The Philistine

In Short

This periodical, published in East Aurora, New York, serves as both a literary journal and a platform for social critique. Through essays, poems, and satirical "Side Talks," the contributors challenge the rigid hierarchies of university education, the pretension of "official" literary criticism, and the stifling nature of high-society expectations. Its enduring appeal lies in its refreshingly honest, conversational tone—a deliberate rebellion against the polished, antiseptic rhetoric of the Gilded Age. It captures a vibrant, transitional moment in American intellectual life, where traditional values began to fray under the pressure of modern irony.

The Story

The narrative arc of the journal is not a plot in the traditional sense, but a progression of attitudes. It begins by establishing an adversarial posture toward the academic establishment, specifically the Harvard school of rhetoric. The editors argue that the pursuit of "Clearness, Force, and Elegance" in writing is a hollow formula that suffocates genuine expression. By mocking the "Shock-headed Youth" and the professors who peddle these rules, the journal positions itself as a champion of spontaneity and the "Other-Self"—the inner voice that guides a writer far better than any textbook.

As the journal unfolds, this skepticism toward authority expands into a broader commentary on culture. It explores the tension between true creative insight and the mechanical, derivative work of "puppet makers" who churn out popular romances. The contributors contrast these artificial products with the timeless, "cloud-capped" nature of genuine masterpieces, suggesting that great art, like the immovable mountain, does not exist to serve the convenience of the average reader.

The middle section shifts toward a satirical look at the "System"—that pervasive urge to categorize and quantify human experience. Whether through the lens of a fictionalized account of Roman politics, where power is negotiated through trivialities, or through the petty frustrations of a socialite caught in a "tempest of preparation," the journal highlights the absurdity of performative life. It argues that modern society is plagued by a reliance on external appearances and rigid systems, while the soul remains largely neglected.

The journal concludes by reaffirming its commitment to individualism. It dismisses the "Kailyard" school of sentimental literature, mocks the obsession with copyrighting one's physical appearance, and takes a final, humorous jab at the "serving class" of high society. The ending is not a resolution, but a persistent, rolling critique of a world that values superficiality over substance. It leaves the reader with the image of the "unconquered Will," a testament to the belief that even in a world governed by "blackest packs of Night," the individual remains responsible for their own internal integrity. The closing pages act as a catalog of the editor’s own literary ventures, cementing the magazine’s identity as a hub for a specific, rebellious, and highly cultivated community of readers.

How It Unfolds

The rejection of rules The opening salvos attack the academic obsession with the "three requisites of correct writing." By exposing these as "gross humbuggery," the editors clear the ground for a more organic approach to literature.

The praise of insight The focus shifts to defining what truly constitutes creative power. The journal argues that insight is the only true form of creation, elevating the role of the essayist over the mere plot-maker.

The satire of power Through vignettes of Roman politics and modern social life, the journal illustrates the absurdity of political and social posturing. These pieces suggest that grand systems are often just masks for petty human vanity.

The call for authenticity The final sections advocate for the "Other-Self" as the only legitimate judge of a person’s work. By rejecting the need for mass approval, the journal encourages a quiet, individualistic endurance against the pressures of the modern age.

The People

The journal’s voice is dominated by the forceful, often acerbic personality of Elbert Hubbard, who acts as the primary provocateur. He wants to dismantle the academic and social pretenses of his time, finding himself constantly obstructed by the "cold storage" approach of institutions like Harvard. He remains committed to his own brand of "honest" production throughout.

Professor Hill represents the antagonist: the rigid, rule-bound academic who reduces literature to a set of mechanical instructions. He stands for the status quo, and he remains, in the eyes of the writers, a symbol of the "neutral salts" that stifle human imagination.

The "Other-Self" is a central abstract character—a silent, internal witness that every writer must satisfy. This figure stands in opposition to the fickle reading public, providing a standard of integrity that is immune to external praise or condemnation.

The "New Woman" appears as a figure of social complexity, often caught between the absurd expectations of high society and a desire for genuine expression. She is portrayed with a mix of satire and sympathy, reflecting the changing gender dynamics of the era.

In Its Own Voice

"Clearness, according to the Professor, means a simplicity that makes the meaning plain to all others."

This quote highlights the journal's central rejection of the common academic definition of good writing.

"The note that is 'clear' to all is not Art."

This serves as a manifesto for the journal's belief in the complexity and subjectivity of true creative work.

"No hurt can hurt thee save thyself alone."

This line, from a poem within the collection, encapsulates the stoic philosophy that the journal promotes as a defense against societal pressures.

What It's Really About

The central theme is the defense of individual autonomy against the encroachment of standardized culture. It asks: Can art exist in a world obsessed with systems, formulas, and mass consumption? The argument is that true literature is inherently resistant to being "cleared" for public consumption; it is private, rugged, and ultimately elusive. The journal insists that the only honest authority is the individual’s internal "Other-Self." By stripping away the performative nature of academic and social life, the book attempts to uncover a more authentic, albeit isolated, way of existing in the world. It is a plea for intellectual courage in a shallow age.

Why Read It Today

Readers who enjoy the biting, personal essays of the nineteenth century will find this work delightful. It feels like a direct, unfiltered conversation from a century ago, possessing a raw, punchy energy that is rare in modern publications. The writing is intentionally provocative and often laugh-out-loud funny, making it a perfect companion for anyone who enjoys seeing a pompous intellectual tradition taken down a peg.

However, the reader must be prepared for the specific biases of the 1890s. The text contains period-appropriate, sometimes exclusionary, attitudes toward gender and class, and the frequent literary allusions require a reader comfortable with classical references. It is not a polished, modern manifesto; it is a chaotic, spirited artifact of a time when the "literary movement" in America was being fought out in the pages of small, independent magazines. What stays with you is the editor’s relentless, almost stubborn insistence that the reader must think for themselves. It is a challenging, sometimes abrasive, but deeply honest look at the struggle to remain "human" in a society that prefers you to be a "system." Those who appreciate the history of American thought or simply enjoy a good, principled argument will find it an essential, if eccentric, window into the past.