The Philistine: A Periodical of Protest. “_A harmless necessary cat._”—_Shylock._ [Illustration] Printed Every Little While for The Society of The Philistines and Published by Them Monthly. Subscription, One Dollar Yearly; Single Copies, 10 Cents. Number 3. August, 1895. The Philistine. Edited by H. P. Taber. CONTENTS FOR AUGUST, 1895. JEREMIADS: A Word About Art, Ouida The Confessional in Letters, Elbert Hubbard The Social Spotter, William McIntosh OTHER THINGS: The Dream, William Morris Verses, Stephen Crane For Honor, Jean Wright The Story of the Little Sister, H. P. T. Notes. THE PHILISTINE is published monthly at $1 a year, 10 cents a single copy. Subscriptions may be left with newsdealers or sent direct to the publishers. Business communications should be addressed to THE PHILISTINE. East Aurora, New York. Matter intended for publication may be sent to the same address or to Box 6, Cambridge, Massachusetts. _Entered at the Postoffice at East Aurora, New York, for transmission as mail matter of the second class._ _COPYRIGHT, 1895._ AND THIS, THEN, IS THE THIRD OF THE BOOK OF THE PHILISTINE AND FIRST HERE IS PRINTED THE LINES CALLED “THE DREAM” WRITTEN BY MR. WILLIAM MORRIS: TO WHOM BE PRAISE AND REVERENCE AND MUCH THANKFULNESS FOR MANY DEEDS. I dreamed A dream of you, Not as you seemed When you were late unkind, And blind To my eyes pleading for a debt long due; But touched and true, And all inclined To tenderest fancies on love’s inmost theme. How sweet you were to me, and ah, how kind In that dear dream! I felt Your lips on mine Mingle and melt, And your cheek touch my cheek. I, weak With vain desires and asking for a sign Of love divine, Found my grief break, And wept and wept in an unending stream Of sudden joy set free, yet could not speak: Dumb in my dream. I knew You loved me then, And I knew, too, The bliss of souls in Heaven, New-shriven, Who look with pity on still sinning men And turn again To be forgiven In the dear arms of their God holding them, And spend themselves in praise from morn ’Till even, Nor break their dream. I woke In my mid-bliss At midnight’s stroke And knew you lost and gone. Forlorn I called you back to my unfinished kiss, But only this One word of scorn You answered me, “’Twas better loved to seem Than loved to be, since all love is foresworn, Always a dream.” A WORD ABOUT ART. [Sidenote: _Is there_]