
But England need not be ashamed. Her land is spiked with glittering
monuments to greatness gone. And on these monuments you often get
the epitomized life of the man whose dust lies below.
On the carved marble to Lord Cornwallis I read that “He defeated the
Americans with great slaughter.” And so, wherever in England I see a
beautiful monument I know that probably the inscription will tell how
“he defeated” somebody. And one grows to the belief that, while
woman’s glory is her hair, man’s glory is to defeat someone. And if he
can “defeat with great slaughter” his monument is twice as high as if he
had only visited on his brother man a plain defeat. In truth I am told by a
friend who has a bias for statistics, that all monuments above fifty feet
high in England, are to men who have defeated other men “with great
slaughter.” The only exceptions to this rule are the Albert Memorial,
which is a tribute of wifely affection rather than a public testimonial, so
therefore need not be considered here, and a monument to a worthy
brewer who died and left three hundred thousand pound to charity. I
mentioned this fact to my friend, but he unhorsed me by declaring that
modesty forbade carving truth on the monument, yet it was a fact that the
brewer, too, had brought defeat to vast numbers and had, like Saul,
slaughtered his thousands.
When I visited the site of the Globe Theater and found thereon a
brewery whose shares are warranted to make the owner rich beyond the
dream of avarice, I was depressed. In my boyhood I had supposed that if
ever I should reach this spot where Shakespeare’s plays were first
produced I should see a beautiful park and a splendid monument; while
some white-haired old patriarch would greet me and give a little lecture
to the assembled pilgrims on the great man whose footsteps had made
sacred the soil beneath our feet.
But there is no park, no monument and no white-haired old poet to
give you welcome—only a brewery.
“Aye, mon, but ain’t ut a big ’un?” protested an Englishman who
heard my murmurs.
Yes, yes, we must be truthful. It is a big brewery, and there are four
big bulldogs in the court way; and there are big vats; and big workmen in
big aprons. And each of these workmen is allowed to drink six quarts of
beer each day without charge, which proves that the true Christian spirit
is not dead. Then there are big horses that draw the big wagons and on
the corner is a big tap room where the thirsty are served with big glasses.
The founder of this brewery became very rich; and if my statistical
friend is right, the owners of these mighty vats have defeated mankind
“with great slaughter.”
We have seen that although Napoleon, the defeated, has a more
gorgeous tomb than Wellington, who defeated him, yet there is
consolation in the thought that although England has no monument to
Shakespeare, he now has the freedom of Elysium; while the present
address of the British worthies, who have battened and fattened on poor
humanity’s thirst for strong drink since Samuel Johnson was executor of
Thrale’s estate, is unknown.
We have this on the authority of a Spirit Medium, who says: “The
virtues essential and peculiar to the exalted station of the British worthy
debars the unfortunate possessor from entering Paradise. There is not a
Lord Chancellor, or Lord Mayor, or Lord of the Chamber, or Master of
the Hounds, or Beefeater in Ordinary, or any sort of British bigwig out of
the whole of British Beadledom, upon which the sun never sets, in
Elysium. This is the only dignity beyond their reach.”
This Mejum is an honorable person, and I am sure he would not make
this assertion if he did not have proof of the facts. So for the present we
will allow him to go on his own recognizance, believing that he will
adduce his documents at the proper time.
But still should not England have a fitting monument to Shakespeare?
He is her one universal citizen. His name is honored in every school or
college of earth where books are prized. There is no scholar in any clime
who is not his debtor.
He was born in England, he was never out of England, his ashes rest in
England.
But England’s Budget has never been ballasted with a single pound to
help preserve inviolate the memory of her one son to whom the world
uncovers.
Victor Hugo has said something on this subject about like this:
Why a monument to Shakespeare? He is his own monument and
England is its pedestal. Shakespeare has no need of a pyramid; he has his
work.
What can bronze or marble do for him? Malachite and alabaster are of
no avail. Jasper, serpentine, basalt, porphyry, granite; stones from Paros
and marble from Carrara—they are all a waste of pains; genius can do
without them.
What is as indestructible as these: The Tempest, The Winter’s Tale,
Julius Cæsar, Coriolanus? What monument sublimer than Lear, sterner
than The Merchant of Venice, more dazzling than Romeo and Juliet,
more amazing than Richard III?
What moon could shed about the pile a light more mystic than that of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream? What capital, were it even in London,
could rumble around it as tumultuously as Macbeth’s perturbed soul?
What framework of cedar or oak will last as long as Othello? What
bronze can equal the bronze of Hamlet?
No construction of lime, of rock, of iron and of cement is worth the
deep breath of genius, which is the respiration of God through man.
What edifice can equal thought? Babel is less lofty than Isaiah; Cheops is
smaller than Homer; the Colosseum is inferior to Juvenal; the Giralda at
Seville is dwarfed by the side of Cervantes; St. Peter’s at Rome does not
reach to the ankle of Dante.
What architect has the skill to build a tower so high as the name of
Shakespeare? Add anything if you can to mind! Then why a monument
to Shakespeare?
I answer, Not for the glory of Shakespeare, but for the honor of
England!
E H .
BALLADE DES ÉCRIVAINS DU TEMPS
JADIS.
circa . . 1930,
.

In what Limbo, or Paradis,

Hides the bulge of his brainful brow
Ponderous Howells, W. D.?
Where vade Warner and Aldrich now,
Boyesen, knowful of why and how,
Skandine skald of the soulful sneer—
Light his pen as a sub-soil plow—?
But where is the froth of yestreen’s beer?

Where now drivels the droolful Bok?

Whither doth Harding Davis fare?
And Riley, best of the rhyming flock?
Where is the georgic Garland, where
Harte, tamed cub of the grizzly bear?
Ben Hur Wallace, whose style was queer?
Quipful Clemens, that jester rare?
But where is the froth of yestreen’s beer?

Where hies Hawthorne, last of the name?

Gamesome Stockton, where gambols he,
With lass and tiger, his fee to fame?
And Bunner, airful of Arcadie?
Whither doth Brander Matthews flee?
Slim, sad Gilder, sweet sonneteer,
Darling and pride of his Century?
But where is the froth of yestreen’s beer?

Sought ye, gentles, a year and day

Tidings of these, ye still must hear
The doleful burden of this poor lay,
But where is the froth of yestreen’s beer?
G. F. W.
 PHILISTINISM IN GENERAL.
I doff my hat to T P and hail it “Brother well met.”
In the name of all who have hated shams, in the name of all brave
knights whose lances have shivered against the dead walls of human
stupidity, ignorance, malice and convention; in the name of every stifled
and unuttered song that should have mounted like a meadow lark’s to
heaven; in the name of every pilloried hope and dead ambition killed in
the long battle with the Mediocrities and the Banalities greet thee, Knight
Errant from Philistia, and bid thee God speed.
And having,“hailed,” and “bade,” and “greeted,” let me say that
though the world is wide and shams are many, and the race, to the swift
usually, and the fight to the strong almost always, and though the God of
battle, is according to Napoleon, whom it is fashionable to quote “on the
side of the big battalions,” yet strong blows for truth are cumulative and
T P ’ bright blade must be dyed often with the blood of Error
ere it be sheathed and every lie sooner or later driven to its sure end of
bankruptcy.
I will not hail you Reformer, for that old and honorable name like that
older and still more honorable one of “gentleman” has fallen recently
into disrepute and at last reports was still falling; besides reformers are
often failures, and too often after a brief career are found taking tea with
the Mammon of Unrighteousness, having assumed their discarded role
originally rather for “what there was in it,” than from exalted or high-
minded motives or to improve the condition of their respective healths.
A young man called once on the great Voltaire, and besought his
encouragement in projects he had conceived for a reorganized and better
scheme of human society, The philosopher leaned his head upon his hand
and thought a minute, then rising, led the way to an inner room, where,
against the velvet-hung wall, was an ivory figure of the Redeemer on the
cross; he pointed to it with warning forefinger. “Young man,” he said,
“behold the fate of a reformer.”
When I see the little things many men strive and cavil over and the
great ones they disregard or ignore I know that the kingdom of Liliput
was not a figment of the imagination of the genial Swift but a lesson
from real life. And when I consider how they swarm like water-bugs and
quarrel over the pronunciation of words and bicker with their neighbor to
make him or her use the sharp “a” in “squalor” so as to make it
“squaylor,” I think sensible people might be excused for weeping or even
swearing.
Little people these, say I, and I would wager a dollar to nothing that
William Dean Howells is their prophet and that they all venerate his
works.
The mere fact that Howells is, is a proof that there are those who want
Howells besides himself, and while not entirely subscribing to the saying
that “whatever is is best,” it must be recognized that it has its raison
d’être, and we all know Howells has his readers or he would not have his
publishers.
One can almost tell what a man’s opinions will be by knowing what he
reads or has read, just as I once heard it said of a tuft-hunting editor that
it could be predicated with absolute certainty what position he would
take on a public question by learning with whom he walked down town
in the morning or with what wealthy parvenu he passed the previous
evening. This is but a modern application of the old saw, “a man is
known by the company he keeps,” and mentally he may be known by the
books he reads or the magazines he skims through. I shudder for Richard
Watson Gilder, John Brisben Walker, E. Bok, and others of the Mutual
Admiration Society style of periodical makers if they are to be believed
to keep the company or read the lucubrations of the contributors to the
dreary masses of illustrated inanities they edit, publications which have
claims to interest, based alone upon the merit of their illustrations and
the perfection of their typographical beauty.
But to recur to the line of romance and digress from the magazines
which need so much attention, and from “Bartley” and the other counter
jumping namby-pamby, goody-goodies of the Howells stripe, including
his own weary history of himself, and the “Books Which Most Influence
Him,” the baleful effects of which are legitimately and plainly
perceptible in his works. There are shams in literature more dreadful than
Mr. Howells, who is a turgid fact and no sham. For instance;
I know of one evanescently popular young creature who chronically
contributes to the magazines, whose mother it is said, writes his tales
which, she being a clever woman and he an uncommonly stupid man,
appears credible to say the least; and there is another “man” I am told of
whose sister is said to write his poems and modestly efface herself, and
as the stories are good and the poems fairly readable, it should be the
part of T P to disclose to the world the real authors and
chastise these and other shams, for shams are the hardest hurdles in the
steeplechase which Truth has to make in this world, since they substitute
the false for the real and crown the fool with the laurels of the genius.
How much more might be said of the tasks you have to accomplish,
brave P with your brawny arm and your good naked sword! So
much that the very thought of it fatigues one and that, hailing you as the
latest and best contestant in the tourney of Knighthood and yet,
considering you as a publication in an embryonic stage, I am compelled
to quote these lovely lines of Longfellow:

“Oh, little feet that such long years

Must wander through this vale of tears,
I, nearer to the wayside inn
Where travail ends and rest begins,
Grow weary thinking of your road.”

M S. H .
 :

,
.
It is a land of free speech, Philistia, and if one of us chooses to
make remarks concerning the work of the others no sense of modesty
keeps us quiet. It is because we cannot say what we would in the
periodicals which are now issued in a dignified, manner in various
places, that we have made this book. In the afore-mentioned periodicals
divers men chatter with great fluency, startling regularity and “damnable
complacency,” each through his individual bonnet. Edward W. Bok,
evidently assisted by Mrs. Lydia Pinkham and W. L. Douglas, of
Brocton, Massachusetts, prints the innermost secrets of dead women told
by their living male relatives for six dollars a column. Thereby the
authors are furnished with the price of a week’s board, and those of us
who may have left some little sense of decency, wonder what manner of
man it may be who sells his wife’s heart to the readers of Bok. But the
“unspeakable Bok” is “successful.” His magazine flourishes like a green
bay tree. Many readers write him upon subjects of deportment and other
matters in which he is accomplished. So, the gods give us joy! Let him
drive on, and may his Home Journal have five million readers before the
year is out—God help them!
Mr. Gilder dishes up monthly beautifully printed articles which
nobody cares about, but which everybody buys, because The Century
looks well on the library table.
Mr. Howells maunders weekly in a column called “Life and Letters”
in Harper’s journal of civilization. This “Life and Letters” reminds me of
the Peterkin’s famous picnic at Strawberry Nook. “There weren’t any
strawberries and there wasn’t any nook, but there was a good place to tie
the horses.”
So it goes through the whole list. There are people, however, who
believe that Romance is not dead, and that there is literature to be made
which is neither inane nor yet smells of the kitchen sink. This is a great
big merry world, says Mr. Dana, and there’s much good to be got out of
it, so toward those who believe as we do—we of Philistia—this paper
starts upon its great and perilous voyage at one dollar a year.
It was Balzac, or some one else, who used to tell of a flea that lived on
a mangy lion and boasted to all the rank outside fleas that he met: I have
in me the blood of the King of Beasts.
It is a comforting thought that somewhere, at some time, every
good thing on earth is brought to an accounting of itself. Thereby are the
children of men saved from much tyranny. For the good things of earth
are your true oppressors.
For such an accounting are Philistines born in every age. By their
audit are men perpetually set free from trammels self-woven.
Earnest men have marvelled in all times that convention has imputed
to husks and symbols the potency of the things they outwardly stand for.
Many also have protested, and these, in reproach, have been called
Philistines. And yet they have done no more than show forth that in all
things the vital purpose is more than the form that shrines it. The
inspirations of to-day are the shams of to-morrow—for the purpose has
departed and only the dead form of custom remains. “Is not the body
more than raiment”—and is not life more than the formulæ that hedge it
in?
Wherefore men who do their own thinking, and eke women betimes,
take honor rather than disparagement in the name which is meant to
typify remorseless commonplace. They hesitate not to question custom,
whether there be reason in it. They ask “Why?” when one makes
proclamation:
“Lo! Columbus discovered America four hundred years ago! Let us
give a dance.” There have been teachers who sought to persuade
mankind that use alone is beauty—and these too have done violence to
the fitness of things. On such ideals is the civilization of Cathay founded.
Neither in the grossness of material things nor in the false refinements
that “divorce the feeling from its mate the deed” is the core and essence
of living.
It is the business of the true Philistine to rescue from the environment
of custom and ostentation the beauty and the goodness cribbed therein.
And so the Philistines of these days, whose prime type is the Knight of
La Mancha, go tilting at windmills and other fortresses—often on sorry
nags and with shaky lances, and yet on heroic errand bent. And to such
merry joust and fielding all lovers of chivalry are bidden: to look on—
perhaps to laugh, it may be to grieve at a woeful belittling of lofty
enterprise. Come, such of you as have patience with such warriors. It is
Sancho Panza who invites you.
The Chip-Munk has a bright reference in the issue of May 15 to
Coventry, Patmore, Pater and Meredith. These are four great men, as The
Chip-Munk boldly states.
The Chip-Munk further announces that the Only Original Lynx-Eyed
Proof Reader has not gone on a journey. Really, I supposed of course he
had been gone these many moons!
I wonder if Carman is still upon a diet of Mellin’s Food that he
imagines people do not know that this poem

LITTLE LYRICS OF JOY—V.

Lord of the vasty tent of Heaven,

Who hast to thy saints and sages given
A thousand nights with their thousand stars,
And the star of faith for a thousand years.

Grant me, only a foolish rover,

All thy beautiful wide world over,
A thousand loves in a thousand days,
And one great love for a thousand years.

—B C in The Chap Book, May, 1895.

was written years and years ago as follows:

The night has a thousand eyes,

And the day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,

And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies
When love is done.

—F W. B .
 I desire to swipe him after this manner:

LITTLE DELIRICS OF BLISS.

Lord of the wires that tangle Heaven,

Who hast to thy brake-persuaders given,
The longest of days to ring and grind,
And no least screen from the winter’s wind.

Grant me, only, a summer lover,

Sunshiny days the long year over,
A thousand whirls and a thousand fares,
And one long whirl of a thousand hours.

J T .

- - .

White and rose are the colors of strife,

What care I for the crimson and blue?
Greater than football the battle of life
And tragic as aught the gods may view,
The clutch and the gripe of inward ills;
Pallid the People and Pink the Pills.

J C .

Mark Twain says he is writing “Joan of Arc” anonymously in

Harper’s because he is convinced if he signed it the people would insist
the stuff was funny. Mr. Twain is worried unnecessarily. It has been a
long time since any one insisted the matter he turns out so voluminously
was or is funny.
The amusing William Dean Howells writes that he is so bothered
by autograph seekers that he will hereafter refuse to send his signature
“with a sentiment” unless the applicant for his favor produces
satisfactory evidence he has read all of his works, “now some thirty or
forty in number.” When this proof has been sent if Mr. Howells does not
return his autograph on the bottom of a check for a large amount, he
deserves to be arrested for cruelty to his fellows.
 There is no doubt that a teacher once committed to a certain line of
thought will cling to that line long after all others have deserted it. In
trying to persuade others he convinces himself. This is especially so if he
is opposed. Opposition evolves in his mind a maternal affection for the
product of his brain and he defends it blindly to the death. Thus we see
why institutions are so conservative. Like the coral insect they secrete
osseous matter; and when a preacher preaches he himself always goes
forward to the mourners’ bench and accepts all of the dogmas that have
just been so ably stated.
Literature is the noblest of all the arts. Music dies on the air, or at
best exists only as a memory; oratory ceases with the effort; the painter’s
colors fade and the canvas rots; the marble is dragged from its pedestal
and is broken into fragments; but the Index Expurgatorius is as naught,
and the books burned by the fires of the auto da fe still live. Literature is
reproduced ten thousand times ten thousand and lodges its appeal with
posterity. It dedicates itself to Time.
The action of various theatrical managers in cutting from their
programmes the name of the author of the plays running at their houses
and the similar action of numerous librarians in withdrawing his books
from their shelves is simply another proof of the marvellous powers of
stultification possessed by the humans of the present time. These
managers, having the scattering wits of birds, do not seem to appreciate
that, whatever the character of the author, the plays he has written were
as bad before they were produced as they are now that he has been so
effectually extinguished; and these librarians cannot comprehend,
evidently, that his books were fully as immoral as they are now when
they were first put on the shelves. Would it not be a refreshing thing to
find a theatrical manager who managed a theater because he had an
honest purpose of elevating, perpetuating, purifying and strengthening
the drama, instead of speculating in it as a Jew speculates in old clothes?
And would it not be a marvel to discover librarian who knew something
about books?
Buffalo, New York, is getting to be very classic in some things. It
tolerated the nude with great equanimity in the recent Art Exhibition and
exhibits the female embodiment of everything ideal, from the German
muse of song to the still more German muse of barley products, at the
great variety of fests, more or less related to beer, that follow in swift
succession in that town. But the classic climax was reached on Good
Friday of this year, when the Venus of Milo, mounted on a Bock beer
pedestal, was the center piece of an Easter symbol picture in a Hebrew
clothing advertisement. The limit of Buffalo congruity seems to have
been reached.
The Chip-Munk for May has a bit of folk-lore about a man who
advised another to join a conspiracy of silence. This item appeared in
1893 and during 1894 was published by actual count in one hundred and
forty-nine newspapers. The editors of The Chip-Munk are a bit slow in
reading their exchanges.
The Two Orphans at the Kate Claxton Building, Chicago
Stockyards, have a motto on their letter heads that reads, “We are the
people and wisdom will die with us.”
The editor of The Baseburner, who claims to be a veritist, states
that it is not true that the Garland stoves were named after Ham Garland
of Chicago Stockyards; but the fact is Garland named himself after the
stoves.
Current Literature recently had a long article on Louise Imogene
Guinly. Doubtless the spelling of the name was a typographical error, as
the editor probably refers to Miss Louisa Imogene Quinney, who is
postmistress at Auburn, New York, and daughter of Richard Quinney,
manufacturer of the famous Quinney Mineral Water.
Judge Robert Grant has in preparation a series of articles called
“How to Live on a Million a Minute and Have Money to Burn.”
I hear the voice of the editors of The Chip-Munk complaining that
Little Journeys, The Bibelot, Chips and other publications are base,
would-be imitators of their own chaste periodical. Why, you sweet
things, did you know that many hundred years ago a great printer made a
book which was printed in black inside with a cover in red and black. I
believe this is the thing which you claim is original with yourselves. So
far as the rest of the periodicals are concerned I have no means of
knowing whether they are imitations or not, but Little Journeys was in
type and printed long before The Chip-Munk came out of its hole.
Messrs. Copeland & Day of Boston recently published for Mr.
Stephen Crane a book which he called “The Black Riders.” I don’t know
why; the riders might have as easily been green or yellow or baby-blue
for all the book tells about them, and I think the title, “The Pink
Rooters,” would have been better, but it doesn’t matter. My friend, The
Onlooker, of Town Topics, quotes one of the verses and says this, which I
heartily endorse:

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.

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

When Old Hellinger entered the gable room he saw a sight

which froze the blood in his veins. His son’s body lay stretched
on the ground. As he fell he must have clutched the supports of
the bier on which the dead girl had been placed, and dragged
down the whole erection with him; for on the top of him, between
the broken planks, lay the corpse, in its long, white shroud, its
motionless face upon his face, its bared arms thrown over his
head. At this moment he regained consciousness, and started up.
 The dead girl’s head sank down from his and bumped on the
floor.

This cheerful book is translated from the German by Lily Henkel and
published by the Appletons. I commend it to Mr. Bliss Carman and his
shroud washers.
Mr. Thomas B. Mosher, of Portland, Maine, deserves the thanks of
the reading public for the issuing of The Bibelot. Each month this dainty
periodical comes like a dash of salt water on a hot day, and is as
refreshing. After reading the longings and the heartburnings of the
various degenerates who inflict their stuff on us these days, Mr. Mosher’s
“Sappho” comes and makes us really believe that there is a man up on
the coast of Maine who has the salt of the sea and the breath of the pines
in him, and is willing to think that there are other people who care for
purity and sweetness, rather than such literature as “Vistas” and the plays
of Maeterlinck.
When in five consecutive stories, printed in the same periodical,
the hero or heroine has ended the narrative by shooting himself or
herself, is it not about time to hire somebody to invent some other
denouement?
Many a man’s reputation would not know his character if they met
on the street.
To be stupid when inclined and dull when you wish is a boon that
only goes with high friendship.
Every man has moments when he doubts his ability. So does every
woman at times doubt her wit and beauty and long to see them mirrored
in a masculine eye. This is why flattery is acceptable. A woman will
doubt everything you say except it be compliments to herself—here she
believes you truthful and mentally admires you for your discernment.

STIGMATA.

“Behold the miracle!” he cried—

The sombre priest who stood beside
A figure on whose snowy breast
 The outlines of a cross expressed
In ruddy life-drops ebbed and flowed;
“Behold th’ imprimatur of God!”

A kneeling woman raised her eyes;

Lo! At the sight, in swift surprise,
Ere awe-struck lips a prayer could speak
Love’s stigma glowed on brow and cheek;
And one in reverence bent his head—
“Behold the miracle?” he said.

W M I .

THE MAGAZINES.

Kate Field’s Wash is dry.

The Arena has sand.
“Sub-Tragic” is the latest description of Vic. Woodhull’s
Humanitarian.
McClure’s is getting a little weary with its living pictures.
Scribner’s has a thrilling article on “Books We Have Published.”
Godey’s is very gay in its second childhood.
Judge Tourgee’s Basis isn’t business. “It’s pretty, but it isn’t war.”
The Century, it is said, will insert a page or two of reading matter
between the Italian art and the ads.
The Basis is out with prizes for poets and sermon writers. It was as
certain as the law of nature makes the filling of every vacuum at some
time, that somewhere and at some time these people would get their
reward. It seems to be coming now. But where and when will be the
reward of the people who read what they write? The thought of their fate
is all shuddery.
Ginger used to be in evidence in magazines and pumpkin pies. Squash
is a prominent ingredient now.
 If Peterson’s wouldn’t mix ads. and reading matter in their books and
on title pages the cause of current literature would be advanced.
Between Grant’s essays on the art of living and the mild satire of “The
Point of View,” it really looks as if the Tattler had come again—a little
disembodied for Dick Steele, but in character.

THE BOK BILLS OF NARCISSUS.

“Narcissus is the glory of his race,

For who does nothing with a better grace.”

Y —Love of Fame.

Narcissus: or, The Self-Lover.

J S , 1646.

P , June 1, 1895.

W. D. H :

T EDWARD W. BOK, D .
42 sq. inches in Boiler Plate. “Literary Letter,” on What I $4 20
Know of Howells’s Modesty
Mentioning Howells’s name, 730,000 times in same (up to 7 30
date)
Cussing Trilby (your suggestion) 20
$11 70
Less 2 per cent. for cash.

Please remit.